I first want to say thanks for all the care, support, and comments during this crazy time in Europe with my injury and all! I can’t convey enough how much it means and helps with recovery. But here is a little recap of the whole situation since I’ve had plenty of time in the hospital to crank out a summary.
It began the same as any other race day morning routine. This time the start of the race took place in Pont a Marcq, France about an hour’s drive from the team house in Oostkamp, Belgium. After munching on a bit of breakfast, putting the race bags in the van, and piling into the caravan car, the team was off to the neighboring country. It was a bit of a dreary morning with overcast skies and a cool temperature. After a seemingly quick trip, we found our parking spot close to the start line and the team made its way into a nearby magazine/bar/coffee shop. We hung out for an hour or so chit chatting over a few espressos and the laughter and banter of the local bar folk. Shortly after sitting down, the rain made its presence streaking across the store front windows and the pavement began to glisten. Everyone seemed to grasp their espresso cup just a bit tighter and other riders began to trickle in seeking refuge from the light mist. Once we warmed the spirits with caffeine we made our way back to the team van to dress for the race and discuss tactics for the day.
Since it began raining, on what was supposed to be a sunny and beautiful day, the race director made the decision to cut out the initial seven laps. Each of the beginning laps threatened riders with oil covered cobbled sectors which he deemed unnecessary. Instead, the race would be 15 laps of a shorter circuit totaling just over 180 km for the day, the minimum for a UCI 1.2. Okay, nothing to crazy. It kind of put a question mark on what other teams might do so we decided just sticking toward the front and maintaining position, as a team, would be best. We were soon together at the start line after posing for the cameras at sign in and were off mimicking each move of the lead cars bumper through town.
The pace seemed to be a bit mellower this time around as I think the rain soaked roads were a bit intimidating to the majority of the pack. Still, attacks flung off the front and our team was doing well staying in close proximity to each other and the front bulb of the peloton. Unfortunately, the “nothing crazy” part was about to close in on me. Only 15 km into the course we approached a slight S curve where the concrete shimmered with a layer of beaded water unable to drain into any cracks or crevasses of aggregate. Gingerly cruising through the intersection I was upright one moment and instantly on my right hip the next. My bike had slipped out from under me like a magician pulling a table cloth from under light china. Only this time the light china had broken and scattered on the floor. I attempted to sit up but knew something wasn’t right. Instead, I curled up in a ball hoping nobody else would slide into me. Just a few seconds after hitting the deck, my director (Bernard Moerman) was hovering over me as he was car two in the caravan. Again, I tried rolling over to my back, with his assistance, and instantly knew I had broken something near my hip as my leg didn’t want to roll with the rest of my body. I quickly supported my lifeless right leg and Bernard propped a rain bag under my knee. He strategically parked his car on one side of me and directed traffic on the other while providing an adequate amount of moral support. Always ensuring that everything was going to be okay and that an ambulance was on its way I laid in extreme discomfort. Every few minutes a new face would appear in the cloudy canvas I was staring at and rattled off several questions in French. Really wishing I could remember my High School French lessons I was only able to reply with a, “Je ne suis pas, Je ne parle pas francais, Je suis Americain”! Thank goodness Bernard knows quite a bit more French than I and was able to translate everything for me. After what seemed an eternity, an ambulance skirted by and began an assessment of the situation and my condition. Quickly learning the health care system in France the initial ambulance that arrived was unable to take me anywhere since there was no doctor on board given my serious condition. I had to wait for a second ambulance to scurry over, which also carried a doctor, who could administer drugs and aid in admitting me into the hospital. Another eternity later the ambulance sirens could be heard in the distance and the white coats were soon transporting me to a nearby hospital in the suburbs of Lille, France.
It was a pretty painless trip to the emergency room since the morphine was quickly flowing through a 16 gauge needle (not sure of actual size but it was huuuge), which I’m pretty sure is going to leave a nice hole and scar in my hand. Once I was carted into the small white room stocked with the portable X-ray the real fun began. Nobody spoke English! Obviously not their fault considering I was visiting their country. Again, I was kicking myself in the butt for not retaining my French. Anywho, they continually asked me for more information regarding the condition of my leg, name, etc. I was able to convey some of the answers in French and picked up a few phrases here and there. During all the translation barriers they kept administering the morphine, applied traction in an archaic manner of hanging weights off the end of the bed, and contacted my family. A few minutes after the X-rays were taken the doctor came back in and informed me that I had broken my femur. Needless to say I broke down a bit knowing it was a definite end to a good season I was having and that recovery would take some time. The nurses handed me some tissues and gave me some private time to collect myself. At that time I was also connected with my Mother and Father in the States where I could release some of my emotion and inform them of what was happening. Eventually, things settled down a bit and they transported me upstairs to a bedroom in a sort of holding pattern. A combination of factors was to be determined of where I was going to have surgery, how I was going to be transported, and to make it as quick of a decision as possible. It was concluded that I would be transferred to AZ Sint- Lucas Brugge the next morning where I would undergo surgery and recovery. It was just easier in terms of location to the team house, having my Dad around, and not having such a difficult language barrier.
Monday morning could not come around fast enough. Still in traction and waiting for the okay from the doctors on both ends all I could do was lay around with giggly nurses strolling in and out of the room. Finally, everything was agreed upon, papers and signatures were transferred, and I was put back in a stabilization bag for transport. It was a very very very painful morning with all the moving around from different beds and carts and bumpy hour and half car ride. When I arrived in Brugge it didn’t take long to go through a cat scan, which was another bed change, and put me under for repair on my right leg. YES! Finally put out! They couldn’t inject the anesthesia and put the gas mask on fast enough. Out like a light and waking up only a moment later (which was actually a three to four hour surgery) it was a groggy beginning to my recovery. Now with another rod in my neighboring leg I guess I can consider myself a bit more symmetric and will have quite a bit of time before I am back on the bike and going again.
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| before and after surgery |
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| not a bad view from the hospital window (church and bell towers of Brugge in the distance) |
Finally, out of the hospital after 8 days I am now somewhat settled back into the apartment in Oostkamp with my Dad and wheelchair close by as roomies. I have had some great support during this whole event with my family, friends, director and team, my Dad jetting over the same day, and all the doctors and nurses that have put an effort in. Thanks so much again and I will try to keep everyone posted about my rehab in Europe.
