A painful, piteous rite of passage

I had my first biking accident yesterday. If I were in the mood I'd recount the details of the event, but the short version is that a three-year old ran out in front of my bike when I was whizzing down the bike path in Hyde Park and I had to swerve to avoid him, consequently crashing into the meter-high, foot-in-diameter cylindrical cast iron partitions that lined the right-hand side of the path. (Dad - remember that time we went rollerblading and you had to get stitches in your elbow? They're like the things you crashed into, only metal, twice the size, and connected by metal bars instead of chains.)

Injuries sustained are as follows:

Right index finger purple and swollen with gray fingernail
No skin remaining on top knuckle of said finger
Severe scrape on right forearm
Left shoulder all fucked up (can't move left arm very well or raise it above shoulder-height)
Right thigh severly bruised
Left thigh scraped, bruised, and swollen
Left ankle devoid of skin
Assorted smaller bruises and abrasions
and, perhaps most upsetting, front wheel of bike bent.

The kid is fine. (Though, truth be told, I wanted to throttle him. He actually looked, saw me coming, and THEN decided to run in front of me. I know he's young and doesn't know any better, but come on!)

After the accident, I was running late to meet Annika for dinner/drinks, so instead of going to the hospital as I perhaps should have done, I locked my bike up and caught the tube across town to meet her and drown my sorrows. By the time I got home it was almost midnight, so all there was to do was go to bed. Hobbling into work this morning, my co-worker chastised me for not going to the hospital, and doesn't understand why I came in at all. I had plans tonight, but I think I may have to cancel them so I can go get my injuries checked out. I'm particularly concerned about my arm. Guess I won't be starting those acrobatics classes next week after all...

I am filled with self-pity. My wounded bike is still locked up in Knightsbridge (provided it hasn't been stolen - bike theft is rampant in London), I don't know how or when I'm going to get it to a bike repair shop, I'm bruised and sore and walk funny, and the kicker is that in this state, I won't be able to dance at Peter Vanderford's wedding tomorrow. Taking the bus into work this morning I was sick at heart watching all the bikers - I wanted to be biking too! I hate not being capable of simple things - it took me about ten minutes and a lot of grimacing to dress myself this morning. And I'm dreading trying to shower - seeing as I could barely raise my left arm enough to put on deodorant this morning, I have no idea how I'm going to manage to wash my hair properly.

Wah, wah, wah, poor me.

If there's a silver lining, it's that I feel that this is a rite of passage. I had to have a biking accident at some point, and though it did involve a large piece of metal, at least that large piece of metal wasn't a car. And since I managed to bruise both legs and not just one, the resulting limps kind of cancel each other out, so now I have this jerky weird little walk that looks like I either a) am always trying to hold myself back from breaking into a sprint or b) really have to pee. It's kind of delightfully ridiculous, though I'd probably find it funnier if it didn't hurt so much.

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. She's down, but she's not out. The moral of the story is: Don't talk to your friends about how you really haven't had much to blog about lately, because then you'll find yourself bloody, bruised, and wrapped around a pole.

* Addendum *

Several hours later, life is looking a lot better. Shortly after writing the first half of this entry, I called my manager who gave me the rest of the day off, which I spent going to the hospital (no serious damage, thank goodness, I'll just be sore for awhile), retrieving my bike from Knightsbridge, and wheeling it for a couple of miles to the nearest bike shop. Unfortunately the bike-doctor's verdict wasn't as shiny as the me-doctor's - the wheel was bent beyond repair, so I had to shell out 40 quid for a new one. Oh well. If nothing else goes wrong this summer (knock on wood), it'll still be cheaper than public transport. My arm is already feeling better, with considerably more range of motion than last night or this morning, and my finger feels better, too. Most importantly, the pity party is over. The plan for the rest of the day is to attempt a shower, take a nap, and go see Bourne Ultimatum. Life could certainly be worse.