Ouch! Some crashes land with a dented pride

There comes a time in every cyclist’s life when they crash.

I choose the word crash deliberately as “falling off ” is a different kettle-offish entirely.

Nicole Cooke, after winning a Gold medal at the Beijing Olympics, was once asked by Adrian Chiles on Sports Personality of the Year if she “fell off a lot”.

Her withering stare and retort of “I don’t fall off, I crash” was enough to have Chiles scuttling onto the next nominee.

Over the years I have had many crashes, as well as a few “fall-offs” too.

The fall-offs were stupid mistakes like when I was trying to “pull a wheelie” on my son’s little 16in wheeled bike. The pain in my coccyx bones for months afterwards was enough to dissuade me from trying that one again.

Such incidents usually always happen in front of an audience too and no matter how painful the injury is, the mortifying rift in your pride always hurts more.

The crashes thankfully come less often now.

Unfortunately when they do happen they usually result in injuries that, as the years go by, are increasingly harder to recover from quickly.

My broken wrist, supported by a titanium plate, often gives me rheumatic pain and the lump in my left shoulder (testimony to a broken collar bone) always starts to ache after a few hours of carrying a rucksack.

My most recent crash was one that landed squarely in the “stupid mistake” category, so much so that it could almost be classed as a fall-off.

I was following my son down a smooth bluegraded trail when I decided to film him swooping around the bermed corners. Instead of using a helmet mounted camera, I decided to ride one-handed using my phone.

This was fine until we came to a small rock drop, no bigger than a pavement edge I decided that if I put both hands back on the handlebars I would ruin my video, so over I went. The handlebars instantly turned sideways bringing me to an abrupt stop and over the bars I went (still filming).

Watching the video back now the most common comment is “I’m amazed you didn’t swear.”

Instead I let out a mighty “Ooooffff!” as the wind was expelled from my lungs.

After a five minute recovery, and time to pose for photos with my bloodied arm, we were back on the bike, each of us regaling the rest with tales of crashes and injuries.

The thing with injuries is that the sympathy is directly proportionate to the visible signs of injury. Consequently the love and attention I had been receiving from my family dried up as quickly as the wound scabbed over.

The next morning I could hardly move. My right leg wouldn’t straighten properly and I suspect that I had cracked a rib. I couldn’t touch my left side without yelping.

The problem was that with no outward appearance of injury there was no sympathy forthcoming and more than once the comment of “man-up” was hurled in my direction.

Crashes do hurt and are best avoided if at all possible, but when they do occur it is the lack of sympathy that often hurts more.

Scot and his injury after the crash at Dalbeattie.