Let me tell you about the time I flew to Utah, broke my wrist, cracked my helmet, got loaded up on fentanyl in the back of an ambulance, and still made it out for dinner.
This is Part 1.
The Setup
My sister Sarah lives out in Crested Butte, Colorado with her partner Mike. I'd been planning a riding trip out there for a while — a long weekend, a few trails, some quality time with family. Mike had never done a proper downhill run before. I was going to show him the ropes.
What could go wrong.
I flew in from Boston. For reference, Boston sits at roughly 300 feet above sea level. I landed in Salt Lake City, drove up to Park City, and found myself standing at a trailhead at 10,000 feet. That's not a gentle adjustment. That's a direct assault on your cardiovascular system.
I also had jetlag. And, if I'm being honest with myself — a thing I wasn't fully doing at the time — a touch of altitude sickness. The kind that doesn't announce itself loudly. The kind that just quietly degrades your judgment while you tell yourself you feel fine.
This was the first of several mistakes.
The Descent
We took a green trail. Sensible choice given it was Mike's first time on a proper descent. I wasn't about to throw him into something technical before he'd figured out how his brakes worked.
The heat was something else. 86 degrees at 10,000 feet, and getting hotter as we dropped in elevation. We made pit stops. Drank water. Caught our breath. I noticed the brakes were making a lot of noise — that particular squeal that means the pads are cooking. I noted it. Filed it somewhere in the back of the foggy, altitude-addled, jetlagged part of my brain. Moved on.
Just over an hour in, we were on a wide open field. Gentle decline. Nothing technical. The kind of terrain where you relax, where your brain stops doing the thing it's supposed to do on a bike and starts daydreaming instead.
I'm told I went over the handlebars.
I don't remember the crash. What I remember is the back of an ambulance.
The Ambulance
An EMT was trying to get an IV line into my arm. I was hazy — present enough to be aware of what was happening, not quite present enough to be alarmed by it.
He told me they were going to give me fentanyl.
My response, apparently: "Isn't that illegal?"
The whole ambulance laughed. Which, in fairness, is a reasonable response from a man who's just been told he's about to receive the drug that features heavily in every news story about the opioid crisis.
He explained that it was very much legal in this context, and that the protocol was fentanyl followed by morphine, with appropriate time between doses. I found this satisfying. I stopped worrying about it. The drugs, as advertised, were excellent.
Two Things Worth Noting
First: My helmet cracked. A Smith helmet took the hit that my skull didn't fully have to take. I cannot overstate how much I mean it when I say: wear a helmet. Buy a good one. Replace it when it takes a hit. Two thumbs up to Smith Helmets — that thing did its job.
Second: I shattered my left wrist. This is a fact I was informed of rather than experiencing, because by the time I had an opinion about it, I was already on excellent medication.
The ER
If you ever have to break a bone, do it in a ski town.
The ER in Park City was efficient, calm, and staffed by people who have seen this exact situation — tourist, altitude, enthusiasm, gravity — more times than they can count. The doctor set my wrist while I watched on a portable X-ray machine, which is genuinely one of the more surreal viewing experiences I've had.
A few more doses of the good drugs. Then I was done.
Sarah picked me up. We went back to the AirBnB.
And then — because morphine is a hell of a thing — I went out for dinner.
The AirBnB: A Study in Suffering
Park City was in the middle of a heat wave. The Salt Lake area had been baking for days. Like most mountain rentals, the house had no air conditioning, because who needs AC at altitude?
Apparently everyone, during a heat wave.
I did not sleep well. I lay there, wrist immobilized, head still doing the thing heads do after they've hit the ground at speed, sweating gently, contemplating my choices.
During the days, Sarah took care of me between her work meetings. We went out so I could buy some clothes I could actually put on with one functioning wrist. Elastic band shorts. Flip flops. The wardrobe of a man who has surrendered.
It was, I'll admit, a little embarrassing having my little sister help me get dressed. It was probably worse for her.
Part 2 coming soon — in which I find myself dramatically underdressed at a very fancy resort and receive some surprisingly good life advice.