When Hardrock Bites Your Ass, You Tend To Remember The Experience

Most plans that end up going completely wrong tend to start out simply. This is a fact of life. Perhaps it is better to never make plans, thereby ensuring they can never turn turtle on you. This story starts simple enough: an old man needs a pile of bike to sink his money into. My Dad was the old man. A few years back, with retirement looming, I got him a pile of C-15 to waste his time. He learned too well that as soon as a bike begins looking like a vaguely finished-ish thing you are required to begin looking for the next project. This ended up being a rather tasty pile of longstroke BSA A-7 sourced from our friendly friends in North Carolina. Here's where the plan got clever. Jay would bring the pile down and we'd meet up with my Pops at a location halfway between St. Augustine and his home in Tampa: Hardrock! It would be awesome all around!

But oddly enough, things almost immediately started going cattywhumpus. First lap of the harescramble course I broke my rear brake rod. No prob, I just stole the one off the A-7, Dad didn't need it yet anyway. Max had brought the Rickman, and it was acting up

It was oddly down on power and was even having trouble getting up the climb to get into the Roller Coaster. Which was odd, because the Stomper was also down on power, being able to get in the Roller Coaster, but really struggling on some of the climbs. On one it blubbered to a halt just shy of the top, sending me tumbling all the way back to the bottom. That's bad when you're a meaty dude, because at a certain gravity induced tumble speed the world becomes your cheese grater

The writing was getting clearer on the wall, so we planned to do one more lap of the harescramble course and head to some beer serving place. As a bright spot, when we got back we were greeted by my Dad who had brought us back food to cheer our spirits. As a not bright spot, Jay was nowhere to be seen. I headed off to find him and let him know there was tasty vittles back at the truck. He was just a few hundred yards on the course where he'd hit a puddle that completely killed the bike and was finishing putting the carb back together when I pulled up. We shoulda just turned around and headed back to fountain drinks, but we decided to finish the loop instead. I came over a small rise I'd already been over 4 times that day, dozens in the past few months, and the bike washed out in a teeny little patch of mud. At one point I was on the bike, the next I felt like I was standing, then bike and rider collapsed. It was immediately apparent my leg was broken, flopping about in a rather sickening way, but the only thing on my mind was the sound of Jay getting closer. I guess the mind prioritizes things pretty quick at a time like that, because all I could think about was that he wouldn't be able to see me on the other side of the drop and I needed to move, quick. Some spirited elbow work and I was safe from adding the insult of being run over to the injury. Which left me with nothing to do but freak out a bit trying to hold my leg steady. Luckily, with Jay's help we splinted up the leg with a belt, some zip ties and two sticks, which allowed me to calm down until he and Max could get some help. Also luckily, I was right near the edge of the woods, so the poor EMT's that had to pall-bear my fat ass outta there only had to go a short distance, though I think they billed me for the costs of a couple hernias. Worth every penny.

Why do I look so happy here? Because I'd just been informed surgery was scheduled for the next day, which meant I could Eat! Priorities, people. The ER was fun. I was so scraped up from the earlier tumbles they thought all the damage was from the one wreck, so they thought it had been worse than it was, and insisted on X-raying everything. Moral: try for only one wreck a day, kiddies. I was apparently infested with spiders from laying on the forest floor, which led to me being whacked in the crotch by Jay and a nurse to "kill" the "spider"...allegedly. And finally, I needed to be transferred to a different hospital for the surgery, so a fancier splint needed putting on than the comfy blue EMT one seen here. Jay somehow drew a short straw and got to hold up the...erm...disconnected leg part as the new splint was slid on and wrapped. The next morning I was under the knife for some expensive screws and pieces

And I got to spend a quiet weekend at the hospital with the wife in sunny Ocala.

And that was the end of my riding year, leaving Max and George to get rained on at races without me till Gatorback in the Spring. Good times.