Whistler living is about playing hard and living large. It’s why most of us are here.
Why else would you be here if not to take advantage of the mountain biking trails, the great white stretches of snow to ski and snowboard, the golf courses, the hiking trails?
Inherent in this lifestyle is the drive to excel, go bigger than before and push yourself to new limits.
Sometimes though, you can push a little too hard.
This explains why my right hand is swathed in bandages, splint running down the inside, sling around my shoulder.
Having never broken a bone in my body, it seems somewhat appropriate that I would break two bones in my right hand while living in Whistler.
It somehow makes the Whistler experience more complete.
Like most Whistlerites, I now have a war wound and a story to tell.
Though I’m sure you’ve heard it all before, the story goes a little something like this.
Last week my boyfriend and I redid the previous week’s Loonie Race route, trying to better our time, at least I was trying to better my time while he lagged behind to keep me company. The trail was Tunnel Vision, a great downhill that’s well worth the significant grunt to the top. During the Loonie Race I cheated the last two minutes of the course and followed a group detouring to the road at Bayshores.
By doing so I missed out on two little teeter-totters at the end of the trail.
I was thinking about those little teeter-totters the whole way down Tunnel Vision the second time around.
(For those who have done the trail I do realize these teeter-totters are no great feat, being only three feet high, but we must take our small victories as they come.)
I didn’t even think twice when I saw the first one coming, barrelling straight towards the wood. Up and over seamlessly. I did it!
The thrill was short-lived as my speed soon got the best of me. My bike bounced off the 2x4, wheel hit a root, shoulder slammed into the ground and hand was crushed in between root and handlebars.
It all happened so fast and all I can remember is coming down with a resounding, teeth-rattling thud.
After the initial scream and panic, I sucked it up with nary a tear and rode back to the car. I have since become a giant baby, whining about my fate.
The day after the crash, when a baseball seemed to be growing out of my hand, the doc gave me the bad news. Two knuckles were broken. No riding for at least six weeks. Oh, and no typing or writing either.
I wouldn’t have taken the news quite so hard if I hadn’t been enjoying the season as much. I’ve ridden more this season than all of last year combined.
On my bike at least four times a week I could actually see some improvement. While still black and blue after every ride, I didn’t begrudge the bruises at all.
As I sit here punching out this story with my left hand at a painstakingly slow pace, I can’t help but begrudge every key I touch.
It’s just not fair has become the familiar refrain echoing through my head.
Daily living has become a chore.
There are some things I just can’t do right now, and as for all the other things, they seem to be taking me five times longer than usual.
It’s funny how much you need your right hand – particularly if you’re right-handed – just to do the simplest of tasks.
Washing your hair for example has its own unique challenges with one hand, especially when the other hand can’t get wet. Not to mention eating a nice juicy steak, putting on a pair of pants, opening a can of baked beans, flossing.
Then I remember that I’m not the only one. This is Whistler after all. In our office alone, we’ve had a broken ankle, one torn MCL, ACL and PCL, one more torn MCL, one strained wrist and now a broken hand, all in the last six months – that’s more than 35 per cent of the staff who have been injured. I’ve seen enough hobbling and bandages to last me a lifetime.
Recent Stats Can numbers show that 15 per cent of British Columbians suffered an injury causing limitations of normal activity in a 12 month period between 2000 and 2001. That’s higher than the national average of 13.4 per cent.
I can’t help but think that Whistler, and the Pique office in particular, is doing its fair share to bump those B.C. statistics up.
Our lifestyle means our chances of getting hurt are higher than normal. As my mother pointed out, before offering any sympathy I might add, this never would have happened to me in Toronto, where I didn’t mountain bike.
Even when you go into the health centre in Whistler you’re asked to fill out a form detailing the bike accident. How much sleep did you get the night before? How many years have you been riding? What trail were you on? Were you the under the influence of drugs or booze? Could you have done anything to prevent it? Under that particular question my boyfriend wrote "better skills."
Others who have been injured in Whistler have warned me that the phone calls will stop soon. If you can’t play, you’re off the play list. Next the sympathy will vanish and you’ll be expected to suck it up and get back on your bike ASAP. In fact one friend would like my next splint to be moulded into the shape of my handlebars.
Meanwhile, I’m a little more concerned about when I can next hold a pen.
Still, I suppose that as frustrating as a broken hand can be, it could have been a lot worse. Far worse things have happened to better people.
So I’ve decided that rather than bemoan my fate, the fact that my mountain biking career has stalled for the time being and that my left hand now has a typing cramp, I think I’m just going to kick back and milk this injury for all it’s worth.
Anyone read any good books lately?
