Bada Boom

The race season was supposed to begin next weekend. With something new, exciting, fun. But it’s all been shelved. A nasty crash put me out of commission. And a few days or weeks off the bike is still the luckiest outcome one could get away with, given the sustained damage. There are plenty of spots on and inside my body that now hurt pretty badly, but ego plays a special role in that ensemble. Let’s put some salt on that wound and see what comes out. For readers’ entertainment, and the writer’s reflection.

Why would I do that? Mainly because of a recent conversation I had with myself on multiple Saturday afternoons, after I was done with my ride, had showered, and was densely stuffed with pasta. The premise was simple: if there’s no bike racing going on, you, my friend, have nothing to write about. You’re boring! (I’m often violently hard on myself). Sure, I wrote about this and that in the offseason. And I have a dozen drafts in the works, which will probably never see the light of anyone else’s screen. But I was thinking, what if I approach some of my training rides as nano-adventures, plan something fun into them, and then squeeze a story out of it, whether it’s testing new tires, or taking a KOM, or pulling my friend through all the headwinds to pay back for all those times when I sat on his wheel (so that I can attack and snatch the aforementioned KOMs, haha). None of that deserved a piece yet. But while in a hospital bed, when my brain was the only organ of the body that still had full freedom of movement, I thought, if this is not the story to tell, then what is?

Top of the ridge

If only the choices we make in life all looked like a cartoon scene where the right turn takes you into a dark, haunted, ominous forest passage, while the pathway on the left leads you into a bright, green, sunlit valley. And I’m not saying one would be obviously preferable to the other, but at the very least, the general idea of what you’re signing up for would have been a lot more predictable. But instead, you’re picking between the two seemingly identical mellow trails at the edge of the grove. One has a few bushes of blueberries scattered alongside, and the other is wrapped in cranberries. There’s a certain appeal in both, but you must make a pick today, you can’t have both, the trails will never merge back, and somewhere far ahead, one ends up at the top of the windy ridge, while another spits you into a deep, stinky swamp. And yet, taste preference for sweetness or sourness is all you can go off.

My blueberries vs cranberries moment was four years ago, after we moved to Colorado. I was right between sizes on my first-ever proper mountain bike. In hindsight, Ministry of Truth’s “ignorance is strength” could’ve been a better strategy, but I chose overthinking. Um, duh. Long story short, I sized down. It wasn’t unequivocally wrong. Certainly wasn’t right either. The point is, it set me on a route that instigated going faster, higher, stronger. Pulling me further and further away from the meditative calmness of the swamp.

Years passed. The stem went from 50 to 75 mm. Its angle — from 6° to -25°. Headset spacers — lost in action. Handlebars — cut to 720 mm. Wicked Will and Racing Ralph chunky rubber combo — replaced by a quick-rolling, loose-gripping pair of Fast Traks.

I do believe I’ve achieved perfection. Balanced, aggressive, compliant. For my body proportions and this frame geometry, this is The Pinnacle. The thing rips when I point it uphill.

But what goes up must come down. And it’s a fascinating dichotomy: the day I’ve found the holy grail was also the beginning of the decline. Literally. Sunday, November 12, 2023 was my first ride testing the final touches. I was flying (to the extent of what my abilities would allow). Until a little mishap on Arroyo Grande took me into the bushes. Soft landing with a smile, and I didn’t think much of it, but the note to self: it’s different now, get used to it, and you’ll be fine. The first bell didn’t take long to toll. And it wasn’t the last one.

Tuesday (2 days to The Bada Boom)

Fast-forward to April, 2026. Casual afternoon ride with friends. The exact same spot that I will now fear for the rest of my days. Bike wiggles under me, but I keep it together.

Wednesday (1 day to The Bada Boom)

I texted my teammate, with whom I was supposed to be racing a 6-hour relay:

Thought I’d rather give you a heads up in advance, even if I change my mind later. I might wanna take two bikes with me to NM. I haven’t decided anything yet. I’m hoping to make up my mind by Monday.

I am really, really not a fan of the Lux. It’s fast on no tech, I’ll give him that, but other than that… I was riding it yesterday on some techy trails, and I just couldn’t help but think how sketchy it feels.

Coincidence? It’s not.

Dropping now

The story is not about the physics and trajectory of my fall, or how cute and caring the nurses were (they deserve nothing short of a Shakespearean poem). It’s about numerous small actions and inactions that preceded the spill, and why it should’ve never happened, but it still did. To better illustrate the point, I’ll use a quote from the Russian literary classic:

The actions of Napoleon and Alexander, on whose words the event seemed to hang, were as little voluntary as the actions of any soldier who was drawn into the campaign by lot or by conscription. This could not be otherwise, for in order that the will of Napoleon and Alexander (on whom the event seemed to depend) should be carried out, the concurrence of innumerable circumstances was needed without any one of which the event could not have taken place.

— Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace, trans. Louise and Aylmer Maude

So, you take all those little setup choices made along the way that contributed to a non-forgiving front-heavy weight distribution, add the steepness of the terrain, a dry winter, poor hinging and braking technique, and maybe throw a bit of recklessness into the mix, and Icarus is well cooked. The front wheel disappeared from beneath me so fast, as if it had been incinerated by a scorching sun, and the flight, once controlled, became a free fall with a harsh landing.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame the equipment. After all, I’m the one in charge of it. I don’t blame Mother Nature for the conditions that have been served to us. She’s doing her absolute best against everything that people on planet Earth throw at her. I don’t blame myself either. Because why would I? Each and every contributing factor here is insufficient on its own. They are ingredients, multiplying variables, but not the reasons.

Negligence

This is it.

A minor tumble in 2023 sure was just a jingle bell, a write-off on the grounds of “shit happens”. There were a few more that could perhaps be enough to build a beautiful blood-stained carillon for a Sunday morning dirt church. But the confession text I’ve written with my own hands and sent out on Wednesday night — this is it, the Tsar Bell.

Things I could’ve/should’ve done:

Adjust tire pressure.
Pick a different line.
Focus on the body position.
All of the above.
Or whatever.

In fact, the correct answer is number five. I could’ve done all of it, or I could’ve done at least something. It could’ve prevented the incident, or it could’ve made no difference. The problem is that I felt something’s off, I acknowledged it, and yet I didn’t lift a finger. It was stupid, and I’m intolerant of that.

I want to go back to that trailhead, where the blueberries and cranberries grow. I might pick a different path. Or I might retrace the ones I’ve already been to. Hopefully, with more curiosity and explorative thinking applied at every step. I might end up in ICU again, but I want to know that I’ve done everything in my power to prevent that.