Today was a good day. I rode the Specialized Rockhopper Mountain Bike 15 miles. Over to Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory and back. Crosswind the whole way. And this was one month to the day after surgery to repair the clavicle broken in a bike wobble accident September 2.

I’m proud of that progress, and for good reason. The minute the crash occured, I struggled to realize exactly what happened. But within minutes of rolling over in that grassy ditch to look at the sky I was grateful for many things and planning ways to recover. After all, there was no neck or back injury that I could feel. And that was confirmed. No road rash, and I’ll take credit for that in getting the heck off the road to lay down the bike. No busted pelvis or broken leg. Check. Just one very sore muscle on the inside of my right thigh and of course, the crunchy, broken clavicle. That would definitely have to be fixed. That was clear from the get-go.

“Well, I finally did it,” I thought to myself. “I broke my collarbone. Guess I’m a real cyclist now.” Big sigh.

Lots of riders go through broken collarbones. Some riders go over the front handlebars. Crunch. Others slide to a stop in a criterium and feel their shoulder strike the ground. Crunch. Still others barely tip their bikes and put their hand out to stop their fall and, you guessed it. Crunch.

By comparison, I went down in a veritable fit of glory, cursing as I went, shredding the grass and throwing up a giant dirt divot with my shoulder.

Then I crawled up the embankment and sat on the side of the road waiting for help. Got in the ambulance and laid there in a stretcher chair through the trip to the little Wisconsin hospital and the ER doctor’s inspection. Managed to stand up for the x-ray, feeling shaky from the Vicodin coursing through my veins. Saw the digital picture of my shoulder. Not looking good. The truth was there in black and white

The clavicle looking like a bank of cirrus clouds

Got released from the Wisconsin ER and  slept the night in a chilly tent on an air mattress barely fit for a healthy person, much less wounded cyclist. So I did not move much, and yet managed to sleep well. Thank you, drugs.

The moon shone so bright in the window I could read my watch without hitting the GLO button. In the morning heard the quiet birds talking to each other before dawn even came. Was glad to be there. Birds say some pretty interesting things when they don’t know you’re listening.

That morning went for a determined two mile walk. Down the big hill at Governor Dodge State Park to stare at the lake a while and get my foggy head back together. Walked back up the hill with that sore, sore hamstring holding me back. Bruise the size of a fist.

But I was determined not to get stiff. Always keep moving. Even the first day after the accident. The first step in rehabilitation is an active recovery. Move around. Move the stress out of your system. Clear out the shock of adrenaline. The fog of pain. Drink lots of fluids. Wash it all away. Drink more fluids. Eat bananas. Fruit. Ah, what the hell, have a cookie. Drink some more. Pee your way back to clarity. It works.

That was Wisconsin. Then: the trip home to Illinois. Another ER visit. The decision for surgery.

Then a trip under the knife with a great surgeon. Woke up to wife and friends in the hospital room. Better stay the night, they said. G’nite.

Next came the rehab, starting that very morning. Then on it went. Day at a time. Listen to your body. Rest and sling the arm. Then, use it gently. Don’t let it stiffen up or get too lazy. Don’t lift, but don’t baby it.

Sooner or later the accidental need to use the arm brings it back to life. Days and weeks pass. Then physical therapy. They sure know how to use those little muscles, don’t they?

Finally, a first short ride on the bike. Down to the end of the block and back. Just the mountain bike. Fat tires and all. With permission of the doctor of course. Sort of.

3 weeks after the fact: Take the road bike into the shop to get it all checked out and straightened up. Fix the bent right brake cover and handlebars off at an angle. Hopefully no cracks in the frame. The Red Rocket needs physical therapy too.

But the mountain bike is all raring to go. New gear cable, and off we go. Into the teeth of an October southwest wind. Watch the marsh harrier tilt on the breeze, hunting mice in the fields at Fermi Lab. Thousands of geese rise from the corn field when a bald eagle flaps overhead.

I ride there and back. Nothing special. But then again, riding again so soon really is rather special. It proves that active recovery really does work. A strong mental attitude and listening to the limits of what pain has to tell you while telling your body to work back to health is the secret.

I’m going to take some credit for the athlete I am, and always will be. I’m good at these things. Coming back from surgery. Unraveling the secrets a body develops when it’s been in a crash. Work through the pain. The awful brace and the slippery sling. Putting up with the back muscle pulls without freaking out. Then, the lower back twinges. Setback. Through it all you keep walking. 2 miles. 3 miles. Each day feels a little better, other than the stupid back pain.

My mind never stopped working. Problem solving. Finding creative solutions to vexing problems. Caregiving. Releasing anxiety in myself and others. Caregiving some more. Saying thanks to those who helped. Working. Writing. Hitting deadlines despite the inconvenience of being hurt.

This ride was a symbol of a return to reality. That bike wobble took me down for a bit. But I am resilient. Determined. Trustworthy. Always ready for more. Bring on the next big thing.

That’s why we run and ride. And how.