It’s been a few weeks since I posted anything, and there is a good reason why.
Last month, I finally purchased a bicycle with the intention of going on bike rides with my husband. He lost his license for six month after an epileptic seizure, an unfortunate requirement in the state of Pennsylvania. His parents bought him an electric bike to help him get to work and back (Uber in our area is often $30+ to go just two miles), so I decided it was time for me to finally get a bicycle. It was actually to be a very late college graduation gift from my mom, but…well…things didn’t go as planned.
I did my research and picked out a nice 7-speed bike from Kent. It was also available at Walmart, though our local store didn’t have any in stock. It was delivered after a few days via FedEx…to the wrong address. One of the FedEx drivers is extremely lazy (FedEx’s wording to a neighbor), so he just dropped it at a random house close to the parking lot. He took a picture to confirm delivery—a picture of a door that was not ours. I walked around the complex and eventually found the large box, then dragged it back to my house.
After my asthma calmed down and after complaining to both Walmart and FedEx, I started to assemble the bike. I should have been doing schoolwork, but there was no way I could concentrate knowing that my bike was here and waiting. I had several days to finish my class—one of those work-at-your-own-pace type of classes. I started to assemble the bike and met with problem after problem, but was determined to finish it. Hours later, and after a quick trip to Home Depot to replace my missing set of metric Allen wrenches, the bike was assembled and ready to go. It would have to wait a couple days for a test ride.
On Sunday, May 7th, a beautifully sunny spring day, my husband and I took our bikes outside for our first ride. I hadn’t been on a bike in probably over 25 years, and the same for my husband. I made a final adjustment on the front brakes, which just were not working right either way, then we mounted up and headed out.
At first I thought it was something I could do, impressed that my right knee could actually handle it. I started messing with the gears to get more resistance—one of the main reasons I wanted a bike was to exercise my knee without the impact that goes with walking. The gear shifter made no change, and I was already thinking the bike might have been a mistake. It seemed too high, even at the lowest seat position, and something just felt off. I had done my research and the bike was the correct recommended size for my height, but I just didn’t feel entirely comfortable.
As we rode down the sidewalk, I saw an uneven edge and was suddenly reminded of a bad accident I had as a teen because of a sidewalk crack. I adjusted trajectory to avoid the rough spot when it happened: I suddenly felt myself losing balance. I put my feet out to brace myself and leaned left to protect my right knee. That was a mistake—left was downhill, so my foot could not reach the ground. I shouted to my husband “I’m going down” as I braced to hit the ground. I heard my right arm crack as I landed and felt sore, but otherwise okay. I sat for a couple minutes, giving the thumb ups to a teen who rode over on his bike to ask if I was okay. I thought I was.
As we started to walk back to the house—a short two-minute walk from my crash location—I knew my right arm was broken. I had never broken a bone in my life, but the pain was much more than any muscle injury I’ve ever had, and I was unable to use my hand without pain. My mom took me to the hospital and it was confirmed: my first ever broken bone.
I suspect menopause played a part, with the increased risk of early osteoporosis. Both my mom and grandma had bone density loss, though my mom is on medication for it. Like myself, grandma was ultra-sensitive to medication, but I have yet to have a doctor actually take my concerns seriously. The nurse practitioner at the hospital said she had never seen a break like mine: a straight break through only one bone and a chipped piece of bone off to the side. The closest I ever came to a break was my right ankle in 2003 when I chipped off a piece of the bone. I re-injured it in 2013, and now, in 2023, I actually broke my right arm.
I was put in a long-arm cast that goes from my thumb to my bicep. Typing has not been fun, and of course my current college course is one with the most research and writing in my degree program. The next course is supposedly just as bad. I hate not being able to express myself easily through writing, so I’ve just been passing the time until my arm heals. I can kind of hold a game controller, and I’m not terrible at using a mouse with my left hand, but I cannot wait to be out of this itchy fiberglass cast! I dream of the day when I can tie back my own hair and wash my right arm. The dead skin peeking out is disgusting…
Only 11 more days to go…I hope.
Oh, and the bike… it went back to Walmart for a full refund. My mom’s boyfriend rode it briefly to check it. The word “junk” was used, and he noticed that the front bakes were assembled wrong. I had not even noticed since that was how it arrived, but it then made sense why I had so much trouble adjusting them. The front brake also fell apart when he was riding, which is why he noticed the problem, and the tires had already deflated over a week’s time.
But I have learned two lessons from this: bikes are bad, and so is exercise.