What to Do When Youre Injured on a Bike Ride

I went for an after-work bike ride, alone, as I often do. I told my wife I was heading into Horse Gulch, the biggest trail network where I live in Durango, Colorado, and planned to ride for an hour or so. I headed out the door, dressed in shorts and short sleeves, carrying a phone, water bottle, tools, and a tube.

I needed a ride to clear my head and to catch up on product testing, but I was run down from a weeklong sinus infection. I erred on the side of caution and chose a fun but mellow trail I knew well, called Wilke's Way.

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I had planned to take it easy, but I soon found myself pushing harder than I meant to, trying to test the gear, trying to find my flow. 

And then it happened. I wasn't going very fast, about 13 miles per hour according to my Garmin. It was just one of those dumb moments: I initiated a turn a little too late and the front tire got into the kitty litter, washed out, and I started to low side.

As I fell, I remember thinking, That was stupid. But I wasn't worried. I've been crashing on mountain bikes for more than 20 years. I've had some really scary wrecks that I expected would cause major injury, but I walked away with only a few scrapes. This was not a scary crash.

I hit the ground and heard the sound of scraping and sliding. I rolled to stand up but something felt very wrong. I looked down at my right shin and I could see my leg was broken, part of the bone sliding around under my skin. You know what it looks like when a cat is playing under the sheets? It looked a bit like that. Just behind me I saw the culprit: a rock about three inches tall and eight inches across with rounded edges, deeply embedded into the dirt, bits of my flesh and flecks of fresh blood dotting its uphill side.

I wrapped my hands around my leg to hold it still. My mind raced through a checklist: tibia is broken, fibula is not; it's not bleeding, not compound, doesn't hurt much; can feel toes, can move toes and ankle and knee; did not hit head; everything else feels okay.

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The seriousness of the situation hit me. I was alone, on singletrack, hidden amongst the scrub oak. I had told my wife where I was going, but I only said, "Horse Gulch." Horse Gulch covers more than 2,200 acres and 65 miles of trails. It was about 6:15 p.m.; sunset was in a bit more than an hour. It was spring, I was sitting at 6,500-feet elevation, and I didn't have a jacket. It was going to get cold very quickly and I was likely to go into shock soon.

How the hell am I going to get out of here?

I screamed.

A strong urge to get out came over me and made me feel jumpy. I looked at the bike and figured I could use it like a rolling crutch. I could tear my shirt and grab a few sticks to splint my leg. There wasn't much singletrack left, but what remained was twisty, rocky and loose. The risk of further injury was high.

I screamed again.

"Are you okay?"

A voice. Close. A man and woman, hiking toward me.

"No, I broke my leg."

She asked, "Do you have a phone? We didn't bring ours."

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A phone. I forgot I had a phone. All things considered, I thought I had been pretty clear-headed and rational. I wasn't. My first thought was a risky self-rescue—I hadn't considered the phone in my pocket.

She dialed 911 and soon Fire and Rescue is on the way. The man hiked down to the main road to help guide them toward me. The woman, Kathy, was calm and sweet and stayed with me. I apologized for ruining her hike.

When they arrive, rescuers strap me into The Levitator. It's an off-road gurney that rolls on an ATV tire and, I noted with some pleasure, is equipped with an Avid BB7 disc brake and Cane Creek Cloud 9 shocks. They loaded me into the ambulance and two hours after my crash I was safe in an emergency room. 

I made many mistakes, but I got lucky: I was tired and still a bit sick, I was riding unfamiliar equipment, I was pushing too hard, I didn't give my wife a detailed ride plan, I was riding alone, I wasn't well prepared—the list goes on. And when the injury happened, I convinced myself I was thinking straight when I wasn't. My situation could have turned out worse, but I was fortunate: There were people around, I was close to a trailhead, and there was cellular service.

But you shouldn't rely on luck in an emergency. These tips can help you handle a potentially dangerous situation in the woods. I hope you never need them.

Remember, you are probably not as calm as you think you are. If alone, take a few deep breaths before making any decisions.

Carry a mobile phone. It is one of the best tools to available in an emergency, as long as the battery is charged and cell service is available. If you're trying to escape the office, don't leave the phone in the car, mute it. Keep it dry in a waterproof drybag—I like the Jersey Bin.

Use the buddy system. When you're hurt a (competent) friend can save your ass, especially if you're unconscious and can't initiate a rescue.

Communicate. Tell a friend or loved one where you're going, or write it down where someone can easily find the information. Provide precise details: 'I'll be riding in Sedona,' will be little help if you don't return when scheduled. Tell someone exactly what trails, roads, or route you're riding and don't deviate. Provide a start time and when you expect to finish. When you're done, let somebody know.

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