Chapter 1

This weekend it was triathlete Matt Russell who was taken out by a driver during the Ironman World Championships and was hospitalized in intensive care. Earlier in the week Tim Don was struck by a driver while preparing for the same race and fractured a vertebrae. This summer there was a similar story involving an older gentleman who got hit a few miles from my house. Last summer it was a father of three children who was killed on that very same road while enjoying his Saturday bike ride. The more egregious stories are featured in the news and, while the circumstances change, the cyclist-being-hit headline has been used too often. Changes need to be made. Each news article does its best to report the physical injuries but the full scope of a crash cannot easily be described, which is why I am writing a book. Below is the first chapter. Today marks three years since my life was nearly ended by an impatient driver.

“I was following Adelaide Perr and witnessed the accident, the severity of her injuries…I will simply say it was the worst single thing I have ever witnessed and left an indelible memory of absolute horror.”

– Scott Robinson, cyclist on March 13, 2015

On October 18, 2014, my future husband, Kennett, and I woke to a brisk but sunny Saturday. I walked our seven-month old puppy, Maybellene, along a bike path and up a tiny dirt hill to a street that led to the 1.5-acre dog park near our two-bedroom apartment. When we returned 45 minutes later, Kennett was in the kitchen flipping two plate-sized pancakes. Decked out with peanut butter, banana, and honey, these pancakes were our standard Saturday breakfast. We ate on the couch, at times resting the plates on the coffee table while we perused the Internet.

As athletes we kept our lives simple and full of routines such as the Saturday pancakes. Money went towards training and racing. Nights were spent eating salad and dessert in front of a Netflix show so that we could get to bed early. The reason we ate on the couch was because our dining room area lacked a table and was filled with bikes instead.

As the final bites of pancake were devoured Kennett and I discussed our separate rides for the day. He was going to enjoy an off-season ride with friends and they planned to climb up Lefthand Canyon, a narrow two-lane mountain road. In my off-season from cycling I was training for HITS Lake Havasu iron-distance triathlon. The 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride, and 26.2 mile run were only three weeks away. I liked tagging along with Kennett and his fast friends so I decided to ride my first few miles in their pack before separating. I needed one last multi-hour, flat ride to boost my confidence.

We went upstairs to change into our bike kits. I was testing out my old blue triathlon shorts to see if they’d be at least marginally comfortable over a long ride. I also put on Kennett’s old King of the Mountain Jersey that he had won at Sea Otter Cycling Classic the previous year and gifted to me. Even though the short sleeves were snug against my triceps, I loved the red polka dots on this jersey and felt spunky wearing it.

I’m sure we debated what other articles of clothing were necessary for the fall weather. I opted for a pair of black arm warmers and a vest that was given to me by Kennett’s team the previous season. The vest, brightly colored with the Swedish and United States flags, lay against my body better than my other cycling apparel, which made me feel lean and confident. Both the jersey and the vest were irreplaceable and held special meaning to me, but both would later be cut off my body.

Even if you wouldn’t be caught dead in cycling gear, picture wearing your favorite shirt or jacket; they almost surely boost your mood. Now you can appreciate how I felt leaving the house that morning.

We grabbed the bikes by their top tubes and handlebars and headed out of our apartment, down the inside stairwell, and out to the street. We coasted a block down our residential neighborhood to Amante Coffee Shop on the corner — a hot spot for cyclists leaving town on group rides. Like so many others, we met up with friends. I pulled up next to the brick-walled corner and sat on my bike waiting for the full group of guys to form.

Our friend Matt was in front of me and because I was on my triathlon bike, a conversation about racing came up. Matt was at one point a triathlete, but he had become a professional cyclist who occasionally trained with Kennett. I’ll never forget Matt encouraging me to get a coach. After watching my cycling progress over the 2014 winter and spring, he believed I could go places in the sport and that meant the world to me. It was the last time I’d been told I was a powerful athlete before the crash. In the months that followed I often returned to that conversation in my mind and used it as motivation to regain my strength.

Word spread between our small group of eight that we were headed out. We navigated through the black wrought iron patio furniture outside the coffee shop. With a chorus of clicks and beeps, we all clipped into our bikes and hit the start button on our Garmins. The Garmin screen showed my speed, average speed, distance, time, and watts exerted. I would use all of these data points to stay on track for a steady ride.

The group organized into a pack that rode two people side-by-side. I stayed out of my aero bars so my hands were closer to the brakes, allowing me to react quickly to the movements within the pack. The upright position also ensured I could safely ride in the pack because I could see around the riders directly in front of me. We got through the last two stoplights in town, turned left onto the wide shoulder of US Highway 36, and headed north. While the road is designated as a highway, US-36 is only a two-lane road. Each side has a paved shoulder that varies between five and 10 feet wide, making room for cyclists even though the speed limit for cars is 60 mph.

I rode in back of the group next to Matt so that I wouldn’t push too hard for the first fifteen minutes of my planned five-plus hour ride. At the left turn for Lefthand Canyon the guys turned their heads to check for traffic behind and then slid over a lane while waving a quick goodbye to me as I continued along the shoulder of US-36.

Once I was alone I glanced down at my Garmin and refocused on executing my ride. Physically, I wanted to see if I could hold an average pace above 20 mph. My plan was to complete four loops on rolling-to-flat roads, twenty-five miles per loop. I wanted to feel comfortable with that distance but doing the ride as a series of loops gave me the option to cut it short if my energy was dragging.  If I got too tired I wouldn’t be far from home — the end of each loop was only three miles from our apartment. When I parted from the boys I was only two miles into my first lap, so I just settled into a steady effort. Every 20 minutes or so I’d eat a gel or part of a Clif Bar and wash it down with water. I spent the majority of my time hunched over my aero bars. I went from the highway road to 75th where I passed The Purple Door Market, a small local store. I planned to stop there on my second lap to refill on water. I turned right onto Neva Road and had to push a little harder to hold my average speed on the false flat. The quiet two-lane road took me past a field of horses to the north and a trailhead to the south.

I finished the first lap at the intersection of Neva Road and US-36 in an hour and ten minutes, which was right on pace. Cresting the hill, I looked behind me for other cyclists before I took a right turn onto US-36 for lap two. I began calculating where Kennett would be based on the time since we parted ways. To break up the ride, Kennett had agreed to meet up with me after riding with his friends. He was going to ride my loop in the opposite direction until he saw me and, after my mental estimations, I had a feeling that would be on this lap. I’d have to make sure he didn’t pass me when I stopped at the Purple Door Market.

As is probably the case for almost every local rider, I’m normally happy to leave the noise of US-36 behind me. The road serves merely as a means to another destination. Given the bright blue sky and warming rays of sunshine, I was just one of the thousand cyclists who rode this stretch of road that Saturday.  I thought it was odd that, despite being on the busiest road I’d travel, it was my favorite part of the ride. The rolling part of the road varied the pace which was more fun. I specifically remember being calm, content, and proud of my willpower to push through what, for me, would be a hard ride.

Still gauging my speed, I naturally slowed down on the climbs, picked up my pace during the flat sections, and relaxed when I had the momentum of going downhill. In my constant pacing, I passed riders along the way. One guy passed me back shortly after I came by him, and then I passed him again a few minutes later. While I became irritated by playing leap frog, I wanted to stay on target with my goal pace for the ride. I later learned the guy who I had been trading spots with was Scott Robinson.

After passing Scott the second time I tucked into my aero bars and took a deep breath. The upcoming section of road, which heads north into the town of Lyons, was my last downhill to rest until the next lap around. As I approached the intersection of US-36 and Hygiene Road, a two-lane country road, I moved left from the shoulder of US-36. This put me in the center of the right-hand turn lane that existed for drivers traveling east. Moving into the turn lane would deter cars from cutting me off with a right hook, while also providing a straight, safe trajectory through the intersection and back into the shoulder of US-36 again. Since US-36 is the larger road, there is no stop sign for north or southbound traffic; only cars approaching from Hygiene have to stop in order to get onto US-36. This type of defensive riding was instinctual to me at this point. I knew the rules of the road and and how to explicitly show cars what action I’d be taking.

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When I was fifty feet out from the intersection a large red obstacle suddenly appeared in front of me. I knew it was a vehicle, but it drove several car lengths past the stop sign so quickly that when it stopped directly in my lane of traffic I felt my situation to be momentarily surreal. Given that I was on a six-percent downhill my pace was averaging close to 35 mph. My hands jumped up from the aero bars to my bullhorns where I grasped the brakes so tight that they locked against the rims of my wheels. Slowing down wasn’t a good enough option, I needed to stop. The feeling of my rear tire skidding out from underneath me sent an electrifying sense of panic throughout my body. I knew my control was gone, I could no longer correct the situation, and I was going down. The moment my body slammed into the red Fiat, Scott Robinson was behind me by mere seconds. With those extra moments, he swerved to the left and into the oncoming lane, narrowly avoiding the Fiat and oncoming traffic. Behind him, tires screeched as another car swerved to miss the Fiat.

While I don’t recall impact, I know that I went straight through the driver’s side window. My face shattered the glass into thousands of shards. Those pieces sliced my face open before they settled onto the car seats, between the folds of the stick shift, and across the soon-to-be bloody blacktop. In addition to the driver, there were two passengers in the Fiat, drivers from other cars, and nearby cyclists who watched the scene unravel. One passenger, Steven Clark, jumped out of the car and ran to my side. He pressed a blue-and-white plaid shirt against what was left of my cheekbone. The driver, Russell Rosh, was shaken and stood back. What felt like split-seconds for some witnesses must have felt like a lifetime to others. I’m not sure how time passed for me.

Away from the chaos, my clear water bottle with a yellow cap came to a stop down the hill. Kennett had filled the water bottle for me earlier that morning and it would be his first sign that something was amiss.

Among the people who assisted me and directed traffic there was someone who made the 911 call. According to police documents, at 11:48 am Sergeant Bill Crist from the Boulder County Sheriff’s office was on patrol in the nearest town, Lyons, when he received the radio call. By 11:50 Crist was on the scene with a first aid kit. I was sitting up against the front tire of the driver’s side. He kneeled next to me and pulled out sterile bandages in an attempt to stop the bleeding from my face until the paramedics arrived. He encouraged me to take deep breaths. He told me that I was going to be okay. He assured me that I was doing a good job staying calm, held my hand, and asked me questions to help identify who I was.

My unanswered question has been — how was I able to speak at all? From witnesses’ reports, I said my name along with Kennett’s.  According to Scott Robinson I also asked, “Why is there so much blood?” All official documents described the bleeding from the left side of my face as significant, extensive, brisk, and severe. Another term used for such injuries is de-gloved. Picture peeling off a glove, except replace that with peeling off skin and soft tissue after blunt trauma to the bones. Officer Christ wrote in his after-action report that he realized it was a level one trauma incident. As such, I had to be transported to a designated level one trauma center. These hospitals are required to have a helipad along with 24-hour emergency care including trauma surgeons, oral surgeons, plastic surgeons, and most important to me at the time, maxillofacial and anesthesiology care.

The helicopter was called to transport me to Craig Hospital in Denver, but an ambulance was closer to the scene. It took four minutes from the time of impact to get me loaded into the ambulance. It took only another seven minutes until I was wheeled through the emergency room doors of Longmont United Hospital, seven-miles due east of the crash. The EMTs weren’t sure I’d stay alive for those crucial minutes. I was in and out of consciousness throughout the entire process. My only post-crash memory of October 18, 2014 is a blurry image of being lifted into the ambulance and the voice of an EMT who said, “Her face is peeled off.”

What haunts me more than those final words from the EMTs is what I can’t recall. The details I’ve written about what happened after I hit the window — those aren’t my memories because I don’t have any. I wonder, what I was thinking during those moments of consciousness? What did I want to ask but couldn’t due to my injuries? Did they tell me where I was headed? Did I realize there was so much blood because I was bleeding to death?

Recently Kennett and I began watching the movie Free State of Jones starring Matthew McConaughey. Within the first few scenes his character’s son is shot. I decided that, while I didn’t want to see this boy die, I’d continue watching because I enjoy movies that are based on true stories. What I wasn’t prepared for was when the son didn’t immediately die. Instead, Matthew McConaughey carried his son towards the medics. The son, in his father’s arms, pleads for answers to his questions, “Am I going to die? Why am I so thirsty?”

I immediately jumped up from the couch and hit the off button on our DVD player. I stood there and started bawling. It made me feel sad for my person after the crash. I say, “my person” because I can’t emotionally connect with who I was while I was facing the possibility of death. I have no idea if I was thirsty or sick to my stomach. Since I lack the memories from the crash, my imaginary experience of that afternoon is like that of a bystander – as if I were a character in a movie who looks down at themselves in an out-of-body experience as they die.

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I’m fortunate. I did make it to the hospital alive that day. I have since married my best friend and happily qualified as a professional triathlete. Still, I deal with the emotional repercussions from the crash on an almost daily basis. Today in particular, because it is the three-year anniversary, my thoughts will turn to how I almost missed getting married, watching my sister get married, and the birth of my niece. Often I’ll yell at a distracted driver and point at the scar on my face as if they should personally be held responsible for my crash. I’ve also learned that what happened extends emotionally well beyond me. When a cyclist is hit by a car the witnesses, family, friends, caretakers, and community at-large also suffer from trauma. My book will share my recovery, my family’s experiences, managing PTSD, and more. Stay tuned for more excerpts.

 

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