Down but not out

All was dark and silent. Davey slowly opened his eyes; a fuzzy blue sky filled his vision. Where am I? The side of his head throbbed; his chin strap was cutting into his neck. Instinctually he reached up removing his helmet. As his vision became clearer, he glanced to the left, a wall of rocks and tree trunks by his side. To his right a motorbike front wheel, the suspension bent and the mounting bracket torn off. Past that, a few shattered pieces of fibreglass lay scattered.

He stared blankly at the debris. What happened? Did I crash? How long have I been here? His attention was drawn to the distant sound of a motorbike roaring overhead. “A motorbike.” He looked in the direction of the sound. Above him, a two-and-a-half metre steep drop-off shrouded in ferns and vines untouched by his exit at the corner. 

Dropping his head, memories of coming around a bend in the road and his rear tyre losing grip flashed before his eyes.  The back end slid sideways as the tyre hit the road shoulder. After that moment, there was nothing until he awoke to blue skies. The sound of another motorbike went by.  I remember I was in the Walter Gray Rally. I was in fourth place and making ground.  He glanced back at his broken front wheel. You bloody idiot.  You could have got on the podium. 

A growing ache in his hip disrupted his thoughts. The rocks underneath him were uncomfortable. As he strained to sit up a stabbing pain raced up his leg. His scream went unnoticed as this course section was declared too dangerous for spectators and photographers.

His eyes clinched tight as he took several deep breaths waiting for the pain to subside. Looking down at his leg, “Shit.” The bend in his shin and this foot pointing sideways told him all he needed to know. Glancing past his leg revealed more parts of his bike going down the slope. Beyond the grass lay a horizon of blue ocean. If I hadn’t hit these rocks, I would have ended up in the water. Unconscious and floating in the waves; no one would have known I was there. I would be dead by now. His body was yelling at him as different injuries revealed themselves. The pain was overwhelming, his energy spent as he slumped back onto the rocks

A distant roar approached.  Davey mumbled, “I have to get help.” Peeling off his glove, he hurled it towards the road. The wind caught the glove mid-flight dropping it into the ferns as the bike continued around the bend. “Damn,” he groaned as he tore off the other glove. It disappeared over the top of the vegetation.   I hope that hit the road. But to be sure, he progressively removed the gear he could easily access, tossing it up the slope. I can’t even throw something three metres.

Two more bikes went past and no one stopped. As their motor sounds faded, he slumped his shoulders. I’m going to die here. My parents are going to ring tonight to see how I went. But no one will answer the call.  Picturing their faces brought tears to his eyes. I have trained for too long; this hill won’t beat me.  He looked down at his bright yellow helmet, the number seventy-two and his name in black stared back at him.  The same number was on the first helmet his father gave him when he was twelve.

Taking several deep gasps, he grabbed the chin strap. Flinging his arm upward he put his whole body into the throw. Letting out a loud yell as his broken leg jolted. With a deep gasp, he fell backward. He winced in agony, too afraid to move as he waited for his leg to stop throbbing. 

He looked at a piece of plastic lying not far from him. Should I throw that? His body said no, his arms felt heavy, and his energy was drained. The heat of the day waned as a shadow crept down the mountain. How long have I been here? Someone has to realise I am missing. They won’t leave me out here all night.

Another motorbike approached but this time the motor revved down, stopping overhead. Davey's eyes widened as his pulse increased. They stopped. “Help!” He screamed at the top of his lungs to be heard over the ocean noise.

A head appeared over the ferns, “Is anyone there?”

“Yes. My leg is broken. Get help.”

“What’s your name?”

“Davey Ginnis.”

“We will be right back,” the rider yelled. The bike engine roared before fading around the corner.

They are coming to get me. His body wanted to burst into tears but he didn’t have the energy for that. Davey let out a big sigh, his eyes grew heavy as he fought off sleep.

A thud on the ground nearby awoke him. Coils of blue and white woven rope lay on the rocks beside him. Looking up the slope, multiple heads peered over the undergrowth calling out his name. Two people in harnesses had their backs to him as they lowered themselves over the edge.

They are here. His adrenaline surged as he went to sit up. “Don’t move,” a rescuer called out as he descended on the rope.

The details got fuzzy after the paramedic gave him some painkillers. Events blurred as he was trussed up like a roast pork on the stretcher. In the back of the ambulance, he looked down at his hand, there was a large needle sticking into the skin but it didn’t hurt. “Where are we going?” He murmured.

“The helicopter is waiting at the finish to take you to the hospital,” the paramedic said looking at the monitor.

“My helmet.”

“Don’t worry about that. Someone will get your gear.”

Getting unloaded from the ambulance Davey looked across at the overhead banner. Finish. Not how I wanted to cross the finish line. The sight of the chequered flag made his heart sink. He turned away to see Jock, one of his fellow riders rushed up to see if he was OK. 

***

The next day, Davey lay in his hospital bed flicked through the television channels. His leg was raised with a steel rod screwed in multiple places. The painkillers masked the bruises and grazes.  His mind was going back over the race. If I had taken the inside line I wouldn’t be here now. I could have won. Next year, I will win. Why did the doctors cut my good riding pants? Now I have to buy new gear.  His frustration was growing when his hospital room door opened. 

Jock stepped up to the bed and pulled Davey’s helmet from the bag placing it on the side table, “How are you going?”

With a smile, Davey picked up the helmet. Turning it over revealed a scrap of black across the yellow and a crack in the shell. Part of the seven is missing. “It’s as broken as I am,” he mumbled, “We are both heading for the scrap heap.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Jock said as he reached out placing his hand on Davey’s arm, “Focus on fixing yourself and we will get you a new helmet for next year.”

The End