Lovely weather all week, then on Good Friday, a day off, and light drizzle, but I went for a ride anyway, and after 5 or 6 hard miles of forest tracks I am on the edge of Mansfield’s famous Desert: an area of sandy wasteland privately owned and strictly off limits to all the various 4x4, trail bike and quade enthusiasts who use it regularly. And one 1x1 rider…
The descent is fairly easy: 4 out of 10 on my scale of what I have done in the past, and 6 out of 10 on what I’ve already done on today’s ride. Just a few yards of moderate slope with sand and gravel and an uneven surface.
And then suddenly…
A momentary lapse of concentration, my right foot slips and the pedal spins…
My other foot comes off the pedal too and for a moment I am coasting with both legs flailing wildly…
My right foot finds the ground and my momentum carries me forwards, trapping my foot behind the wheel. My backside is still on the seat, and the forward movement of the unicycle is pushing the pinned pedal into the back of my naked calf…
My left foot is hopping, trying to regain control, and making the whole Mike/unicycle combination pulsate, pushing the pedal repeatedly into the back of my calf.
Then my left foot digs in, and the uni carries on, spreading my legs until I can feel something about to ping in my left inner thigh.
And suddenly I am rolling, and as my hand slaps the ground to dissipate the energy, judo style, I catch a glimpse of the inside of my right leg.
I am shocked, stunned, in pain, swearing loudly, feeling stupid… and then I realise I am a long way from the car, no one knows where I am, and I have a gaping hole full of sand in the back of my leg.
With hindight, I had a litre or so of clean water in my Camelbak and I should have rinsed the wound, but I was just focussed on getting back to the car. Calm, but not rational. Riding on this surface was impossible, and following the hard tracks would add distance. I set off hobbling across the soft shifting sands, pushing the uni.
Back into the forest, and a few mountain bikers passed comment but none stopped to ask after if I was seriously hurt. By now the blood was painting the back of my calf a grimy red, my sock was squelching, and every step was painful.
50 minutes of walking and a very nice lady stopped to ask if I wanted a tissue - she had a whole packet of clean ones if I needed them. By now, I thought it was best not to break any crust that had formed on the wound.
I was calm and polite, and she sort of assumed that I was OK and the conversation lasted rather too long - she was most interested in the fact that I rode a unicycle, and how much do they cost, and so on…
Shortly after I said farewell, I realised that most of the journey now was downhill and smooth, and I remounted and took it very steady - it was quicker and less painful than walking, but I think pride was half the reason - walking back to the car park is a like a warrior returning from battle without his shield.
And as I cross the car park, I react very badly to the usual nonsense. By now I am in pain, and possibly in mild shock. “Look, has he lost a wheel?” “Don’t be so bloody rude!” “He looks like a clown, mummy…” “Yes, but he isn’t bloody deaf!”
The unicycle goes in the boot of the car, then I stagger over to the cycle shop to ask if there’s a first aid point. The shop worker reacts as if I’ve asked where there’s a litter bin or a telephone, and vaguely points me in a direction without any sign of concern or query about whether I am badly hurt or whether anyone else needs help.
I reach the café and the young girl behind the counter points me towards the first aid room and promises to ring for the duty warden.
A few minutes later,a cheefully scruffy chap in green turns up. I tell him I have a wound that needs cleaning and I might need stitches.
He makes a half hearted attempt to clean the wound before swathing my leg in bandages as if he were preparing me to be an extra in a pantomime version of The Curse of the One Legged Mummy.
He tells me solemnly, “That wound needs cleaning up and it’s a stitches job.”
Half an hour or so’s driving gets me to the hospital. The multi storey carpark has been closed as unsafe (something to do with the ceiling falling on people) and the new “visitors and patients” car park is a good 15 minutes’ painful stagger from Accident and Emergency Reception. The car park costs £4 too! Next time I’ll ring for an ambulance.
Two hours after the accident I arrive at A&E reception. I tell them, “I have a serious cut on my leg and it’s full of sand. It needs cleaning and stitches.”
They ask me to wait.
After half an hour a nurse calls me in and looks at it. “That’s a serious cut. You’ll need it cleaning and you’ll have to be stitched. Please go to the waiting area.”
Another half an hour and I’m called to a room several minutes’ limp away and then asked to wait again.
During this time, I strike up a conversation with another patient - a very pleasant young care worker who tells me she has been bitten by an old lady with MRSA. In response to my question, she solemnly informs me that the old lady doesn’t have dementia; she is a a sane but malevolent private client who feels entitled to bite or kick the hired staff and does so regularly.
Eventually I’m called in. A nurse practitioner examines the wound. “Oh, that’s a nasty cut. It needs cleaning and stitching. Please go back to the waiting room.”
A long limp back, and another long wait. I have fully exhausted the amusement available from my newspaper. Then I’m called in to a different room - again, several minutes’ walk from the waiting room.
The nurse looks at my leg and says, “That looks like a nasty cut. We’ll have to clean it, and it might need stitches. I’ll go and ask.”
The final outcome is 7 stitches, added during a jolly conversation with a bored but pleasant male nurse who thinks the whole unicycling thing is beyond belief, but accepts that yes it is a legitimate minority sport - but have I tried stamp collecting? A fair point: this is my third visit to A&A for unicycle related injuries in a few years.
