Before I start, one note. In my memory, Thursday August 11th 1994 does not exist. It is gone. I remember nothing. What you are about to read is the information I have compiled from everyone who was with me or around me before and after the accident. I'm certain everyone got sick of me asking "What happened? What happened?" but I HAD to know. So here it is.
While at work on Thursday I had resolved to go mountain biking. My coworkers Brodie and Barry had mentioned a trail that comes down the front of Squaw Peak mountain; I said that it sounded interesting. So, shortly after getting home from work, I talked a roommate into going. The game plan was to drive up the mountain in his truck, bike down the mountain, bike home, and chase his truck in my car. This way we would experience all the fun with none of the work.
So we loaded our bikes in his truck and headed for the canyon. We drove up to Squaw Peak, parked, and unloaded the bikes. It was at this time when I noticed that Darren did not have a bike helmet. I told him that I didn't want him to feel bad for not having one, so I wouldn't wear mine. He said not to worry; besides, if I brought it all the way up here I might as well wear it. So I strapped it on and we began riding down the trail. (By the way, this is NOT the road you drive up on; it is a seperate trail entirely and is only one bicycle lane wide.)
This trail is unique in that there are many opportunities for jumping. Every so often as you descend, there will suddenly be a hill in the path. My coworkers really like to jump their bikes, so this must be why they recommended this trail to me.
According to Darren, I got right to jumping. He says that I had successfully completed many jumps as we progressed down the trail. I am a bit more adventuresome than he when it comes to biking so he was being a little more conservative. This arrangement suited us fine, however.
We were perhaps half way down the mountain when I happened upon a particular jump. Well, this 'ramp' of a hill was a bit steeper than the previous ones, and I was going quite a bit faster than was prudent. Darren (who was a ways behind me at the time) says I shot way up in the air. While flying, my back tire immediately shot up and became the point of the bike furthest from the ground. I then began nose-diving, still rotating over, and disappeared behind the hill and thus out of his view. He knew there was NO way I was going to pull out of it; he slowed down and very cautiously crested the hill to see what had happened.
JUDGING BY MY INJURIES AND DAMAGE SUSTAINED TO MY BIKE, we deduced that I flew off the bike before impact. The bike landed perfectly upside down, squarely on its seat. This bent the seat into new and exciting shapes; the bike then bounced quite a few times and came to a stop a ways down the trail with no further damage. I, meanwhile, landed squarely on my left side; my head impacted first, followed immediately by my left shoulder, ribs, and arm (which was folded up against my chest). Imagine me flying toward the ground, headfirst, at about a 45 degree angle, with my left arm tucked up over my chest. (Yes, I suppose I bounced a few times myself before coming to a halt.)
As Darren rode up to me, he asked what happened. I immediately sat up, said solemnly and quietly "I shouldn't have done that," and proceeded to get back on my bike.
At first, Darren said I acted completely normal. But after five minutes or so, I began to get confused and delirious. Gradually I got worse; by the time we were on pavement again I had no idea where we were, where we had come from, where we were going, or even why. At this point Darren took over and led us home (I had been the fearless leader until now.) This is humorous because at this point Darren had only lived in Provo for a couple of weeks; he had no idea how to lead us home. He just rode into town, then rode around until he found a street he recognized; then he found our apartment eventually.
When we got home, he and my roommates began telling me I needed to go to the hospital. I of course didn't listen, and kept saying I didn't need to. In actuality I did need to go; my short term memory was non-existent. I could ask a question, get an answer, and then ask the same question again a minute later WORD FOR WORD and not know I had just asked it. My roommates found this entertaining. They also liked how I would be sitting on the couch, look down, happen to see my heavily-abraised arm, and surprisedly say 'gee--I better go wash my arm.' I'd go wash it, return to the couch, and then repeat the process the next time I happened to glance down at my arm. They say I washed it at least a dozen times.
Somehow, they conned me into telling them my sister's phone number - I don't have it written down anywhere at the apartment. She and her then-husband Bryan came down to take me to the hospital. I must have been the humor highlight of the evening. For example, they told me to go back to my room and get my wallet. I'd walk back to my room, stay there for 30 seconds or so, and then reappear in the living room empty handed, asking why I went back to my bedroom. (Gee, I wish I could remember this but I honestly CAN'T.) Bryan had to come back to my room with me, tell me what to get, then watch to ensure I got it before forgetting what he said. Finally my belongings were gathered and we left.
As they had arrived at my place his Olds died on him; we had to take my Shelby Charger to the hospital. Cindi noted that despite my mental incapacity I was able to successfully bark out a long string of precise driving instructions for Bryan; I dictated everything from the correct starting procedure to the exact path he needed to choose in order to not grind the airdam when leaving my parking garage. I guess some things NEVER leave you. :)
Once at the hospital, I continued to be the life of the party. On check-in, I didn't know what my marital status was; I turned to Cindi and asked "I am single, aren't I?" I didn't know my parents new address in Ohio, even though I stayed at the house back in May. I didn't know how old I was because I knew it was 1994 but I couldn't remember if June had passed. The fun continued when the staff began asking questions to see if I had memory loss (wasn't it obvious?); when asked who the President of the U.S. was, I replied "that damn hillbilly, um... what's his name?" Anyway, I'm sure you get the idea.
The whole time I was in the hospital (until 3:00 am), I began
repeating certain phrases over and over. Again, I didn't realize I
was doing it. My sister, in perfect David Letterman style, compiled
a top ten list of them. A few of them are "Has someone called my
work?" "Is Barbara (Jibson) working tonight?" (Nevermind the fact
that she doesn't work at the hospital!) "Was I wearing my helmet?"
(this one was usually followed by "Remind me to thank Tony
I slept at my sister's that night. Someone had to wake me every
hour to make sure I wasn't dead or in a coma. In the morning, I
inventoried my external injuries: head= just a nasty headache and a cut left ear.
Left arm= lots of road rash (trail rash, really) on forearm and shoulder; shoulder's rash
coupled with some sickly-looking bruises; left arm is very stiff in
both the elbow and the shoulder and refuses to be moved or used.
Right arm= nothing. Legs= abrasions from knee to mid-thigh on both
legs. Torso= no noticable damage except I'm missing a small chunk of
flesh right on my waistline (this made dressing very painful). None of my clothes were torn in any way; how my body received so many cuts without tearing any clothing, I'll never know. Despite
my chest looking fine, it hurt like a mother every time I twisted,
compressed, or expanded it. In other words, whenever I sneezed, coughed,
laughed, hiccuped, twisted, bent, reached, or lifted, it HURT. Even normal breathing was painful; I tended to take short breaths. The deeper I breathed, the more it hurt. Nevertheless,
I was alive and all limbs were still attached.
Once I had woken up at about noon, Cindi wanted to go to work (she had called in late because of me). She had driven Bryan to work that morning; she would now take her car. Before leaving, she mentioned that the Shelby was parked out front. I asked her what it was doing here; she had to tell me the whole story about the Olds (which was still at my place).
After she left and after I had showered (I think that it took a long time since I could barely move), I guess I eventually got bored. I was home alone with nothing to do. I decided late in the afternoon that there would at least be people to talk to at my apartment complex; I decided to try driving there. I knew my reaction times would be slow, but if I left lots of room between me and the next car I should be at least as good as the average Utah driver. So I got in the car and cautiously drove home. All went well.
From here out my memory gradually comes on line; by Saturday morning I was back in the present. However, as mentioned at the start, ALL of Thursday and much of early Friday afternoon is gone forever. Even now, almost exactly a calendar year later, it hasn't come back.
The underlying message behind all this is that MY HELMET MOST LIKELY SAVED MY LIFE.
Without it, Darren would have had to scrape my brain off the trail.
In fact, those of you familiar with helmets will find this fact
interesting: helmet material looks like styrofoam but is MUCH
harder; you can't just push it in and indent it with your finger.
Well, when I landed, it made a permanent, perfect imprint of every
pebble, stick, and blade of grass it landed on. In other words, I
landed HARD! In fact, have you ever looked really close at a blade of grass? Have you ever seen those small texture lines which run up the blade? You can see every line of the blades of grass impressed into my helmet.
To this point in my life, buying that helmet has been
the BEST $30 I ever spent. If any of you bicycle (especially off-
road), please buy a helmet if you don't have one. Once you own one,
learn how to wear it properly, and then wear it whenever you ride.
Who knows? It may one day save your life.
My chest continued to hurt for two months; after that time I could finally breathe deeply.
I bought a new helmet (which you should ALWAYS do after you damage it) and kept the old one as a trophy of sorts.
My coworkers named this path Concussion Trail in my honor.
About a month and a half later I rerode the trail just to see what it was like; I couldn't remember the first time. After this ride I decided I didn't like it.
This page was last modified on April 10th, 1997.
Epilogue
My arm recovered its movement a few days later.