That Time I Hit The Pavement Like Superman In Bali
My 27 Netflix worthy travel experiences continues….
I couldn’t breathe.
Like someone wrapped a plastic bag over my head and tied it around my neck.
My eyes bulged out of my dome.
I struggled to grab my breath. From the depths of my being, I tried like hell.
Was this it? Death in Bali? Another stupid tourist who probably made Evil Knievel look like an old fart riding the shoulder, newshounds would say.
Fortunately, I survived.
After a few terrifying moments of genuinely believing:
- I was dying
- my ribs had pierced my lungs
- my shoulder was now masquerading as hamburger meat
I found my breath, hopped on the sepeda moto and rode my ass and Kelli’s ass back to the house in Jimbaran. Like a freaking boss. But pain awaited me. Intense pain. For 3 days. Like 30 little demonic monkeys stabbing me with miniature ice picks each turn I attempted to turn in bed.
Anyway, here’s how it went down….
I recall seeing a Bali street dog which had been hit by a car. Broken leg. I was pissed. Idiot drivers.
This moment of seemingly blessed compassion drew my attention from the road for a critical blink of an eye. Last time I castigate Booley and Bali motorbike riders on the Island of the Gods, I tell ya.
The following split second was a blur of images; me turning back to the road, box truck spun out, oil slick, going into sharp curve, trying to slow down……NOOOOOO (like in TV shows)……next thing I knew I was flung from the bike, soaring to the pavement like a digital nomad version of Superman, flying through space, wondering how I could brand this event for a blog I had not even conceived of at the time.
Tomatoes, tempeh and toffutti (OK I made that up) flew everywhere, groceries going to the heavens as the sliding bike bashed the curb. I hit an oil slick. On a tight curve. Aha! Sherlock Homeless found it out; so THAT was why the box truck spun out? Good to know.
My next memory was waking up, pulling my head off of the pavement and not being able to catch my breath for 15 seconds (I timed it). Concerned drivers sprinted to me, asking me if I was OK. Kelli collected herself – and the groceries – before she saw I was in dire straits.
I slammed into the pavement shoulder first. Sleeveless shirt – since changed my riding wear policy, for obvious reasons – so my shoulder lost at least a few layers of skin as the oil, grime and grit of the Balinese street dug into my torn, tender body.
Cuts and burns on my legs too. But twas not thinking about the leg burns or even my torn shoulder at the time.
OK; I am breathing fine now, drive back to the house, pull into the driveway and felt overpowered by waves of nausea and dizziness. I avoided yakking but hit the sack. Meaning bed.
The next 3 days were a lesson in how to shift in bed or get up from bed while trying to avoid the excruciating pain which stabbed my back and lungs. Those little demonic monkeys. I told you about those sinister simians.
I would twist to the left only to be leveled by blinding pain. Something was off. But being the dingbat I am, I skipped the MD. Intuitively, I lived. All seemed OK. Ass-backward logic. But it brought me here.
This delicate dance of trying to avoid the blinding back pain, by basically doing the limbo out of my bed, just to go to the bathroom, continued for nearly half a week. Upside; Kelli became proficient at driving the motorbike. She was spotted buying large quantities of food from local Jimbaran eateries to feed my pie hole with, cruising through the hills 2-3 times daily to feed her Baby Biddulph Bird.
I slowly recovered…..but I ain’t forgetting my
Not Man of Steel episode in the South of Bali anytime soon.
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