The Concussion

When I was about 9 or so, we were racing down the hill on Patricia Street, north of Ross. My sister was there, my neighbor Dave was there, I’m not sure who else. I was riding my green CCM Mustang, the sort with a banana seat. I loved that bike; I still love its memory. Anyway, we were racing, crouched down, streamlining for greater speed.

Then a station wagon rounded the corner onto Patricia from Brousseau. We weaved left and right to avoid it. I went right, but there were a couple others crowding that edge, and it felt a little less roomy than I liked. It was tight, that much is sure in my mind. Too tight. Too tight to manoeuver. Worse still, once I’d committed to going right and discovered the lack of room there, there was no time to change my mind. That’s when I noticed that there was a rock on the road directly in my path. It wasn’t enormous, certainly not a boulder, but it wasn’t a pebble either. It was big, though, surprisingly big.

I felt trapped, unable to edge left or right owing to the bikes to the right and the car to the front that would be to my left in a moment.

I hit the rock and found myself flying over the handlebars. I reached out ahead and tried to ward off the onrushing ground at the same time.

I remember hitting, hearing my head bounce off the asphalt ... and then nothing until I was on a gurney at St. Mary’s Hospital. I’m told that I was awake after wiping out, that I never lost consciousness, that I was sitting up and responsive the whole time. I just have no memory of it. I remember waking up for about thirty seconds in the hospital, unable to see but aware of my mother next to me. Frightened, I tearfully told my mother I couldn’t see, and then I heard a nurse complain, “He watches too much TV.”

I was pissed at that. I still am, whenever I recall it. Then I was out again. I woke up again in the middle of the night in a panic, not knowing where I was. Not to worry, I wasn’t awake for long then, either, no more than a couple minutes before crying myself to sleep.

When I woke in the morning, I was asked by a nurse (maybe she was kitchen staff; I wouldn’t have known the difference then) to fill out my preferences for a meal plan, for some reason. Was I to be there long enough to require a meal plan? I didn’t like the thought of that. I wanted my mother. I wanted to go home. I didn’t like any of the choices given me; what I wanted was spaghetti and meatballs. Doesn’t matter; I only ate breakfast. I was released from hospital that morning, if I remember properly.

The Mustang

Do you remember your first bike? Not the trike, and not the little one with training wheels, either; the first real bike that allowed exploring your world possible? That thing of beauty that you may or may not have nicknamed Rocker, or Speed, or some such. That vehicle of freedom! I did not name mine. It's not that I was lacking in imagination, far from it, I was spilling over with it; it's that I was, and still am, a pragmatic soul. It was a thing, regardless how stirring mounting it was. Mine was a green CCM Mustang.

Not me, but that's the very image of my CCM Mustang

Banana seat. High back bar. Chopper handle bars. It had streamers trailing from the handlebar grips when I got it. It was the epitome of cool in its time, much like the BMX that replaced it would be the go-to bike that everybody owned afterwards.

I hit a parked car on my first solo ride with it. Years later I ended up in the hospital from a concussion while riding it (but that's another story that will follow in due course), but in between I hit the roads and trails behind Pinecrest School, behind and below where TDH, the Timmins District Hospital, now stands, if it didn't then. There were streams and what we thought of as lakes back there, not to mention hastily erected forts and cut trails, later expropriated and widened by the Mattagami Region Conservation Society, and still in use today (I still walk that trail today). We scampered over Scout and the much further Cherry Rock. They were tall and had precariously perched boulders atop them that made narrow caves that we imagined bears slept in. We waded in those streams, caught minnows, or tried to anyways, chased frogs, searched for snakes, and a little later, stole our first kisses on those trails. Pecks then, certainly, nothing like those that would soon follow. First steps.

Learning to Ride

I think we all learn to ride a bike in the same way: trike first, then when we graduate to two wheels, we do so with training wheels for a while. When the training wheels come off, someone helps you maintain balance by hanging on to the back of the seat, until they let you go and before you know it you’ve been riding unassisted, if somewhat wobbly, all on your own. Simple. So long as you maintain balance. And steer.

I learned as you did. The day came that the wheels came off. My father was guiding my ride, running alongside, his hand on the seat. He let go, and off I went. The bike was still a little tall for me, even with the seat lowered as far as it would go. I was sure that I would never get my feet off the pedals and onto the ground before I would fall if I applied brakes. I usually didn’t use the brakes, though. I usually just put my feet on the ground and skid to a halt. I didn’t think about stopping then, though. I was so proud. I was riding my bike. By myself! Like a big kid! I was a little scared, too. A whole lot scared. I was sure I would topple over. I didn’t. But I wasn’t too confident yet, so I didn’t go too far. I only rode halfway up the street, did a shaky turn and headed for home. Unfortunately, the ride home was on a shallow downhill slope. I gathered speed. Too much speed, to my mind. Too fast to apply my brakes. And the seat was too high to do anything but put the tip of my toe on the ground. So I wasn’t going to stop that way, either. I panicked. I locked up. And crashed into a parked car, the only one on the street.