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#1 Jan 30, 2021 2:55 pm

New Historian
Active

My first broken collarbone

I'm bored:

My worst bike crash didn’t happen on a bike. Well not a motorbike anyway. To my undying shame, I messed up myself more falling off a “harmless kid’s bike” than I ever did on all the fast and furious motorbikes I’ve ridden. At the time it happened, my bike, my real bike, was parked a few feet away. How did I achieve this amazing(ly dumb) feat?

My friend Shacks and I were at ex-girlfriend Jacinth’s house in Orange Grove, chatting at her gate. Shacks sat on her little brother’s chopper cycle and was idly riding around in circles, until he fell off. We all laughed and I said: let me show you how to ride a bike. Why, oh why, do I always say these incredibly dumb things? I jumped on the bicycle and pedaled off down the hill, at which point the kid shouts out:

The brakes don’t work!!

Oops! The sensible thing to do would have been to immediately jump off the bike, but I was already going a bit too fast for a dignified dismount. On the other hand it was a long straight hill and not too steep, so I figured I’d just coast down to the bottom, then schlep back up again. So down I went, faster and faster. Then the front wheel started to wobble. Then it fell off.

The bicycle collapsed in a heap of twisted metal underneath me, as I cartwheeled over the handlebars into thin air. The last thing I remembered was the heart-stopping terror of knowing I was about to be seriously fucked up. Then: darkness. Up above, everyone fell about laughing as I hit the tarmac. Then when I didn’t move, they leapt into action. Someone found a car, they bundled me into the back seat and we tore off at high speed for the hospital, horn blaring. When I regained consciousness there was a red hot poker digging deep into my right shoulder. Worse yet, I was being tossed around in the back seat, completely unanchored. The driver was clearly loving his stint as an ambulance driver a bit too much.

With every jolt, every sleeping policeman, every suicidal red light, my shoulder exploded and I wanted to scream; but I couldn’t even breathe let alone scream. So I suffered in silence, leading the driver to think he was doing a great job, and hence drive even faster. We drove to University Hospital, about the only place you’d be assured of finding a doctor 24 hours a day. The car screeched to a halt outside casualty, my shoulder exploding. The driver must have been perplexed when I gasped up at him, not thanks but: “C*nt!”

By the time they got me into the emergency room, shock had well and truly set in; I could barely mumble my own name so Shacks had to fill in the forms. After a while a doctor came and peered down at me. Yet again I managed to do my foot-in-mouth trick. I blurted out:

“Oh, you’re Indian!”

This is not the best thing to say to the guy who’s holding your broken bone in his hands! But I didn’t mean it like that, honestly! Fortunately the doctor had seen enough patients jabber gibberish when in shock, and just smiled. Then jerked. He probed around agonizingly in my shoulder for what seemed an eternity, then gave me the sobering news: I had broken my right clavicle, or collarbone.

No shit Sherlock, I’d kind of figured that out for myself. Then he gave me a choice: while he rummaged around to set the broken bone; I could either be awake - or asleep. That was the easiest decision I ever made in my life: give me that needle! Hours later I awoke, discombobulated, my shoulder exploded whenever I tried the slightest movement. And whom did mine eyes first behold? Tom, Shacks and Maurice; my guardian angels. I smiled weakly. Great to shee you ghuyzz. And apologized to my makeshift ambulance driver.

The same (nice) Indian doctor came and recommended that I stay overnight, but added that I could check myself out if I wanted to. Another easy decision: get me outta here, people die in hospitals! By the time I got back home, Marion had been told of the accident and was waiting with plenty of TLC. My rehabilitation was quick enough, although my bone itched like hell and every movement was fraught with pain.

Exactly one week after the accident I couldn’t stand the enforced bed rest any longer. I ordered Shacks and Tom to carry me to the bike, lift me onto the seat and roll me down our precipitous driveway. Halfway down the hill I flew the clutch and the bike shuddered into life, sending a jolt of searing pain up into my shoulder. I couldn’t stop the bike without falling over, so I went for a short ride then came roaring back up the driveway again, into the waiting arms of Tom and Shacks. That hurt, but boy did it feel good!


10.jpg

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#2 Jan 30, 2021 7:43 pm

Expat
Active

Re: My first broken collarbone

Maybe not so dramatic, but while well below motor bike riding age, I had a green stick fracture from falling off a TRYCYCLE, at a beach side amusement park in Rhyl North Wales.

I was hamering around the oval track, which got boring, so I cut through the middle of what was actually a circle of park bench seats with an opening at each end.

As I went to exit at the far end some silly bugger rode across my path, leaving me the only option of turning left. Which the trycycle nearly did, but not without pitching me onto the ashfelt. and doing my right wrist no good at all.

Funny thing was whether it was shock or not I have not a clue, but it actually never hurt. It was when they tried to inject me "with a pain killer"?  the needle was so bloody blunt, back in those days they were reusable, and could be sharpened... Anyhoos I had to scream try a different place after several jabs at the same place.

Make matters worse when I got back to London and went to the local hospital they had to break it again as the chumps had only braced it with some kind of splint and it was healing bent. Bloody Welsh.

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#3 Jan 30, 2021 11:01 pm

New Historian
Active

Re: My first broken collarbone

"Make matters worse when I got back to London and went to the local hospital they had to break it again as the chumps had only braced it with some kind of splint and it was healing bent. Bloody Welsh."

When I broke my second collarbone, now I had a matched pair, I was in the middle of deep bush Jamaica - Mandeville. The local clinic patched me up, applying the high tech medical technology of a long piece of gauze fashioned into a figure 8, the doctor's knee pressed hard into my back, a piece of cloth to bite, and  - HEAVE! They heard me scream in Montego Bay! It was 10 days before I could stand the two-hour potholed drive to Kingston, where I saw a real bone man. Who said they should really re-break it, but I was stupid and said no. Wish I had now, more with each passing year! Especially when I go to England.

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#4 Jan 31, 2021 11:29 am

Expat
Active

Re: My first broken collarbone

Oh Maaaannn,  you is unbeatable... smile

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#5 Feb 01, 2021 11:18 am

Dancer
Active

Re: My first broken collarbone

Matilda and the storm.

It was a dark and stormy night .  3am . The 1960 telephone gave one of those bone jarring rings to wake Ernest up , he groggy said yesss. Matilda was  screaming  , ' the roof just blew off the shed roof , chickens flying all over and the dogs having a barking fit , ah need some help '.
' Ok Matilda , keep safe , stay in the cement bathroom , on my way'.
.. Ernest  jumped on his  relic  of a motor cycle  , kick started , it died , kick started , started . The yard pailing door  had been blown off its hinges , he chugged out of the gate , banked right on the pot hole Barbara green road  , heading for Matilda.
...  He could see Matilda's house from the bottom of her gap , shaking , not the pothole , too late , he was flying through the air , face in the grass in front of Miss Elma's house , he couldn' feel his right shoulder .....


..... to be continued.   lol.

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#6 Feb 01, 2021 11:29 am

New Historian
Active

Re: My first broken collarbone

Dying to hear the end! Was it this Matilda?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5C-DShN82mc

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#7 Feb 01, 2021 12:57 pm

Slice
Active

Re: My first broken collarbone

New Historian wrote:

I'm bored:

My worst bike crash didn’t happen on a bike. Well not a motorbike anyway. To my undying shame, I messed up myself more falling off a “harmless kid’s bike” than I ever did on all the fast and furious motorbikes I’ve ridden. At the time it happened, my bike, my real bike, was parked a few feet away. How did I achieve this amazing(ly dumb) feat?

My friend Shacks and I were at ex-girlfriend Jacinth’s house in Orange Grove, chatting at her gate. Shacks sat on her little brother’s chopper cycle and was idly riding around in circles, until he fell off. We all laughed and I said: let me show you how to ride a bike. Why, oh why, do I always say these incredibly dumb things? I jumped on the bicycle and pedaled off down the hill, at which point the kid shouts out:

The brakes don’t work!!

Oops! The sensible thing to do would have been to immediately jump off the bike, but I was already going a bit too fast for a dignified dismount. On the other hand it was a long straight hill and not too steep, so I figured I’d just coast down to the bottom, then schlep back up again. So down I went, faster and faster. Then the front wheel started to wobble. Then it fell off.

The bicycle collapsed in a heap of twisted metal underneath me, as I cartwheeled over the handlebars into thin air. The last thing I remembered was the heart-stopping terror of knowing I was about to be seriously fucked up. Then: darkness. Up above, everyone fell about laughing as I hit the tarmac. Then when I didn’t move, they leapt into action. Someone found a car, they bundled me into the back seat and we tore off at high speed for the hospital, horn blaring. When I regained consciousness there was a red hot poker digging deep into my right shoulder. Worse yet, I was being tossed around in the back seat, completely unanchored. The driver was clearly loving his stint as an ambulance driver a bit too much.

With every jolt, every sleeping policeman, every suicidal red light, my shoulder exploded and I wanted to scream; but I couldn’t even breathe let alone scream. So I suffered in silence, leading the driver to think he was doing a great job, and hence drive even faster. We drove to University Hospital, about the only place you’d be assured of finding a doctor 24 hours a day. The car screeched to a halt outside casualty, my shoulder exploding. The driver must have been perplexed when I gasped up at him, not thanks but: “C*nt!”

By the time they got me into the emergency room, shock had well and truly set in; I could barely mumble my own name so Shacks had to fill in the forms. After a while a doctor came and peered down at me. Yet again I managed to do my foot-in-mouth trick. I blurted out:

“Oh, you’re Indian!”

This is not the best thing to say to the guy who’s holding your broken bone in his hands! But I didn’t mean it like that, honestly! Fortunately the doctor had seen enough patients jabber gibberish when in shock, and just smiled. Then jerked. He probed around agonizingly in my shoulder for what seemed an eternity, then gave me the sobering news: I had broken my right clavicle, or collarbone.

No shit Sherlock, I’d kind of figured that out for myself. Then he gave me a choice: while he rummaged around to set the broken bone; I could either be awake - or asleep. That was the easiest decision I ever made in my life: give me that needle! Hours later I awoke, discombobulated, my shoulder exploded whenever I tried the slightest movement. And whom did mine eyes first behold? Tom, Shacks and Maurice; my guardian angels. I smiled weakly. Great to shee you ghuyzz. And apologized to my makeshift ambulance driver.

The same (nice) Indian doctor came and recommended that I stay overnight, but added that I could check myself out if I wanted to. Another easy decision: get me outta here, people die in hospitals! By the time I got back home, Marion had been told of the accident and was waiting with plenty of TLC. My rehabilitation was quick enough, although my bone itched like hell and every movement was fraught with pain.

Exactly one week after the accident I couldn’t stand the enforced bed rest any longer. I ordered Shacks and Tom to carry me to the bike, lift me onto the seat and roll me down our precipitous driveway. Halfway down the hill I flew the clutch and the bike shuddered into life, sending a jolt of searing pain up into my shoulder. I couldn’t stop the bike without falling over, so I went for a short ride then came roaring back up the driveway again, into the waiting arms of Tom and Shacks. That hurt, but boy did it feel good!


https://i.postimg.cc/MnvsHYqV/10.jpg

  Same thing happen to me when ah was much younger.  The Brakes was on the pedal, going down ah hill try as ah may I just could not stop. No broken bones, but plenty bruises.  Still have scares.

Last edited by Slice (Feb 01, 2021 12:58 pm)

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#8 Feb 01, 2021 12:59 pm

Slice
Active

Re: My first broken collarbone

Dancer wrote:

Matilda and the storm.

It was a dark and stormy night .  3am . The 1960 telephone gave one of those bone jarring rings to wake Ernest up , he groggy said yesss. Matilda was  screaming  , ' the roof just blew off the shed roof , chickens flying all over and the dogs having a barking fit , ah need some help '.
' Ok Matilda , keep safe , stay in the cement bathroom , on my way'.
.. Ernest  jumped on his  relic  of a motor cycle  , kick started , it died , kick started , started . The yard pailing door  had been blown off its hinges , he chugged out of the gate , banked right on the pot hole Barbara green road  , heading for Matilda.
...  He could see Matilda's house from the bottom of her gap , shaking , not the pothole , too late , he was flying through the air , face in the grass in front of Miss Elma's house , he couldn' feel his right shoulder .....


..... to be continued.   lol.

Waiting on the continuation.

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#9 Feb 03, 2021 11:51 am

Dancer
Active

Re: My first broken collarbone

New Historian wrote:

Dying to hear the end! Was it this Matilda?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5C-DShN82mc


******

.... the storm took Matilda's chickens , dog ,  house , the only thing left was  Matilda's cement bathroom , she was safe.

* Now on the island  -  folks  are always telling tall-tales   ,   a domain of NH . *

Barabbas had a brother named Clive (could have been Ernest ) lol.

Clive  who was living with this woman for a couple of years  then decided to marry his live in  woman  on a Saturday morning 10am.
'Sunday was the honeymoon  they say'
On Monday   morning Clive  went to work , came home Monday evening  6pm ,  looking for some food from his new wife.
The neighbors told him , his woman , his new wife had gone to the Airport earlier in the day , going to New York .
" I don't think Clive ever saw his new wife again. lmao "

NOW . I would like to find out if Clive's wife was Matilda 1  or 2 .

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