My Bridge, My Memories
Yesterday I did something I had not done since August 2008; I rode my bike over the bridge. Not a bridge, not just any bridge; THE bridge. You know, the steel bridge that took me down at 30-35kmp, leaving me with 50 sutures and a lot less blood. Yah, that bridge.
On that hot, humid August morning, Dave Coughlin (bearded cross racer extraordinaire) and I were out for a 4hr training ride. We went north-east out of the Beaches towards the Toronto Zoo. Beyond, the roads would be free of traffic and surrounded by farmer’s fields. Just north of Old Finch, Meadowvale goes down-hill towards a steel bridge. The bridge.
My tires both losing grip on the damp steel, I slid sideways, slamming into the left guard-rail. From there, I flipped over my bars, landing on my brake-hoods and chin. I remember looking at the water below as I slid along my face. I’ll save you the rest of the gory details–and there are many–but I lost a lot of blood between the large lacerations in my chin, lip and knee plus all the road-rash to my legs, arms, shoulders and head. I was taken to the hospital in an ambulance where I received about 50 sutures to stitch together my face, knee and thumb. It was pretty intense. You know, that bridge.
Two weeks later, Dave and I returned–in a car!–to collect my broken bicycle from a nearby farm. But apart from then, I’ve not returned to that spot. Until yesterday.
Adam and I rode to the Zoo, taking many of the same routes Dave and I took nearly six years ago. We got to the Zoo’s entrance and waited 25 minutes for Peter, who never showed.(logistical confusion) As that bridge appeared down the hill before us, I looked back at Adam. “This is it, this is my bridge.”
Slowing down to about 8kph, I rolled over the cool steel, the cold water rippling below. I wasn’t nervous, just cautious and mindful of the last time my tires touched that bridge. I thought off the few, yet visceral, memories I have of that incident. There were also many things that seemed different now. Wasn’t the bridge bigger, with a frame over-head? I thought there was more space after the bridge where I lay on the pavement bleeding profusely and groaning in pain. How the hell did my nipple ring end up in the grass over there?
Looking around, the whole place seemed so insignificant, so trivial. Just some little bridge going over some piddly little creek somewhere in rural Ontario. Only wide enough for one vehicle at a time. To the City workers surveying the area, just a mundane part of their work day. To the motorist slowing down to cross it, just a mild inconvenience. For me, that spot holds such intense memories. Or does it?
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My memories are faulty, just one perspective on the truth, on what was or what is. But they are my memories. That bridge doesn’t hold my memories; I hold on to memories of that bridge. Holding on to them ties me to something, keeps me from moving forward. Really, I don’t need to to hold on to those memories, to that awful day. Rather, I can take the experience with me, apply the lessons learned. I can move forward, aware of where I come from, but not judgemental of those experiences. I can just keep on riding..one pedal stroke at a time..at 8kph, on my bridge.
