At last, a dramatic story worthy of a first post. I broke my arm yesterday–on my way to a job interview! Riding my little Bianchi hybrid "Tiny Horse" down a bit of a hill on a street I commute on almost every day, I hit a big pothole, lost my grip on the bars, and was pitched over onto my right side as the front wheel wrenched to the left. People say an accident like that happens so fast, one minute you’re riding and the next you’re down, but in my mental replay I’m graced with a horrible hovering moment in which I have plenty of time to realize I’ve hit something and to wonder whether my cyclocross-and-yoga honed balancing skills will save me (answer: not this time). The "noooo" sequel of falling, hitting the ground, feeling how hard I’d hit the ground, and skidding to a stop is also lengthy enough to make me cringe when my brain puts it on auto loop. I rolled onto my back and noticed with some horror that my arm was bent upward at a right angle. Matthew, who had been riding with me on his way to work, said afterward that he knew I’d hit something really hard because of the tremendous "DING" the impact drew from my bike bell.

 
Drivers and fellow cyclists stopped to offer help, but once I regained some motion in my arm and stood up, Matthew and I decided that we had things under control. Maybe the floppy joint was just a bad case of that funnybone paralysis you get when you whack your elbow. I’d sit for a couple of minutes, and we’d be on our way! But when the elbow / forearm area continued to feel weak and twingey as I tried to bend the joint back and forth, Matthew said he’d ride the mile or so home and come back with the car to take me to the ER. "Just in case."

 
It was cold out, and as Matthew propped me against a curbside tree and poked chemical handwarmers into my gloves, I felt like one of those arctic adventurers left behind with flares and a sandwich while their buddies seek help after some terrible mishap. Except I didn’t have a sandwich, and I could have used a few flares because I was getting really lonely. I began to make hopeful eye contact with people riding by, but in Southeast Portland there are much stranger sights than a woman relaxing under a tree in thirty-degree weather, and my forlorn smiles met with just  a nod or at most a "hey" from each hurried workbound cyclist.

 
At long last Matthew returned, saving me from further explorer-type problems like frostbite or quirky meal choices; I would have hated to have to eat the elderly Pekingese who was the only one to take an interest in my unorthodox chillaxing. We hied ourselves to the ER, where lots of people were happy to pay GRUESOME attention to my situation. With every helpful proclamation that "that thing" (i.e. my elbow, which I was carefully not looking at) was "as big as a house," I began to think that the loneliness of the left-behind explorer has its merits. At least there’s no one to point out that the tip of your nose is totally black, or that maybe you shouldn’t have eaten that penguin. 

 
Alas, there are no pictures of the freshly busted bloody elbow; Matthew did not reciprocate the festive picture taking that I engaged in when he separated his shoulder last August. But I will return with more one-handed typing to regale you with tales of secretive x-ray techs, my low ("BECAUSE I’M HEALTHY!") blood pressure, the terrific doctor who got me a same-afternoon ortho appointment with the surgeon of my choice, and delectable post-ER doughnuts. 

 
Meanwhile, I must make some coffee in preparation for my rescheduled job interview at 9 a.m. This story installment has been brought to you by achy-arm insomnia; I kept the Percocet to a minimum so I’d be at full prospective-employer-wowing potential, but I’m beginning to fear that my winsome hireability may be eclipsed by the buzzy exhaustion.