St.Louis

The crack was loud. Instinctively heads snapped towards the direction of the crit. Instantly someone is running my way from their position against the gate.


That's your rider. Bike down.


Crowds aren't easy to run in. I reach the gate as a torn team kit circles round the far side of the course, medics attempting to steer him towards the awaiting ambulance as he makes way to our red tents. A race mechanic waves me through the gate, warning me of carbon splinters. I pick up the empty hullahoop of a destroyed front wheel, still dangling from his frame & carry it back through the crowd.


There are too many people waiting helplessly on our side of the ambulance doors. The crowd of former shop employees, old friends, & new fans take turns passing close to the window on tiptoes in attempts to see the carnage.


We pack quickly and head to the hospital.


The hospital is a new sort of terrifying that affirms my decision to avoid them until necessary. Not bleeding down the bone necessary, more of a that guy stabbed me and I think it might have caught an artery, sort of necessary; impending doom.


(Amy?
I'm not wiping your ass.
No. That's... no. I can't pull my pants up.
I walk upstairs. Despite injury, ever the fashionista, he's picked out a pair with a botton fly. I'm glad we've firmly established the sibling relationship in the past few months.
Anything else?
Eh, he hands me a stick of deoderant and we both laugh, shake our heads, and get to it.
Let's change those bandages.
They'll be fine today.
Nah, they're pretty soaked, let's change em.)


Eventually we retreat. The bedroom I've longed for all day seems less welcoming in an apartment alone. I don't attempt to wait up for the cab or phone call. Sleep finds me.