It's Just a Flesh Wound

The story behind the previous story you read HERE. Doctor appointment at 9:15. Update to follow.

I was the best damn combat cyclist there was. There I was preparing to bravely go across enemy lines (get on Catalina Ave right outside my house)
I was only a short distance inside of enemy lines (about two houses away) when I started to question if some of my weapons of mass destruction --real ones, not like the ones Iraq supposedly had-- might be slowing me down (why did I put my bike lock in my shorts pocket? I'm not stopping anywhere that I'll need to lock up my bike?!?!) I realized that I must remove this potential threat before I accidentally got killed or killed other friendlies(I don't need the lock...I think I'll stop and remove it from my pocket and take it home).

As I started to reach into my pocket to remove some of my WMD stash (take the lock out) I hear the voices of the enemy swiftly infiltrating from the West (Carson was walking down the sidewalk and screamed "HI DADDY!"). I flinched and was in the process of dropping a tactical nuke (my lock) to the ground when I started taking sniper fire (I had to switch hands on the handlebars/brakes so I could catch the lock falling out of my pocket and still try to stop in one swift motion).

Bullets were flying everywhere (I dropped the lock anyway) and then I took a mortar shell to the back wheel of my bike (I squeezed the front brake a little too tight and the back wheel popped off the ground and swung to the side) and I was thrown about fifty yards (damn bike nearly fell on top of me). By the grace of God I was only hit by sniper fire on my steel pot (I have a nice dent in my helmet from thumping my melon on the road) but I survived with nary a scratch thanks to the people who invented Kevlar for my lid (the people at Bell who constructed such a fine helmet).

The enemy was celebrating their conquest of the fallen bicyclist (Carson, my neighbors, and a couple girls walking by) with even a slight laugh from one the enemy combatants (I think it was one of neighbor girls). The crack medical staff risked their own lives to pull me out of harms way (Laura came running out to help me up as I laid sprawled out on the pavement). I could see by the look on her face that I might not make it although she tried to comfort me (she really did look worried).

It was then I noticed at least three open compound fractures with blood gushing everywhere (a couple real minor scrapes but an arm that hurt terribly). It wasn't until I woke up from surgery the next morning (woke up in bed) that I realized that something was definitely not right (did I really break my arm?). Against Doctor's (Laura's) orders, I left straightaway to go right back into to my war duties as a combat cyclist (I rode my bike to work). There were many times throughout the day that I felt like I might succumb to my injuries (again, see the list on THIS post), but I soldiered on, making sure to leave it all on the battlefield.

When this war is over (tomorrow), I am sure to have my arm amputated and a prosthesis attached (x-ray'd) at Walter Reed Hospital (Sanford Vermillion Medical Clinic). I'm hoping for a full recovery so I can return once again to be a combat cyclist (healthy bike rider).

The moral of this little story is twofold:

1. Always wear your steel pot (helmet), unless I don't like you, then it's entirely up to you.

2. If your going to have a crash story, make it memorable (with minor artistic liberties to add spice)