I was so glad to be headed home after spending two insane weeks in North Dakota dodging death. Unfortunately, I didn't go home unscathed. Three days before we were scheduled to leave, I thought it would be a good idea to test my skills on my dirtbike by attempting high-speed wheelies. I was pretty successful at first. But, just before my aunts finished cooking dinner, I whiskey-throttled myself into the air.
I'm still not sure what happened, or how I ended up so high in the air. But, I remember watching, almost in slow motion, as my legs hovered ahead of me, reaching for the sky. Below me, my dirtbike wobbled off to the right and fell over in the grass, ripping a dirtbike-sized chunk of sod out as it slid to a stop. But I kept going. I missed the grass and landed on the sharp, shale gravel on my left side. First, my shoulder hit the ground, then my ribs, then my hip, then my left knee. Then, I rolled onto my back and skidded for a good ten feet before I finally stopped moving.
At first, I didn't notice any pain. I just sprung up to my feet and sprinted away from the scene of the accident. Since I could sprint, my legs weren't broken. But, pretty soon, I felt something wet dripping down my arms and back. Scared, I practically broke down the front door as I bolted into the farmhouse where all of my aunts were cooking dinner, and they all gasped in shock as blood dripped from my arms and lower back onto the linoleum kitchen floor. They sat me down on the couch, because I started getting dizzy, and spent the next 10 minutes cleaning me up. They picked rocks out of my skin, drenched my wounds in rubbing alcohol, and then used toilet paper to wipe up the trail of blood I'd left behind and keep me from bleeding all over everything anymore. It was very dramatic.
That night, I remained pretty comfortable. I wasn't in any pain. Of course, I also had a lot of adrenaline rushing through me that didn't taper off until much later in the night. While I wasn't wearing any real protective gear on my arms, torso, or legs, I was wearing my helmet, which saved me from suffering a major concussion. But, since I was otherwise just in cowboy boots, jeans, and a T shirt, everything else hurt like hell once the shock and adrenaline wore off.
My entire left side of my body was bruised, and my knee had a golf-ball sized bump on it, making it impossible for me to walk without a severe limp. I also had a severely bruised hip, which added to the pain whenever I attempted to walk. My shoulder took the hardest impact though. It hurt so badly and was so bruised up that I was worried I might've broken it. But, because I could still move it from side to side (just not up and down), I figured I didn't need to go to the ER.
On the 12-hour road trip home, I refused to talk or even move. I was in tears at times because of how painful my injuries were. So, the 12-hour theology talk my grandpa hoped to have with me didn't happen. And, whenever he did try to start a conversation with me, I didn't even look at him. All I could focus on was the pain. That time, I couldn't get mad at God for allowing me to do such a thing. It was clear that I had the free will to do as I pleased, even if that meant sending myself into the air without a soft place to land on, resulting in some pretty gnarly injuries that left some scars on my arms and lower back. I was just thankful that those scars were barely noticeable. The last thing I wanted was to have to explain what happened to everyone who asked. But, I learned from my mistakes. Instead of doing wheelies on my dirtbike without very much protection, I vowed to only do wheelies if I wore a hoodie and some knee and elbow pads.
