Support the ABR Team
Help build a better experience for our ABR cycle team. We spend many hours on a non-paid basis.
The Crash Didn’t End on the Tarmac
IS THE BIKE OK?
Broken ribs. Painful, yes, but manageable. I told myself I’d got away with it. Cyclists are good at that kind of self-deception. We assess damage by carbon, bones, skin, and how soon we can get back on the bike. I honestly believed that once the ribs healed, life would snap back into place.
It didn’t.
The Injury That Took Its Time
At first, it was subtle. Pain that didn’t fade. Weakness that didn’t make sense. Numbness, stiffness, a feeling that something was quietly but steadily deteriorating. I kept telling myself it was part of recovery, part of getting older, part of not being patient enough.
More than six months passed before I fully understood how bad things were getting.
By then, the damage was no longer just physical; it was mental. Living in constant pain changes how you think. It narrows your world. It eats away at sleep, focus, and hope. Every day became something to endure rather than live.
Waiting for Surgery Is Its Own Kind of Hell
The year leading up to my ACDF surgery in April 2025 was the darkest.
I was reliant on heavy medication to function. When that wasn’t enough, alcohol filled the gaps. Not for pleasure, just for relief. To switch things off for a while. To get through the night. I didn’t recognise myself anymore.
Cycling had always been how I regulated my mental health. When things got hard, I rode. When I felt lost, I rode further. When life felt heavy, the bike made it lighter. Without it, and with pain as a constant companion, there was nothing to replace that escape. There were days when existing felt like too much. Days when I genuinely struggled with the decision to keep living. That’s hard to write. Harder to admit. But it’s the truth.
Losing the Bike Meant Losing Myself
People who don’t ride often don’t understand this part. The bike isn’t just for exercise. Its identity. It’s control. It’s the one place where effort reliably leads to progress. When I couldn’t ride, I lost that feedback loop. I lost the version of myself that felt capable, strong, and resilient. Instead, I became someone defined by appointments, limitations, and what I “wasn’t” allowed to do.
Watching other cyclists ride was brutal. Group rides passed me by, literally and figuratively. Friends talked about training rides and events while I counted hours between doses of pain relief. I felt left behind, forgotten by the world I used to belong to. And the worst part? I felt weak for struggling. Ashamed for not coping better. As if mental pain somehow didn’t count because the injury wasn’t visible.
The ACDF surgery was incredible, I felt like I could take on the world… but I couldn’t. Recovery was slow and humbling. Just as I was learning to live within new boundaries, another setback arrived, an open subpectoral biceps tenodesis on my left arm and arthroscopy to my left shoulder in November 2025.
Another surgery. Another loss of independence. Another reminder: this wasn’t a temporary pause; it was a long-term reckoning.
Each operation reset the clock, not just physically but emotionally. Hope is harder to rebuild the second and third time around.
What I’ve Learned in the Absence of Riding
I wish I could say there’s a lesson here. There isn’t. What I’ve learned is that endurance doesn’t always look like pushing through. Sometimes it seems like surviving the day. Sometimes it looks like choosing not to give up, even when you don’t feel brave or strong or optimistic.
I’ve learned that cyclists need to talk more about what happens when we “can’t” ride. About the grief. About the identity loss. About how dangerous it can be to suffer in silence while telling everyone you’re “fine.” And I’ve learned that being incapacitated, truly incapacitated, isn’t a test of toughness. It’s a test of patience, humility, and self-compassion, all things cycling never really trained me for.
Still Here
I’m not writing this from the other side with a triumphant return to riding story. I’m writing it from the middle. From a place where progress is uneven and the future is uncertain.
But I’m still here.
And if you’re injured, sidelined, or wondering who you are without the bike, you’re not broken for feeling that way. This sport gives us so much, but when it’s taken away, the cost can be enormous.
Sometimes the most challenging ride is the one you never clip into.
ABR blogs are brought to you by Phoenix City Books
What do they do?
This is the home of Coventry-inspired stories — literary fiction, mysteries, tragedies, thrillers and action adventures. Follow along as we explore the hidden corners of Phoenix City.
