Holly had a bad accident out west. She could use the moral support of everyone.
All i have is the fb link.
All i have is the fb link.
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Holly Varey
- Thread starter Wingboy
- Start date
Probably her privacy settings.
I don't think she will mind me posting this from her page.
For those of you who haven't breezed by the grapevine lately or who'd like the full story...
At the end of September I headed out on an impromptu solo jaunt to BC. I needed some headspace, some independence, some adventure. I booked cheap flights, got some GPX tracks from a friend, arranged to borrow a bike, strapped my Enduristan luggage together and flew out on the 27th. The plan was to explore as much of Vancouver Island as I could in about 5-6 days between ferry rides. Having spent very little time out west myself but hearing about BC's magnetic pull, I was ready and open to falling in love with the terrain, vistas, and roads. The rain? Not so much, but that's part of what makes the west coast so lush and inviting.
I picked up the bike in Squamish and caught the ferry to Nanaimo. Under orders of everyone who'd been to the island, I HAD to visit Tofino. So that was the first point of interest. The route there was a gorgeous sampling of island wilderness and twisties. The destination turned dreary, windy, cold and infinitely damp upon arrival, however, and after half a day in Tofino it was time to head north. Camping lakeside and drying out at the laundromat along the way, I aimed to get up to Cape Scott before heading back to the mainland. Ambitious, but there was just enough time to make it happen and I had some great gravel tracks to get there.
On October 1st, about 40km into 'No Man's Land', heading north on the logging road between Gold River and Woss, I miscalculated a left-hander on loose gravel and slid off the road into the brush. As I came to a dramatic stop, David, a fellow adventure rider who was (thankfully) joining me on this route, rushed to the rescue. I was okay, but after contemplating the damage, it was clear my left leg and knee definitely weren't going to make it any farther under my own volition. We had to figure out how to get back to civilisation... and health care.
My Spot tracker wasn't getting a GPS signal that day, so David jumped on his Garmin InReach and began the process of hailing an ambulance. I stayed curled in the brush, unable to move. Surprisingly, after about fifteen minutes I heard the crunch of gravel as a truck neared. Bob, a local of Gold River, drove this road twice a week to and from work in Woss. He was heading home on this Friday afternoon and agreed that a ride back with him was better than the 2+ hours it would take an ambulance to get out there. The guys carried me to the truck and strapped me in. It was unquestionably the most painful ride of my life but I was grateful not to be lying in the brush for hours, waiting for a ride as darkness set in.
Back in the tiny town of Gold River the clinic wouldn't be able to do much as the facilities were limited, but they could stabilise the leg, lessen the pain, and get the ambulance on its way from Campbell River. My Aussie-on-the-island nurse, Tim, was compassionate but realistic. With my left leg held at 90 degrees, I was completely unable to move my knee without tortuous pain. I told Tim he could cut my pants off, but I'd be damned if he wrecked my Sidi boots. 'It's your pain, sweetheart,' he shook his head, smiling. It was. And I will ride in those boots again, goddamnit.
Morphine-doused and leg stabilised, Tim and I chatted bikes and racing while waiting for the ambulance. When I mentioned the Alan Taylor Special Velocette that I race he excitedly began listing Velocette models, wondering what it might be. I was gobsmacked. This guy knows his Velos?! That might just be more surprising than the predicament in which I found myself. Of course, Tim is a total motorcycle nut and has a dozen bikes in various states of repair, including a lovely 60s BSA daily driver. We hit it off.
Two and a half hours after arriving at Gold River the ambulance rolled in. Sloshing in a dark sea of morphine along the almost hundred kilometre, windy route to Campbell River was a real 'trip'. It ended with a thorough review of all the meals I had eaten for the past 24 hours. Between bouts of nausea the health care workers at North Island Hospital buzzed around me. Wheeled back and forth in fragile lucidity, they x-rayed, CT scanned, and examined. Finally, a doctor appeared out of the mist and explained I'd broken my left tibia, right below the knee. It was bad and I was going to need surgery. I could barely comprehend or respond and was grateful when a nurse finally rolled me to a quiet room. I drifted the night away.
Saturday morning the orthopaedic surgeon who would operate on me came to visit. He explained the situation in greater detail, and to a more comprehending patient than I had been the night before. Essentially, I had struck my foot to the ground with so much force that the energy travelled up my leg and burst through the weakest spot. For me, that meant the top of my tibia had exploded. It was going to take some expertise to put it back together. Surgery would be ASAP; whenever they could squeeze me in. So for now, I was on the 'no eating, no drinking' regimen. I was glad that David had tagged along to the hospital and had a place to crash in my ocean-view room. We chatted bikes, made our phone calls home, and watched the MotoGP coverage. Surgery never came on Saturday and as the day closed I was allowed a small meal to ease my grumbling tummy. Sunday would be the lucky day and, although I felt calm and resigned, I couldn't ignore a dreadful tinge to the anticipation.
The OR nurses and anaesthetist could not have been more reassuring as I was rolled down for my procedure Sunday morning, October 3rd. I had complete confidence that they would put me back together successfully. What else could I imagine, after all? The surgery went well and five hours later I was groggily coming around. Sure, I was still hopped up on opiates (thankfully a cocktail that made me less nauseous) but there was now a noticeable and comforting solidity below the knee. The leg was straight and tightly bound in a padded splint, and I knew it was no longer going to hurt as much as it had, or at least not with the same intensity. The worst was hopefully over... until physio, I reminded myself.
I enjoyed North Island Hospital's unrivalled attentiveness for two more days as I decompressed from surgery. I couldn't fly home the day after surgery, as had been the original non-broken-leg plan. The surgeon would also need to see me again before I was clear to head east. This meant I needed a place to convalesce. Long-time CVMG friend Holly Ralph, who relocated to Sidney a couple years ago, offered to put me up at her apartment. There couldn't have been a more perfect solution. For nearly a week she pampered me with delicious meals (if only I'd had more appetite!), comfortable digs, and the gracious space to settle into this new one-legged way of existence. A week after the accident Dean flew out to my rescue and to take over nurse duty. We enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner with Holly and family while (somewhat arduously for me) taking in the sights of Victoria, namely the Butchart Gardens, the must-see attraction according to my Dad. He was right.
Since my moto adventure had been cut short, Dean and I spent a few days touring the island on either side of my post-op appointment on the 13th. The roads and scenery were impressive (and dry!) inside the rental car, but every twist and turn, every spectacular vista reminded me how much I wanted to RIDE this island. 'I'll be back here soon enough,' I repeated constantly.
Ten days after surgery the new x-rays of the break were looking good; the plate and nine screws and pins were solid, according to the surgeon. There remain some concerns about adhesion of the smaller bone fragments that couldn't be manually put in place, but the hope is they'll fall into place as the recovery process evolves. I was light-headed to learn the finer points of the surgery. The reason my calf muscles are so irrationally painful? Because they were cut off through the tendon, and pushed aside as the plate and screws were installed. Then the tendon was restitched before buttoning (read: stapling) me closed again. That makes sense. Can I lay down now, please?
With my list of questions answered by the surgeon, health care arrangements made, paperwork signed... it was finally time to leave this strange British Columbian debacle behind and go home. We ferried to the mainland and spent a lovely evening with Dean's Baja Rally friend Ben and his family before flying east the following morning.
Home at last, two weeks later than expected and with my fancy titanium hardware, I'm growing accustomed to my new reality. I've mostly banished the damaging 'if only...' and 'why didn't I...' thoughts from my mind and am instead focusing on all the positive forces within me and around me that will guide me through the coming phases of this process. I have Dean answering my every beck and call, the patient, caring nurse that he is. Family and friends are stopping in with thoughtful gestures and words. I have all winter to focus on my healing, complete with piles of books and two warm kitties to keep me company through the quiet moments.
The winter will be long, just as the recovery process will be long. Eight weeks non-weight bearing followed by detailed, careful physiotherapy and rehabilitation. There's no guarantee the knee joint has not been affected, considering the proximity to this violent break, but we won't really know the true damage until the bone heals and things can move again. Even if the knee has come through unscathed, the mobility of the joint will be profoundly deteriorated by the time I am cleared for movement. For now, the tendons and ligaments have a chance to heal––if they need it––as the bone does the same.
I am looking at this as an optimistic realist. Yes, it's pretty crummy, but with optimal healing and minimal joint damage I will be functional, and hopefully noticeably gaining back my strength by spring. According to the professionals, it's going to be a year before I am back to 'normal'. But I'll be damned if this bump in the road keeps me from doing what I love or limits my future activities. I know I'll be a fervent protestor of physio when we get to the tough stuff in a few months, but I'm going to see it through. I am going to make the most of my downtime and stand stronger and more determined when fully rehabilitated. I have too much to accomplish, too much of the world to see, and too much of my life left to let this slow me down for a moment longer than necessary.
In the meantime... if you want to catch up, play cribbage, or push me around the block in my wheelchair, I'm around for a while!
Holly Varey
13h ·For those of you who haven't breezed by the grapevine lately or who'd like the full story...
At the end of September I headed out on an impromptu solo jaunt to BC. I needed some headspace, some independence, some adventure. I booked cheap flights, got some GPX tracks from a friend, arranged to borrow a bike, strapped my Enduristan luggage together and flew out on the 27th. The plan was to explore as much of Vancouver Island as I could in about 5-6 days between ferry rides. Having spent very little time out west myself but hearing about BC's magnetic pull, I was ready and open to falling in love with the terrain, vistas, and roads. The rain? Not so much, but that's part of what makes the west coast so lush and inviting.
I picked up the bike in Squamish and caught the ferry to Nanaimo. Under orders of everyone who'd been to the island, I HAD to visit Tofino. So that was the first point of interest. The route there was a gorgeous sampling of island wilderness and twisties. The destination turned dreary, windy, cold and infinitely damp upon arrival, however, and after half a day in Tofino it was time to head north. Camping lakeside and drying out at the laundromat along the way, I aimed to get up to Cape Scott before heading back to the mainland. Ambitious, but there was just enough time to make it happen and I had some great gravel tracks to get there.
On October 1st, about 40km into 'No Man's Land', heading north on the logging road between Gold River and Woss, I miscalculated a left-hander on loose gravel and slid off the road into the brush. As I came to a dramatic stop, David, a fellow adventure rider who was (thankfully) joining me on this route, rushed to the rescue. I was okay, but after contemplating the damage, it was clear my left leg and knee definitely weren't going to make it any farther under my own volition. We had to figure out how to get back to civilisation... and health care.
My Spot tracker wasn't getting a GPS signal that day, so David jumped on his Garmin InReach and began the process of hailing an ambulance. I stayed curled in the brush, unable to move. Surprisingly, after about fifteen minutes I heard the crunch of gravel as a truck neared. Bob, a local of Gold River, drove this road twice a week to and from work in Woss. He was heading home on this Friday afternoon and agreed that a ride back with him was better than the 2+ hours it would take an ambulance to get out there. The guys carried me to the truck and strapped me in. It was unquestionably the most painful ride of my life but I was grateful not to be lying in the brush for hours, waiting for a ride as darkness set in.
Back in the tiny town of Gold River the clinic wouldn't be able to do much as the facilities were limited, but they could stabilise the leg, lessen the pain, and get the ambulance on its way from Campbell River. My Aussie-on-the-island nurse, Tim, was compassionate but realistic. With my left leg held at 90 degrees, I was completely unable to move my knee without tortuous pain. I told Tim he could cut my pants off, but I'd be damned if he wrecked my Sidi boots. 'It's your pain, sweetheart,' he shook his head, smiling. It was. And I will ride in those boots again, goddamnit.
Morphine-doused and leg stabilised, Tim and I chatted bikes and racing while waiting for the ambulance. When I mentioned the Alan Taylor Special Velocette that I race he excitedly began listing Velocette models, wondering what it might be. I was gobsmacked. This guy knows his Velos?! That might just be more surprising than the predicament in which I found myself. Of course, Tim is a total motorcycle nut and has a dozen bikes in various states of repair, including a lovely 60s BSA daily driver. We hit it off.
Two and a half hours after arriving at Gold River the ambulance rolled in. Sloshing in a dark sea of morphine along the almost hundred kilometre, windy route to Campbell River was a real 'trip'. It ended with a thorough review of all the meals I had eaten for the past 24 hours. Between bouts of nausea the health care workers at North Island Hospital buzzed around me. Wheeled back and forth in fragile lucidity, they x-rayed, CT scanned, and examined. Finally, a doctor appeared out of the mist and explained I'd broken my left tibia, right below the knee. It was bad and I was going to need surgery. I could barely comprehend or respond and was grateful when a nurse finally rolled me to a quiet room. I drifted the night away.
Saturday morning the orthopaedic surgeon who would operate on me came to visit. He explained the situation in greater detail, and to a more comprehending patient than I had been the night before. Essentially, I had struck my foot to the ground with so much force that the energy travelled up my leg and burst through the weakest spot. For me, that meant the top of my tibia had exploded. It was going to take some expertise to put it back together. Surgery would be ASAP; whenever they could squeeze me in. So for now, I was on the 'no eating, no drinking' regimen. I was glad that David had tagged along to the hospital and had a place to crash in my ocean-view room. We chatted bikes, made our phone calls home, and watched the MotoGP coverage. Surgery never came on Saturday and as the day closed I was allowed a small meal to ease my grumbling tummy. Sunday would be the lucky day and, although I felt calm and resigned, I couldn't ignore a dreadful tinge to the anticipation.
The OR nurses and anaesthetist could not have been more reassuring as I was rolled down for my procedure Sunday morning, October 3rd. I had complete confidence that they would put me back together successfully. What else could I imagine, after all? The surgery went well and five hours later I was groggily coming around. Sure, I was still hopped up on opiates (thankfully a cocktail that made me less nauseous) but there was now a noticeable and comforting solidity below the knee. The leg was straight and tightly bound in a padded splint, and I knew it was no longer going to hurt as much as it had, or at least not with the same intensity. The worst was hopefully over... until physio, I reminded myself.
I enjoyed North Island Hospital's unrivalled attentiveness for two more days as I decompressed from surgery. I couldn't fly home the day after surgery, as had been the original non-broken-leg plan. The surgeon would also need to see me again before I was clear to head east. This meant I needed a place to convalesce. Long-time CVMG friend Holly Ralph, who relocated to Sidney a couple years ago, offered to put me up at her apartment. There couldn't have been a more perfect solution. For nearly a week she pampered me with delicious meals (if only I'd had more appetite!), comfortable digs, and the gracious space to settle into this new one-legged way of existence. A week after the accident Dean flew out to my rescue and to take over nurse duty. We enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner with Holly and family while (somewhat arduously for me) taking in the sights of Victoria, namely the Butchart Gardens, the must-see attraction according to my Dad. He was right.
Since my moto adventure had been cut short, Dean and I spent a few days touring the island on either side of my post-op appointment on the 13th. The roads and scenery were impressive (and dry!) inside the rental car, but every twist and turn, every spectacular vista reminded me how much I wanted to RIDE this island. 'I'll be back here soon enough,' I repeated constantly.
Ten days after surgery the new x-rays of the break were looking good; the plate and nine screws and pins were solid, according to the surgeon. There remain some concerns about adhesion of the smaller bone fragments that couldn't be manually put in place, but the hope is they'll fall into place as the recovery process evolves. I was light-headed to learn the finer points of the surgery. The reason my calf muscles are so irrationally painful? Because they were cut off through the tendon, and pushed aside as the plate and screws were installed. Then the tendon was restitched before buttoning (read: stapling) me closed again. That makes sense. Can I lay down now, please?
With my list of questions answered by the surgeon, health care arrangements made, paperwork signed... it was finally time to leave this strange British Columbian debacle behind and go home. We ferried to the mainland and spent a lovely evening with Dean's Baja Rally friend Ben and his family before flying east the following morning.
Home at last, two weeks later than expected and with my fancy titanium hardware, I'm growing accustomed to my new reality. I've mostly banished the damaging 'if only...' and 'why didn't I...' thoughts from my mind and am instead focusing on all the positive forces within me and around me that will guide me through the coming phases of this process. I have Dean answering my every beck and call, the patient, caring nurse that he is. Family and friends are stopping in with thoughtful gestures and words. I have all winter to focus on my healing, complete with piles of books and two warm kitties to keep me company through the quiet moments.
The winter will be long, just as the recovery process will be long. Eight weeks non-weight bearing followed by detailed, careful physiotherapy and rehabilitation. There's no guarantee the knee joint has not been affected, considering the proximity to this violent break, but we won't really know the true damage until the bone heals and things can move again. Even if the knee has come through unscathed, the mobility of the joint will be profoundly deteriorated by the time I am cleared for movement. For now, the tendons and ligaments have a chance to heal––if they need it––as the bone does the same.
I am looking at this as an optimistic realist. Yes, it's pretty crummy, but with optimal healing and minimal joint damage I will be functional, and hopefully noticeably gaining back my strength by spring. According to the professionals, it's going to be a year before I am back to 'normal'. But I'll be damned if this bump in the road keeps me from doing what I love or limits my future activities. I know I'll be a fervent protestor of physio when we get to the tough stuff in a few months, but I'm going to see it through. I am going to make the most of my downtime and stand stronger and more determined when fully rehabilitated. I have too much to accomplish, too much of the world to see, and too much of my life left to let this slow me down for a moment longer than necessary.
In the meantime... if you want to catch up, play cribbage, or push me around the block in my wheelchair, I'm around for a while!
TK4
Well-known member
One and the same.
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