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I've almost no recollection at all of the lovely Japanese family who I'm told took me to the Blue Mountains Hospital in Katoomba, or of anything else for a six or eight hour period that afternoon. Concussion is a very strange thing.
I was doing another remote mountain bike ride with Bob, again south from Wentworth Falls, this time along the gravel road down to McMahons Lookout. Then I was lying comfortably in a hospital bed. Everything seemed quite normal - no discomfort, no reason not to be here. Now and again people were showing me pictures, giving me memory tests about who I was, what year or month it was, and what was in the pictures. Apparently I'd been given this routine many times with little success. I had lots of scratches and bruises, and a canula in my arm. So what, life was good!
Then Fenella came in, with friends Jacqui and Liam. Jacqui gave me more memory tests, including something about a holiday I'd lined up for myself shortly. Goodness! What was this about? And why were they there? Surely I wasn't still on Liam's Sunday walk (an epic adventure in itself, by the way)? And where's Bob? I asked this a few times, apparently. I had no memory of him being there with me all afternoon, of him capably organising the transport of people and bikes to the hospital, and arranging Fenella's visit and the others' assistance. No memory either of the CAT scan that had cleared me of any serious brain damage.Quite an adventure. I was kept in overnight in the emergency ward. Fenella stayed the night with another friend nearby. My behaviours and memory test scores became more and more normal. I was sent home mid morning.
Later, Bob went through the events he'd witnessed. He'd been cycling ahead. He'd had a puncture and spent 10 minutes repairing it. When I hadn't arrived, he cycled back to find me, only to see me cycling along towards him, and about to commence a rather hairy downhill section! He soon saw something was wrong, stopped me, and commenced the rescue effort.
Some puzzles got solved. My missing watch turned up when I looked in my trouser pocket in the morning. The strap had broken and I must have picked it up myself. The allen key, mysteriously hanging off the bike somewhere, would have been due to an attempt to repair the bent and broken brake handle.
Some memories are creeping back. A lyrebird ran across the road in front of our car. Bob shouted "Lyrebird!" for the benefit of our tourist companions. That seemed more like something that had happened on Sunday's earlier trip, but I'm assured it wasn't. Also, there's a memory of Bob saying something like: "You've come off your bike, mate! You've come off your bike, and this is what we're going to do." This seems like a memory from months or years ago, but probably isn't. And then there's the memory of me directing a carload of tourists towards McMahons Lookout at a track junction. This was the last thing I remember of the morning. They would have been the people who came to the rescue on their way back a little later. No memories yet though of anything that could have caused me to come off on the easy, level section where I came off.
So this mountain biking is a bit of a worry. I've known many people who've had similar experiences, in one case with much more serious consequences. And this time I'd set out determined to be slow and cautious, having had near misses on the previous two rides. Can't give up on it though. That's a bit like giving up on life - and gee, we must get back down there to complete the ride one day. Bob tells me there's a great view!
And where's Bob?
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