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Injured in Whistler



Whistler living is about playing hard and living large. It’s why most of us are here.

Why else would you be here if not to take advantage of the mountain biking trails, the great white stretches of snow to ski and snowboard, the golf courses, the hiking trails?

Inherent in this lifestyle is the drive to excel, go bigger than before and push yourself to new limits.

Sometimes though, you can push a little too hard.

This explains why my right hand is swathed in bandages, splint running down the inside, sling around my shoulder.

Having never broken a bone in my body, it seems somewhat appropriate that I would break two bones in my right hand while living in Whistler.

It somehow makes the Whistler experience more complete.

Like most Whistlerites, I now have a war wound and a story to tell.

Though I’m sure you’ve heard it all before, the story goes a little something like this.

Last week my boyfriend and I redid the previous week’s Loonie Race route, trying to better our time, at least I was trying to better my time while he lagged behind to keep me company. The trail was Tunnel Vision, a great downhill that’s well worth the significant grunt to the top. During the Loonie Race I cheated the last two minutes of the course and followed a group detouring to the road at Bayshores.

By doing so I missed out on two little teeter-totters at the end of the trail.

I was thinking about those little teeter-totters the whole way down Tunnel Vision the second time around.

(For those who have done the trail I do realize these teeter-totters are no great feat, being only three feet high, but we must take our small victories as they come.)

I didn’t even think twice when I saw the first one coming, barrelling straight towards the wood. Up and over seamlessly. I did it!

The thrill was short-lived as my speed soon got the best of me. My bike bounced off the 2x4, wheel hit a root, shoulder slammed into the ground and hand was crushed in between root and handlebars.

It all happened so fast and all I can remember is coming down with a resounding, teeth-rattling thud.

After the initial scream and panic, I sucked it up with nary a tear and rode back to the car. I have since become a giant baby, whining about my fate.

The day after the crash, when a baseball seemed to be growing out of my hand, the doc gave me the bad news. Two knuckles were broken. No riding for at least six weeks. Oh, and no typing or writing either.

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