Noggin Knockin’

I wasn’t especially tired, but the battery had died on my ebike as I was heading home, a mistake I capably repeat because I can’t read all the numbers on the display without glasses, and accelerating my ebike up to speed from a dead stop requires an effort akin to a sprint. I would remember none of these forgettable details were it not for one tiny flub I made upon reaching the steps.

I caught the toe of my shoe.

Now, you’d think that I’d be better off falling going up stairs, rather than down them. You’d think, wouldn’t you? The distance between my cranium and the stairs proved to be so short that I was able to cover it without first registering that I was falling. And to call what I did falling isn’t the most accurate characterization. A better verb would be ram. As in, I rammed the stairs. With my head.

These weren’t wooden steps covered in carpet. No, these were constructed from concrete, edged with steel, durable for life outdoors. Being the overachiever I am, I found a way to capably make contact with two of the steps, because one is, well, pedestrian.

I neither lost consciousness nor threw up, good signs, both. I cleaned up the blood, bandaged myself where possible (eyelids and Band-Aids are like Taylor Swift and garage bands—some things don’t fit, no matter how awesome they are), took some Ibehurtins and then spent the weekend indoors with the blinds drawn. I don’t recall having a headache, per se, but I do recall feeling like I was a Smart Car walloped by a semi.

I told myself I was doing all of the things to take care of my injured body. Part of my confidence came from the training I received in head injuries through my coaching certification with the National Interscholastic Cycling Association. Having been through it twice, and having paid attention well enough to pass, I know the signs of a traumatic brain injury.

Even after the weekend was over, I continued to give myself a lighter load. Fewer chores around home, no hard rides. Here’s the part that should have given me pause: The midday sun was too damn bright. Not like vampire bursting into flames bright, but like, gee, I’d really rather be in Seattle right now; I wish the fog hadn’t burned off bright. That is, my training taught me to expect hand-over-the-eyes, where-are-my-effing-Ray Bans bright.

I committed the one real sin of a head injury: I downplayed the severity of my injury, and not because I was being a macho doofus.

Two weeks passed. The sun still seemed unnecessarily bright, making my aversion to bright sunlight seem more a function of me being the only person on Earth who wants to move to Seattle for the gray than a sign of a head injury.

Then the headaches started. The first one was easy to dismiss. As was the second. And even the third. But after the third, I couldn’t deny that a pattern was emerging.

The answer was relatively simple: Stay indoors as much as possible. Close the shades. Take 600mg of Ibehurtins every four hours, unless the pain demanded more (it didn’t). Every screen on dark mode, and, yes, less time on them.

I’ve been fortunate. Given all the miles I’ve ridden, I’ve suffered only a handful of head injuries, but this is the first one to linger. I’m still waiting for the results of the CT scan, but I’m now two days headache-free. My takeaway? Note everything that seems different following a fall with any head impact. Paying attention is not the same thing as being a hypochondriac.