The crash.

I lay crumpled on the tarmac, waiting for the inevitable flood of pain to come over me.

My bike lay some 20 metres or so further down the road, having carried on under its own steam.

As I hit the ground, I heard a rib crack and thought to myself “Don’t worry, just a rib...they don’t take too long…could have been worse…”.

My head and neck was fine as I tucked and rolled, just how I had learned on racehorses. But I had never come off on unforgiving tarmac before.

It really hurt. I didn’t bounce or slide. Just bang, smack, straight into the middle of the road.

I couldn’t move.

I looked frantically round behind me. I was relieved that I wasn’t on a sharp bend and just prayed that anyone coming along behind me could see me in time and wouldn’t finish me off.

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I wasn’t entirely sure how to follow 2024….but on 15th December I made sure that I wouldn’t be able to.

Last year was a whirlwind of training camps in Lanzarote, Mallorca and France. I did my first Ironman triathlon in Venice, then an Olympic distance triathlon in Annecy. I went paragliding, climbed Sa Calobra and Alpe D’Huez, had a week’s kayak camping in Menorca, circumnavigated Portland by kayak, dived with seals on Lundy, saw the Peatbog Faeries live, rode in a velodrome for the first time and loved it!

Devastatingly, I lost my beloved Uncle Phil and was heartbroken, but it taught me as if I needed telling, to make the best of every day and make every moment count.

How right I was to do all that because, on 15th December, it all changed.

How it started….

A landrover soon came along with an elderly gentleman who got out to see if I was Ok. He didn’t say much and didn’t really know what to do. I told him not to try and get me up as I was still very much winded but nodded in the direction of my bike. He walked over to pick up Orro and place it on the side of the road.

He stood over me not really knowing what to say or do. It really sucks being a Paramedic on the wrong side of needing help.

Soon afterwards, a car coming the other way slowed down and stopped. A couple got out of the car. Their names were Mike and Andrea. They had been Christmas shopping and their car boot was full of swag. They were both extremely kind and made sure that nobody else ran me over while Andrea tried desperately to get me up off the floor. She managed it and I got myself over to the side of the road.

It was then that my breathing became more and more difficult. I concentrated on making sure I exhaled so that I didn't build up CO2 but I could already feel the panic rising. What the hell had I done?

Sensing that I was no longer in control of my own injury, Mike did absolutely the right thing and called an ambulance. Unfortunately, he didn't have the insight that I did of the ambulance service and the crumbling NHS at wintertime. I already knew there would be no vehicles available and guess what - there weren't. The irony wasn't lost on me. I had spent 20 years as a Frontline Paramedic for the NHS and when I needed them for once in my life, I was left literally on the side of the road struggling for breath.

Mike didn't have space in the car for my bike, so he jogged up and down the road looking for somewhere to leave it and eventually found a kind lady from a local stable yard who said she would take it for me and look after it. Something for which I'll be internally grateful. Mike and Andrea then insisted on taking me to hospital themselves.

I sat in the front seat for the short journey to Dorchester hospital trying to make light conversation, but all the while struggling for breath and clutching my left arm.

They dropped me at A&E and I was very quickly seen by a Doctor and sent for an X-ray. I didn't know who to call, but it made sense to call my coach Russell Carter, as he knew I was practising on the Weymouth Ironman bike course and would soon be wondering why I hadn't finished.

How it ended…

I had two Ironman races in my sights this year; one in France, a lovely flat course in the Loire valley. The other was in my home country, just down the road in Weymouth, Dorset. This one was worrying me as the bike was a so-called ‘rolling’ course. Weight is a huge disadvantage when it comes to climbing on a bike and I was still heavy, so even making the cut-offs would be a huge challenge. But it was one that I was determined to meet.

In preparation, I decided to go out on the course and practise it to see how long it would take me. Riding on British roads in the winter is always a risk. I wasn't speeding. I wasn't going fast at all, but fast enough for it to do some serious damage when I clipped some mud at the side of the road and went hurtling down the tarmac.

Russell was far more organized than I was. Straight away he told me to call Dave Brock. He is the secretary of the Cave Diving Group. He lives in Dorchester and Russell was in no doubt that he would help me. I rang Dave somewhat incoherently and, being a cyclist himself, he didn't really need me to finish my sentence. “Get your X-ray, tell me where your bike is, I'll go and get your bike and then I'll come and get you”.

Several hours later, I was given a pain patch that fell off; some paracetamol and ibuprofen and was dismissed from the hospital with a broken rib, query punctured lung (they weren’t sure) and nobody checked my arm.

Dave was waiting for me and drove me and my bike back to my car which was parked in Weymouth. Of course, he was concerned about me driving home but I just wanted to get home before I stiffened up and was unable to. My breathing had improved but the biggest problem seemed to be my left arm.

Determined to continue training, I mostly ignored the pain and carried on working through it. I figured with time it would get better by itself and it did gradually improve. The only thing that seemed to aggravate it was swimming.

Several months later the pain on the outside of my humerus wasn't getting any better. I had it X-rayed and it was clear, so then I went for an MRI. This showed quite a significant tear of the supraspinatus tendon, part of the rotator cuff. I mulled over my options, but despite a very slow and gradual improvement, my full range of movement still evaded me. I became extremely picky about the activities I undertook and was very cautious about sticking my neck out too far. Cycling and running seemed to be fine but swimming was painful and I didn't trust my arm enough to do any significant caving trips. In fact, I only managed one very small trip surrounded by friends who could help.

I had to accept the fact that at some point I would need to have this tendon surgically repaired - something I dreaded and was actually terrified of.

As I write this in September 2025, my left arm is in a sling five days post surgery, which went really well. It will be a long road to recovery but with the hope that I will get full movement back in my arm, or at least, the best part of it.

While waiting for surgery, along with all the pitfalls that come with arranging dates around my work, I made the best of my summer despite the limited movement in my arm. Many people would have had me sit on the sofa doing nothing all year, but as you would have gathered by now, that is just not me. I'm not here to sit there and do nothing. People who would have me do that are not my friends. What friends wish me to be miserable?

So, I dug deep and made the best of it.