Last November, right at the start of the second lockdown here in the UK, I dislocated my shoulder. I took a corner fast, and didn’t account for how slippery the leaves underneath my wheel were. The bike twisted awkwardly out from underneath me at a great speed, and my arm was wretched sideways, pushing my shoulder out of it’s socket with a loud, significant crack. I crouched over my bike, the pain enough to make me faint, my arm locked in position, my body frozen.
This was the third time I’d dislocated this shoulder, but this was the most painful one yet. After a few moments breathing, I did what the last doctor had showed me to do if it happened again. I carefully lifted my arm up, as relaxed as possible, shrugging my shoulder slightly.
Then, with a quite disgusting squelch, it relocated.
The feeling of relief was exhilarating. I stayed crouched over my fallen bike, trying to breath through the adrenaline and fear. A runner jogged into view. “You alright?” He asked. “You should be careful on those leaves, I almost fell over on them yesterday.” I grimaced at him.
Somehow I picked my bike up, and rode the two miles home one-handed.
The incident, which took only a few moments in all, and then several weeks of recovery, has impacted me more than I would have expected. Back on my bike again a month and half later, I went up to the local trails. These are gentle and flat and well made, not difficult at all. However, as I approached a berm, a little voice in my head asked: Sure you want to lean around that? What if you slip off? What if you dislocate again?
I was slow and careful. After a few runs, I got up a bit more speed, but I found every time I approached a corner, the noise the shoulder had made when it was cracking out of place filled my head. The echo of it has followed me since, vibrating through my mind whenever I got on my bike, and following me to road biking even. My normal confidence was replaced with stiffness and caution, which- you guessed it- caused me to have more slips and feel more unsteady. It seemed to be a neverending cycle.
Fear is an odd beast. It leaves deep scars that are hard to talk sense into. Though it is illogical to assume every corner is slippy and could cause a possible injury, the deepest part of your brain responds before your conscious mind can. I cling to my bars, brake hard around corners and barely lean at all. It is so difficult to try and train yourself out of these self-saving actions.
It’s gotten better over the last few months though. Part of this is just time, but I have also found a few things have helped me get over the mind block.
The first thing is re-visting and practising on the features that scared me. I started by going back to where I fell off, and riding it a few times. The lack of leaves there now has returned it to the sharp, dry and safe bend it usually is, and I found though I still think about falling off whenever I go there, I can ride it now without tensing. I then went up to some easier berms on the trails and started doing them often. I did them slowly and with no lean at first, putting no pressure on myself to properly corner, just riding them to show myself that they aren’t dangerous. Once I’d convinced my mind that they were safe, I started going a bit faster and leaning a bit more. I’m not back to where I was, but I’m getting there.
The next thing that I found useful was not focusing on the accident. I found myself obsessing over it, the feeling and sound of it, and this made me tense and nervous. Instead of thinking about the dislocation, I tried to focus on my other experiences- the times I’d had a great run on the trail, that day I smashed a jump, the time in Bike Park Wales when I’d taken berms at 25pmh and survived. Focusing on these successful experiences built my confidence up again. If this didn’t work, I’d try talking to myself, reiterating positive thoughts; “this is fun, you’re smashing this, let’s take this one even faster, leaaaaaan!” which I’m sure made me look madder than anything but definitely helped my mind out of the fear trench.
I think the last thing I definitely found was that I had to be be kind to myself. Accidents are horrible, and its OK and normal to feel scared afterwards. I tried not to push myself, and to let myself take the easy way down a trail if I felt fearful. It felt good to be building my comfort zone back up again slowly, until the risks of cornering felt a lot less worrying. If I didn’t feel safe, I stopped and tried something else, and that was OK. In time, what does and doesn’t feel scary is slowly shifting back to what it felt like before.
Last weekend I took my hardtail out for a smash in the woods. It was thick mud and steep gradients, slippery rocks and roots. I was having a great time, really loving racing through the trails, and overtaking slow men. As I hurtled around a corner, a small echo of the “crack” my shoulder had made played into my ear. For a second, I faltered- perhaps I was going to fast? Then, automatically, my legs picked up the acceleration the trail demanded, and I kept going, whizzing past the next rocky feature and onto the jumps, my fear forgotten. It took a while, but I think I’m training myself out of it.
