Tour Update #2: Face-Plants and Danish Ambulance Rides, or Don’t Read This Mom

WARNING: Blog post is pretty long and contains gory details of my bike crash yesterday.  You will be warned when they are coming on.  I recommend that you read them, though.  You can handle it.  And I know you’re curioussssss…

Katy and I have arrived in Denmark.  We cycled from Hamburg to Lübeck (which is quite beautiful) and the next day from Lübeck to Kiel.  Those two days of riding were absolutely gorgeous, a sunny roll through idyllic pastoral scenes of rolling hills, wheat fields, and flashes of lakes between trees.

Unfortunately, my rage at the incompetent German cycle wayfinding signs grew to a point where I missed some of the enjoyment of the rides.  I was busy composing letters in my head that I would send to the German Department of Pretending We’ve Got a Good Long DIstance Cycle Signage Network.  That’s unfair, but seriously, we continued to be pointed in the wrong direction repeatedly.  The signs stopped corresponding with my maps of German cycle routes (the expensive ones sold at all the Tourist Informations), so we basically winged it and got lost many times. I’m glad I have my compass.

We were headed to Kiel to catch the ferry we’d heard about from there to Denmark;  Upon arriving in Kiel, we learned that this ferry does not exist.  With a little more research online, we found that it ceased to exist eight years ago.  After grousing for a bit, we got on a train back to Lübeck and then another one out to Puttgarden, which does have a Ferry connection to Denmark.  Not only did we lose two days, but our arrival point in Denmark made it very inconvenient for us to access Aerø, the Danish island paradise that Rick Steves told us about.

We pedaled north from the creepily dead and uncharacteristically impoverished town of Rødby (our first night of camping in Denmark right off the Ferry, where Danish teens revved their motorbikes in the woods behind our tent, hooting and hollering such that I could only imagine a chainsaw-horror situation).  We had an absolutely gorgeous night of camping on Avnø fjord, where we shared some Danish camping shelters with two families of Danes. One of those families was on a bike tour from Copenhagen with their two tween and one toddler daughters.  The camping was free and right on the water, which meant an exceptional sunset view and a very large number of mosquitoes.

 WARNING Okay, here’s where it gets gory.  The next bit is not for the easily-nausiated.  Executive summary for those folks:  I’m totally fine, just a little scarier looking. Now for the insatiably curious…

Just as we entered the town of Naestved after leaving our wonderful camping spot, I suffered a pretty awful bicycle crash.  Here’s what happened: we were riding along the nice Danish cycle path when a strap that I had lashed down on top of my front rack got loose and found its way into my front wheel.  I heard a wrenching and popping, and the front of my bike stopped dead.  I realized immediately what had happened, and was just starting to curse myself for not attaching that friggen strap better as I was hurled forward and over the handlebars.

It was a face-plant.  I threw my hand out to halt the oncoming asphalt, but it was no use.  I landed, essentially, on my mouth, sliding a bit forward on my face like any good Wiley E. Coyote moment or failblog.org video.

It pays to have a wonderful partner who acts like a pro under pressure.  Katy was right there with the towel and the deep-breathing recommendations.  For my part, I sat cross legged on the ground spitting out blood and wailing.  I could move my toes and I clearly hadn’t broken any bones, so I was mostly worried about my facial injuries and, yes, my poor teeth.  Ma and pa paid so much to have those teeth perfected (ma always wished she had had braces) so I was concerned that I had wrecked a good investment with a little bit of Danish cyclepath face-loofah.

Now I know I have complained about mixing cycletracks with sidewalks, but you know what’s great about that?  People are right there if you faceplant on your bike. One man was there immediately helping us, but he did not speak any English.  Then our savior for the day showed up.  This woman spoke perfect english, called the ambulance for us, arranged to have the first man take our bikes to his nearby home and hold onto them for the day, and gave us all the information to get back in touch with her and him.  Like any good American conscious of his light coin-pouch and the awful dollar-kroner conversion, I wondered whether the ambulance was necessary, but Katy, chillingly, assured me that it was.

The ambulance showed up, and for the first time in my life I was loaded inside.  The attendant helped me staunch the flow of blood from my face and gave me an icepack to take the swelling down.  I told him I was worried about my teeth and he took a look and said “the teeth look OK.  They went right through.  You have a hole.”  Well.  A hole.  Glorious. “Well, good,” I said sheepishly, trying to act cooool.

The ambulance ride was about thirty minutes.  The attendant told me this was because Denmark is having to cut costs and close hospitals, relying on fewer spread further apart.  The topic of cost broached, I asked him about what the ambulance ride would cost me.  “Cost? Ambulance service is free in Denmark. Sometimes people call just when they are lonely.”

Well, it was really happening.  I was getting my first free, high-quality European medical care.  We rolled into the emergency room and a doctor surmised that I had no significant neck injury and probably no concussion.  He told me that one or two stitches would close up the hole that my teeth had gouged in my lower lip, “but I can’t stitch the top.  The substance is gone.”  Well.  Substance gone.  Glorious.

A Danish med student stitched my lip, carefully and fully explaining all the mistakes she was making and the difficulties she was having in that charming Euro-English (“oh no, I touched the table and I must get new gloves…”).

I was outta there in an hour, folks. Katy asked about payment and, I shit you not, got laughed at.  However,  I have to get the stitches out in five days.  When I told the doctor and nurses that I would be in Copenhagen then (godwillin….) they argued a bit and warned me that I would probably have to wait eight hours or more in a  public hospital for something as trivial as stitch-removal, and that I should probably look for a private practice and cough up the kroner to have it done fast.  So I may yet get to see both sides of the socialized medicine coin.

Was I wearing a helmet?  Yes.  We’ve had them on most of the time since our frustrating ride to Hamburg last week.  I’m not sure how much the helmet helped me in this crash.  My teeth and lips took the fall, but looking at the helmet later, it was clear that the forehead part was crushed in.  It’s not cracked, but I think I would at least have more facial abrasion if not a banged-up brain if it weren’t for that funny hat.  Will this experience make me an insufferable helmet advocate?  I am not sure.  I will say that every time I’ve fallen off my bike, I’ve been awfully glad to have one on.

The bandages are not flattering.  I look like a cross between a nutcracker and a bird with my awkward bandaid-beak.  While all the talk of holes and lost substance makes it sound pretty awful, as does Katy’s analysis that it looks like I got “cheesegrated,”  these wounds are going to heal up fine.  The hole is closed and already looks much better, and the upper lip gouge will probably just leave a badass facial scar.  My freaky mug has already terrified and enthralled many a Danish child on the street and in our hostel. While my front teeth initially had that loose, punched-in-the-face feeling, they have steadied and are really just fine minus some very small chips at the edge, incredible given that they broke my fall.

Better.

Here’s the silver lining of the whole situation: that woman who helped us out initially continued to completely save our asses.  When we got back to Naestved, she was at the station to pick us up.  She took us to the hostel and expedited our booking a room there, as she knew the hostess.  She took us to her home, where she had a glorious chicken dinner prepared.  We ate on her beautiful enclosed back porch with her husband, who had built the house himself and who barely spoke a word of English.  His wife brought out a big container of Heinz Ketchup and asked “all Americans need Ketchup, correct?”  I worked like a champ to politely shove chicken bits through my bandage hole.  After the meal,  she and her husband hitched up their trailer to their little Peugeot and we drove over to get our bikes from the man who had stored them.  After that they took us to the hostel.  Imagining the logistics of doing all of this without her help is scarier to me than another face-plant.  We are totally humbled by her kindness and generosity.

So, what does all of this mean for our bicycle tour (we had planned to arrive in Copenhagen today, Friday, before the fall) and our lengthy Euro-trip thereafter?  Very little.  We are taking a rest-day in Naestved, in this hostel that used to be a convent.  It is just as well, because it is pouring rain and we haven’t done laundry in about twelve days.  We will otherwise continue on as before, though I may do a few more Phantom of the Opera street performances than originally planned in order to make some dough.  Europe, especially Scandinavia, is quite a spendy place. My bike’s front fork is toasted, but I should be able to find one easily here in town.

Stay tuned for news of our triumphant ride, at last, into Copenhagen.  Good health to all those reading, and please, keep the fucking rubber side down.