I’ve never broken a bone—not once. But I came very close.
It was a summer afternoon, probably ’83 or ’84, and I was riding my friend’s dad’s racing 10-speed. You know the kind—barely-there frame, tires as thin as Protestant guilt, and brakes that might as well have been decorative. I was cornering hard—21 miles per hour on a turn that had no business hosting that kind of speed. And right in the middle of it, those twitchy little tires just slipped out like someone pulled the rug on Newtonian physics.
The bike disintegrated in my hands. Not broke—disintegrated. The handlebars twisted into some MC Escher configuration, and I went skidding across the pavement like a stone skipping across Dante’s fourth circle.
Then came the knee. It hit first, absorbed the full insult, and made this… sound. Not a crack, not a snap. More like a moving sound—like a zipper being undone inside your body, or someone rearranging silverware in a drawer full of meat. One of those noises that your brain doesn’t catalog because it assumes you’ll never hear it and live.
I was sure my leg was broken. Positive. I remember lying there, waiting for the searing pain and the sirens, wondering if I’d ever play trumpet again or if I’d end up like that kid in Rear Window. But somehow—miraculously—the bone held. My knee was shredded, bruised, alien in its geometry for a few weeks… but not broken.
Which only proved what I’ve always suspected: I was built more like a Russian tank than a porcelain doll.
You ever have one of those almost-breaks? The kind that stays with you more vividly than a clean snap?
yes last week
Ouch, I feel for you.