Open Season

Spring feels like open season for killing cyclists along the Front Range. And open season has begun as proven by three deaths in under a week (that I am aware of). Here are a few of my more recent thoughts:

The Finding Out

There was a point a few years ago when I got fairly angry about how I was hearing of cycling crashes with severe injuries or a fatality. A friend would innocently text me with a, “Did you hear…” message. When they sent that information to me, they had zero awareness of when I would receive the text, where I would be, what my attention would be on at the time, and if there would be anyone nearby me. When I heard of two new cycling deaths I did not share them with Kennett for days because the timing was wrong. I wasn’t about to tell him before he went for a big ride or before bed. I cautiously waited until we were on a quiet walk together.

I have good reason to know that Kennett is also heavily impacted by cycling deaths. Years ago, after hearing that a young girl named Peyton was killed in Longmont, Colorado while riding her bike, we had my sister and her husband over for dinner. I walked upstairs after Kennett disappeared from the living room and found him sitting on the bed silently crying because the tragedy hit him especially hard. Plenty of times the person sobbing has been me. I urge you to be cautious about you share bad news with other people and try to show support instead of simply emoting, because you never know how news will reach another person. 

The Disparity Between Different Crashes

The most recent deaths near us happened this past weekend. Strike that—the most recent death was today. That’s what happens when you write a blog and leave it to simmer overnight. However, I’ll focus on the weekend crashes. One person was a woman entrenched in the cycling community. I did not know her and out of respect for those who did, I didn’t feel the need to comment or share publicly. Her story will be nationally shared because of the rallying cry from other cyclists. The other death was that of a 12-year old boy. The news channel re-victimized his crash by saying he wasn’t wearing a helmet, had headphones in, and was crossing the street incorrectly. The initial police reports are frequently incorrect and even if they were correct, does that give a driver the right to ignore other road users? I am still responsible as a driver (or cyclist) to pay attention to others on the road, even if they are not obeying traffic laws perfectly. How many drivers speed, fail to signal, and make illegal turns directly in front of me when traffic is going 50 mph?

I recently read a public comment on a forum where a woman stated that she did not have the privilege of riding her bike and had to drive. I must assume she has a long commute. However, it is also important to recognize that for some people in our communities, cycling is not merely an option but a transportation necessity. It turns out that owning a car is also an expense and privilege that not everyone can afford. It is important that all cycling crashes and fatalities are taken seriously by the community. I fear for the people who are hit and do not have a network of cyclists to guide them through recovery. Of course, that assumes they make it out of a crash alive.

Tell Your Friends They Rock and Your Loved Ones They Are Your Rock

One of the best outcomes of my crash aside from the simple joy of surviving it was that I had a lot of friends share very honestly and openly what I meant to them. I no longer had to second guess that someone cared about me or viewed me as a friend. Similarly, any doubts I had over my relationship with Kennett disappeared because he proposed to me in the hospital. I encourage you not to wait for those moments when someone is sick or injured to share how much they mean to you. Kennett and I make a point of saying, “I love you” before rides, and frequently just in general. On the rare occasions we leave for a ride annoyed at one another, we almost always turn around to repair the problem and reconnect because we know the potential consequences of being on the road. 

Keep Hope

I am saddened when I hear about people driving to ride their bikes in a safe location, riding inside altogether, or reconsidering their cycling hobby because they feel it is incompatible with being a responsible parent due to the risk of being hit by an inattentive driver. And while I’d much rather stay quiet on the sidelines, it also makes me realize that I can’t stay silent in the background as I’d probably prefer to right now. Please keep riding safely, keep showing up to city meetings that discuss transportation, keep asking friends to put their phones away while driving, keep donating to organizations like C4C and Bicycle Colorado, and keep hope. I’ll be out there doing the same.

Photo Credit: Ben Fenton who helped me find joy on the bike at 6 a.m. I am so grateful for those rides!

The Mid-South

The Mid-South is a gravel race that normally happens in Stillwater, Oklahoma. I registered this winter thinking there was a small chance I’d be able to drive up for the weekend to race in person. I signed up for the double, which was a 50k run on Friday and 100-mile gravel ride on Saturday. I was also prepared that the race might become virtual—which is exactly what happened. Instead of a trip to Oklahoma, individuals such as myself would run and ride from their local area anytime over the weekend and upload a GPS file to be entered into a raffle. Our friend in Tucson, Tim, came up with some routes nearby for us to complete. 

The 50k was smooth sailing. Kennett (my husband) and I drove down to the bike loop path at 7:30 a.m. The air was cool enough that I began with a long-sleeve shirt, which meant it was going to be perfect running weather. Even though I was excited to start, it is odd to begin such a long day without a crowd or a start gun. It felt a little sadistic to be willing my legs to start over fours of effort without any external pressure. I may have stalled for a minute. 

Kennett was going to run the first hour with me, but his achilles was being his Achilles heel, so he flipped back for the car where his mountain bike was waiting. I continued onto a dirt path that crosses the wash and a gentle morning rain started to dot my sunglasses and dampen my shirt. When I turned around, there was a rainbow across the sky, and with the palm trees scattering the skyline, I felt I could have been in Hawaii. That was by far the most scenic part of the run until the end, but I did enjoy more miles of dirt path next to the bike loop and I held my pace well until about mile 16.

By mile 20, my hip flexor started to tighten in a way that made it hard not to limp through a run, so I paused to stretch it. I would have to do that a few more times before the 50k was over, but that was a minor inconvenience compared to some of the aches and pains I’ve felt mid-run before. Kennett drove our car to different points and biked beside me throughout the run, telling me about what the latest story was on NPR as I nodded along, half-listening because my brain was operating on a skeleton crew to provide more energy for my body. At mile 20 I told him he should just mountain bike the rest next to me for company. He handed me a few mini-Sprites to drink, which were like magic in keeping my spirits up. 

At mile 25 we came into downtown on the loop path and at mile 27 I turned off the path towards A Mountain. The joke is that A Mountain is just A hill, because compared to the rest of the mountains surrounding Tucson, it is a molehill at best. However, it is still about 1.5 miles uphill and at the end of a 50k that is no simple task. Uphill was no big deal; I have a small percentage of mountain goat in my blood. When it comes to uphills I can just dig in and drive. It is not fast, but I enjoy it. The top of A Mountain gave me views of the entire city, a city which I have grown to love dearly over the last seven years. The downhill was so painful on my quads that I had to walk a few times. I even walked backwards. By the bottom I had one more mile to go and, happy to be on flat terrain and almost done, I matched the pace that I started the day at. I have done multiple marathons, trail marathons, 50ks, and even a 50-miler. This was by far my best executed day ever. Partially because I had an excellently paced 16-mile run a few days prior and I used that pace to estimate how to execute my 50k. Partially because I wrote out all of the calories I would take in, and stuck to my plan almost perfectly. Now off to the 100-mile ride.

 I woke up on Saturday anticipating that we would leave for the ride, until I saw the downpour outside our house. After a few texts with Tim and his fiancé, Jocelyn, we opted to postpone the ride until Sunday. On Sunday, I woke up a little less sore than Saturday, but more mentally fatigued because of the switch in days. I had two cups of coffee and a large bowl of blueberries, yogurt, oats, and protein powder in the morning before we drove to Patagonia, Arizona for a 100-mile day on gravel. What I probably needed was just a steady caffeine-and-calorie drip on the 100-mile ride.

I did the first few miles on my own but I was not as confident on the route as I thought I would be from pouring over the maps that morning, so I headed back to the car where Kennett was getting ready to ride with Tim. Off again, I quickly and happily got dropped. I slipped my headphones in to listen to a John Mulaney recording that I had loaned from the library’s electronic services. (Yes, like a well-read 60-year old, I source many things from the library). About three jokes in, I saw Kennett turned around for me so I took out the headphones and we rode together. The first section was hilly gravel, at first gradual and then several steeper but shorter pitches. When the grade increased, I moved at a slug’s pace. It was a painful pace for me to move at, but I just couldn’t get my legs to cooperate. They didn’t hurt, they just didn’t work. Kennett suggested caffeine when I started to cry from exhaustion. I was still content and planning on completing the day, it was just a fueling issue. The thing is, tears can be solved with caffeine. At least riding. I don’t recommend coffee for tears in most other situations, but after I took my first sips of a caffeinated Maurten drink mix, my mood brightened drastically. I would even gather to say my pace picked up slightly, but that is hard to confirm because at that point we had hit the top of our climb and were headed downhill with a tailwind. Of course I would feel good given those conditions. Plus at the top we could see into Mexico, and that was oddly exhilarating!

On our way into Lochiel, an almost ghost town, we passed a massive historical monument. Now, a day completing a virtual race is more like an exploration. I was not worried about losing time in the competitive sense, but I was aware that I had started too late in the day to dilly dally through the ride given the condition of my barely functioning legs. Luckily, I had Kennett. I asked him to double back and tell me all about who the monument was for. I continued downhill on my own and hit an intersection where a Border Patrol Officer was parked. I nearly skidded out in a patch of sand as I tried to decide which way to turn. Kennett caught back up to me and told me the monument was for a Franciscan friar, Fray Marcos, who was considered the first European west of the Rockies in the 1500’s. Kennett was not impressed.

My energy had returned to the point where I felt like I could hold a conversation. Looking south Kennett said, “Is that the border?” At first, it had looked like just a cattle fence, but once I considered the location and the length of the fence we saw in the distance, I realized with even more certainty than Kennett that it was indeed the border. Or to be more precise, part of the border “wall” that had not yet been enhanced during the last administration. Looking around I became keenly aware that this vista was the first impression some people had of America. I couldn’t help thinking of the book Exit West and a quote from it, “We are all migrants through time.” 

Far out on these gravel roads we failed to take a turn north and missed our intended route. When we did start heading north we were met with a headwind and a gentle rise for miles. My energy dipped yet again so I told Kennett to go scout ahead. I stopped to pee and put my headphones back in to listen to John Mulaney again. The whole comedy playlist started back from the beginning and you know what, I just listened to all the jokes again. It felt nice to hear his audience laugh even though I knew the punchlines from earlier in the morning. 

Kennett came back, and left again several times over. Like the most loyal of dogs on a hike. I loved seeing his pink jersey coming towards me, but I was equally happy when he headed off at his own pace again so I could just put all my focus towards willing my legs to spin. We passed Parker Canyon Lake. In hindsight, thanks to Google Maps, it looks like a cool place to camp. In the moment, I was only aware that we were likely off course, and just shy of 50 miles for the day. The idea of turning around and retracing my steps was horrifying. That was so FAR! Best to keep moving forward into the unknown.

Around this point, we hit pavement and road signs. The sign told us we were 28 miles from Sonoita, which we had passed in the car that morning to get to our starting point. Definitely off our intended loop, but worst case, 28 miles to Sonoita and another 5-15 miles to the car. Bonus: pavement miles are faster. Kennett went up the road and when he was just past yelling distance, my right shifter broke off my handlebars. Hmmm. I held on to it so it didn’t get sucked into my wheel. I could still shift, but it required some focus and a little extra balance to lean on my left arm as my right hand clicked the shifter—as though I were holding an old fashioned people/tally counter. Didn’t see that coming. 

We were up on a ridge at this point. I saw my sixth border patrol vehicle around one of the corners. As the quiet road undulated along the ridge, I practiced my new shifting style and took in the wild views. At one point, I messed it up going into a smaller gear in time and had to just stop and get off the bike to walk for a moment. Still moving forward, that was the key. I took comfort knowing that, at some point, we were going to have to come down from this high point and that meant a reprieve with pure downhill. 

Kennett found me and then looped back in front of me, expecting me to follow as he pulled off the road to the left by some mailboxes. I looked over at him, frustrated that he wanted to divert off the road. I am barely moving, please do not make me stop. Oh, I realized a split second later…my scout was scouting! He is leading me back to gravel! We came to ride gravel, let’s do it. I happily deviated for the left turn and glanced at the sign…23 miles to Patagonia, where we had started from. Excellent. My tires slowed as I worked my way across the gravel and I worried again about how I was going to finish before the sun went down.

I sent Kennett off again, but then realized he was in perfect position for a photo. I yelled up ahead. I told him I needed a hug and a photo before he roamed off. I cried more exhaustion tears as I hugged him and then got back on my bike. In my headphones, John Mulaney described the time when he and a friend pranked a diner by playing Tom Jones’ “What’s New Pussycat?” on the jukebox 21 times in a row. (I highly recommend you listen to the comedy bit by John Mulaney, but skip listening to the song itself.)

Oh the downhill was glorious. I held loosely on to the handlebars (and my right shifter), put my weight solidly into my pedals and hovered my butt over my saddle so that the bike just moved smoothly underneath my body. This summer I spent time with Kennett practicing my mountain bike skills. We’ve also been out numerous times in Arizona and I was reaping the reward of those past sessions. I crouched low to get as much free speed as possible. Soon, I was down in the grasslands with scrubby Junipers spotting the landscape. Was it about 4 p.m.? Definitely late afternoon. I felt as though I was in the Australian Outback (mind you I have never been so this is probably not an accurate assessment of the landscape). I pictured seeing a kangaroo. The mind goes where it wants when the body is on a bike ride.

When I reconnected again with Kennett, we were headed gradually uphill again and into a head wind. Wind is a mentally challenging place for me. If I were in a boxing match with Wind, I would hold my fists up with the intent of defending myself, but it would be a pointless gesture. I would likely just stand there as Wind kicked my ass and left me bloodied in a fetal position. So the next time Kennett went up the road I stopped to grab a caffeinated gel from the inner zipped section of my backpack and made a command decision. Looking at my Garmin I was at 70.3 miles. I was going to have to add miles on to my loop at the end anyway, so I simply turned around until my Garmin read 71 miles, enjoying the speed of a 2% percent downhill and the quiet of the tailwind as I sailed the opposite direction I had just been going. Okay, let’s go, I pep talked myself as I pulled another u-ie back into the headwind and setting sun.

Often the last miles of a ride are just about hanging on. Not this time. I hit another downhill and met back up with Kennett. He told me we were about three miles from a turn back to the car. Maybe six miles total and guess what was waiting there? A Sprite. I was loving the winding terrain down towards the car and there was comfort in recognizing the scenery again. At the car I was at 83 miles. Kennett stopped riding with the intent of following me in the car. I chugged a Sprite, dropped my pack, filled a water bottle, and said a quick hello to our friends. Tim had just finished his 100 miles. Jocelyn had kindly spent the day hiking with our hound, Maybellene. I was just over 16 miles away from done and there was a race on at this point. A race to finish before the sun fully disappeared. Back on the bike, I decided to go out the same way we had come back in, which would leave me darn close to finishing out miles without having to climb anything steep. I was treating my bike as almost a single speed, only shifting when the terrain really called for it. Kennett pulled up next to me in the car and some Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers drifted from the car stereo. Maybellene hung her head out the window, concerned I was still not in the car beside her. 

In the Coast Guard we used to call the final hour of watch the Power Hour or Hour of Power. I was there. I calculated, that on this terrain, protected from the wind, I could hold a faster average speed. I had been traveling around 11 mph for the first 8 hours. The last hour was about 13 mph. And riding at 13 mph is more fun. With 5 miles left, I threw my sunglasses into the front seat next to Kennett so I could continue to see the road. He followed behind me with the headlights lighting my way and every mile I held up my left hand to indicate another notch closer to be finished. In the last three miles I rode on pavement in the dark. At 100, I pointed to a grassy patch off the road and Kennett pulled off. He hopped out, I tied a hairband around my shifter to hold it to the bars during transit, and he threw my bike on our rack beside his own.

I got in the car, took off my Lazer helmet, and dug into a bag of sweet potato chips. My Thursday self did a wonderful job buying these sweet potato chips I thought as I chewed. As we drove back towards home, I changed back into sweats. No competition, no crowds, no post-race party. It was anticlimatic, but there was a joy in the simplicity. I told Kennett multiple times that he was absolutely amazing for sticking with me for the entire day and then driving the last miles as support. I mean who does that? The same guy who bought me my first road bike. The same guy who believed I’d still ride a bike after a driver nearly ended my life on a training ride. The same guy who proposed to me in a coma. Getting into the car next to Kennett, who could understand exactly how I felt and what I had seen during the day, was the perfect finish line for me.  

What Gets Me Dancing

Confession: I’ve been too nervous to post anything to my blog in a while. Nervous that my thoughts are trivial, my writing mundane, or my mission vague.

Confession 2: When someone marks my book as their current reading choice on Good Reads, a website for readers, I have been known to stalk their progress in hopes that they leave a review afterwards.

Last week I saw that a fellow Boulder person, who I do not know personally but recognize the name, had picked up my book to read. Today, this was his review on GoodReads:

“Powerful read. Cyclist/triathlete or not, highly recommend. Very good writing that allows the reader to really follow along Adelaide's crash and continued recovery. The first couple chapters where Adelaide goes into detail about her injuries are intense. Having personally ridden the road where she was hit multiple times makes me recognize how close many cyclists have probably come to having a similar outcome. Kennett is a great partner throughout the entire book. While I originally thought that this story would be about a comeback and a return to happiness, Adelaide makes it clear that each day brings different challenges but she is able to get through them with support from others and learning from her history. Adelaide seems like someone who does not enjoy sharing details about mental health and feelings which makes this even more moving.”

Upon reading this review, and not unlike a JUCO football player who scores a touchdown, I promptly ignored all work in order to complete a victory dance to the song Rockstar by DaBaby and Roddy Ricch. Book sales are actually not that inspiring. Of course, people need to read the book to enjoy it, but I wrote the book to make people think about mental health, safety on the roads, community, and our humanity. A book review that confirms I hit some of my targets, that makes me buzz for hours and sometimes days.

Creative outlets are a conversation. Often we consume media without considering what it took to produce it, myself included. However, if you really enjoy a book, indie film, photography, etc. don’t be afraid to tell the person how their work made you feel. The more happy kitchen dances that happen, the better the world will be. 

The Fuzzy Timeline of Healing

In the months after my crash I traveled to FrostBike, which was a bicycling industry event in Minnesota. I have very little memory about what my role was in attending, but I know at one point I was talking to a co-worker, Barbara, in the building’s lobby. I spoke at-length to her about what happened during my crash, how recovery was feeling, and what a toll the traffic case was taking on me. To share her empathy, she mentioned she had also experienced some relatable incident years ago that left her with injuries. I do not even feel certain that I can properly state what her experience was. Basically the only part of this entire conversation, evening, or trip to Minnesota that I remember with clarity is that I was stunned. My shock came from the fact that she had been through this ordeal, yet it was not something that she felt she had to discuss at regular intervals, as I clearly felt necessary for my circumstances. In those early months, my crash was all I could talk about. I couldn’t see myself becoming a Barbara with a hidden trauma that the world didn’t see. 

Now I understand how Barbara must have felt. If it were not for all the time I spent writing a book about my crash and recovery, I would also very rarely have reason to talk about it. In fact, sometimes I’m annoyed at my younger self for memorializing the entire event in paperback. Had I just let it go earlier, perhaps I could have moved on to other adventures sooner. 

When I look at the news, sometimes I simply see the world in terms of emotional wounds. COVID-19 is spiking and I think of the hospital nurses who have to cope with death and the family members who will have to continue on without their loved ones. I read more about Black Lives Matter and I have learned more about how generational trauma occurs. Gun violence and I recall my last lockdown situation in a school where one teacher crawled underneath the conference room table to seek support from another teacher because she was clearly experiencing PTSD. 

In 2021 I think about how so many of the individuals I share space with, whether it be at the grocery store or in passing on a trail, are coming out of, or still in the midst of, trauma. Some may be more vocal in sharing their stories and others quieter. But I think we will feel their pain and fear in rooms like a toxic gas just hanging near people’s heads and hearts. My role now is simply to be like Barbara. To say that I empathize with those who found 2020 difficult and to stand tall as an example that time does cause scars to fade. We are resilient and joy can be found again.

What Is Your End Goal?

On December 10th, a box truck driver mowed down a group of cyclists outside of Vegas and killed five of them. I started seeing people respond to crash online almost immediately after it happened and decided I was going to say quiet. I didn’t even focus on the names involved or bother to learn more details about the event. After all, I am enjoying riding my bike in Tucson. This was not a decision to ignore what happened, it just doesn’t change my mission, which is to make cycling safer for all who want to enjoy the roads on two wheels. It ties in closely with even bigger beliefs and values that I hold — that physical activity is important for mental health, that the we can all make small changes to improve the climate, that a strong sense of community is more important than tangible possessions, and more. However, the ideas behind this blog can be transferred to anything that you feel passionate about. 

The Words You Use Matter 

Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) used to be Mothers Against Drunk Drivers, but made the conscious change to be against the action of drunk driving and not the person who commits that action. Similarly, they decided in the mid-1980’s to stop using the word accident. Cycling advocacy groups, with the help of individuals such as myself, need to get the word accident out of the vernacular around crashes where cyclists are hurt and killed by drivers. This requires serious work with the press and with police. In the crash on December 10th, a police officer was quoted saying, "It appears to be a tragic accident." Guess what? Now that a more thorough investigation has been completed, the prosecutor is saying that the driver had meth in his system. Are you surprised? I’m not. When a large group of cyclists with a follow car is mowed down, do not use the word accident. Reserve that word for when your three-year wets the bed.

Posting About the Injustice on Social Media Does Not Equate to Advocacy

Advocacy is about being in support of a cause. It is about seeking change. Yes, there are people with large social media platforms who can use those outlets to create the stirrings of social change, but that is not the norm. More often than not, people use social media as an opportunity to act enraged instead of taking action towards a goal. Specific to events such as the cyclists’ deaths on December 10th, I would also note that donating to a memorial fund, though extremely generous and an important way to support the community, is also not advocacy.

An easy entry point into advocacy is to become a member of your local advocacy group. Donate money so that their employees can do the difficult work day in and day out. For instance, last year, Bicycle Colorado worked to ensure speed limits on rural roads where cyclists ride were not increased. I had no involvement or awareness they were doing that until I was on a year-end members call, but I will benefit from the lower speed limits and it made me excited to donate to them again the following week. The next step you can take is to learn more about the work your desired non-profit is doing and ask to be more involved. Read the newsletters, attend the meetings, and talk about the work that is being done. Talk about it with friends, family, co-workers, and anyone who might listen. Maybe they will see you as a positive example and see the need to also be involved. Hearing about a tragedy can make people feel scared and add a sense of hopelessness. Telling someone how you are engaging to solve the problem is leading by example. 

Consider Your End Goal

This past week Kennett posted a video of us riding The Loop, which is a 55-mile bike path loop that circles the city of Tucson. The post received over 1,775 views, 18 comments from others, and 13 shares. These numbers are a high anomaly for a joint Instagram account that Kennett and I share. (Neither of us can really get fully behind social media). Our one friend made fun of Kennett’s wobbly video, so it was not the quality of footage that got people sharing this post. What was it? People are excited by the idea of feeling safe riding their bike. Me too. When I think about cycling advocacy I try to envision more people being able to ride their bikes and the personal satisfaction that will wash upon them after a safe return to their home. I imagine how this will help mental health, the environment, and the strength of our communities.

I am by no means a perfect advocate. Is there even such a thing? As you will read in my book, DEGLOVED, cycling advocacy was something I was thrust into as a result of my crash but I’ve had to learn (and continue to learn) how to find my voice in a way that impacts change. While I have grown over the past six years, I have kept that end goal in mind to help guide me forward.

A Conversation with Brad Tucker

I’m the person who reads or watches a documentary about a true story and then promptly looks up other news stories about the event, what has happened since the documentary aired, and other cases that were mentioned to offer context to that initial event. If you are anything like me, you likely wanted to know a little more about people in my book such as the attorney who handled my case, Brad Tucker of Colorado Bike Law. Here are a few questions I asked Brad after he read DEGLOVED:

Adelaide: You work with injured cyclists all the time and I know my experience is not unique. What parts did you read and go, "Oh yea, heard that before"?

Brad: This is easy. Unless I am working with a deceased cyclist’s surviving family, everyone, and I mean everyone, tells me how lucky they are. They usually tell me that in our very first conversation, but if not, it isn’t long thereafter. This is something that really frustrates and angers me. Think about it – one of us is out enjoying a healthy activity and gets creamed because of someone else’s preventable carelessness and we are conditioned to feel lucky because it wasn’t worse. This is unacceptable.

AP: We met when I first got out of the hospital and again when we went to mediation in January 2015. Most of our conversations during the case were via phone. Point being, you didn't see the day-to-day of what I was going through, although I'm sure you understand it better than many. Was there anything that surprised you in my book about recovery that wouldn't have occurred to you?

BT: I don’t think I realized how quickly, and well, that you were recovering from the physical injuries. Unlike you, I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised that you were diagnosed with PTSD, and of course the scarring and associated treatment was always front and center. I guess thinking back, I don’t recall having an awareness of your initial lack of acceptance of the PTSD diagnosis. Given what I read in your medical records, and how you were reacting to certain things, it seemed likely to me that you were either suffering from the consequences of a permanent traumatic brain injury, PTSD, or both. I’m sure that I would have told you that the PTSD diagnosis was really the best case scenario, because at least with that you can get better over time.

AP: You were the first lawyer in Colorado to focus specifically on bike law. Can you explain what led you to protecting cyclists specifically?

BT: In 2002, I had been practicing law for 12 years and had built a successful law practice and career. I was fortunate enough to be in a position to offer some of my time for volunteer legal work. I thought long about something that I was genuinely passionate about and I decided that securing and enlarging cycling access and increasing safety was my number one cause. It was at that time I began volunteering with Bicycle Colorado and providing volunteer legal counsel. It started when I walked into the Bicycle Colorado office and asked for Dan Grunig - who had just taken over as executive director. I introduced myself, told him what I was interested in doing and that I wanted nothing in return. Dan put me to work immediately, and I have been volunteering ever since. One day shortly thereafter, Dan asked me if I had ever considered representing cyclists and I loved the idea. Dan had a friend (ironically, a triathlete) who had been hurt in a cycling crash and asked if I would take her case, and I did. She was an absolutely wonderful young woman to work with. That's where it all started, but initially it was just as an extension of my passion and it was a way to involve cycling in the practice of my law firm. I just kind of dabbled in bike law at first but I very quickly went from dabbling to being very busy with it. Now it is definitely the predominant part of my law practice. It has gone past my wildest imagination. I never thought this would be the biggest part of my job. As you mentioned, when I started doing this nobody was doing this in Colorado. The environment has changed so much over this time. Back then, when I would be speaking with the insurance adjuster about my client’s case, the number one question I got was “what were they doing riding a bike on the road?!” That used to infuriate me, but I quickly came to realize that a calm and professional explanation would best serve my clients. I had to educate a lot of insurance adjusters back then! With the help of Bicycle Colorado people are beginning to see that bicycles do belong on the road, and that it can and should be a safe place for a bike. Times have changed a lot, but we have a long way to go at the same time.

AP: Can you explain how the vulnerable road user's bill became a topic that was championed by Bicycle Colorado? You and I had conversations about how drivers who cause serious bodily injury needed to lose their license, but how does that take off within an organization like Bicycle Colorado and Colorado Congress? (Brad is President of Bicycle Colorado.)

BT: Well Adelaide, as you know, you were a huge part of making this happen. You are one of three examples that I can specifically point to, that involve new bicycle safety laws that came about as a result of the crashes of my clients. Like almost all cyclists, I had been extremely dissatisfied by the lack of justice that resulted when careless driving resulted in devastating consequences to a cyclist. In our legislative work with Bicycle Colorado, we had previously spoken with elected officials about getting some changes made. Your situation served as the inspiration, and provided an incredibly compelling story to use as we appealed for a change to be made. The injustice of the defendant having been able to legally drive on the evening of your crash, while you were forced to temporarily abandon your chosen form of transportation was one that should easily have offended anyone. We were able to use the phrase, “driving is a privilege, not a right,” that all of us were taught as teenagers as an argument in favor of this change. As you know, but as was not reflected in the book, it took us more than one try to get this bill through the legislature, and signed by the Governor. I proudly have the photo of you, me, and others with Governor Polis at the signing ceremony hanging in my office!

AP: I know more people have bought bikes since COVID-19 and taken to the roads. What is your one piece of advice that you always bring up to cyclists? (Mine is to make sure you have auto insurance, even if you don't have a car. And health insurance.)

BT: Be as visible as you can be. Most of my clients are riding alone when they are hit. Almost never are they in groups of four or more. As we take up more mass, we become more visible to motorists who might not be conditioned to specifically be looking for us on the roads. Of course, it isn’t always practical to be riding with others, so aside from that, the use of brightly colored clothing, and front/rear blinking lights adds to our visibility. You mention insurance, and that is a huge issue. If you are a crash victim who doesn’t have auto insurance, and you are hit by someone who is uninsured, or is driving with a state minimum $25,000.00 policy, there is usually nothing else to go after for your damages. If you have large uninsured motorist coverage policy limits on your own auto policy, you can protect yourself and your family when the at-fault driver has little to no insurance coverage. I can instantly recall one case that settled for $1.1M rather than $100,000.00 solely because of the UM/UIM coverage that the cyclist had on his policy. I guess I’m saying try to be as visible as you can be so that you don’t get hit, and then protect yourself with insurance coverage if you do get hit.

AP: What has been the personal toll that you have experienced by representing so many injured cyclists when it is also your passion to be out riding?

BT: Especially when reading the parts of your book that detail the PTSD, I became very aware of the extent to which my exposure to so many crashes has impacted my own ability to fully enjoy riding on the roads. In my law practice, I have represented literally hundreds of cyclists. Think about that. That’s hundreds of injuries – some of them quite severe – and hundreds of crashes at hundreds of locations. While my practice is statewide, the bulk of the cases are along the front range, and as a result, these crashes happen at the places I ride. About ten years or so ago, it dawned on me that I almost never go for a ride without riding through at least one location where one of my clients has been hit. I think about those people every time that happens. I would love to tell you that you by far suffered the worst injuries of anyone I have represented, but there are others who fared worse. I remember one man who was so badly injured that the physicians didn’t know how to treat him because they had never had a patient survive such horrific injuries. He got through it, and is doing the best he can. I suppose he also “feels lucky”, which I get, but it still makes me mad. I think it is an inescapable conclusion that the cumulative effect of my work has taken some degree of a toll on the joy I experience from road cycling. I still ride multiple days a week, and I can’t ever imagine not riding, but the trauma of my clients stays with me. Even still, I can’t imagine not doing this work.

AP: What makes you feel really upbeat about the future of cycling? When you have tough days at work, do you worry about the future of cycling?

BT: Cycling’s future is very bright! More people are riding, motorists are becoming more conditioned to seeing us on the roads, and that translates into safer roads for all of us. When I think about all of the good things in my life, they almost all can be traced back to cycling. I owe so much to cycling, and I plan to keep doing what I can to give back to it.

New Place, New Focuses

I’m going to make a few New Year’s resolutions a bit early this year. As I frequently do with goals I take on, I am going to tell you all about them so that I feel accountable and so that you can join in with any goals that you may have for the upcoming months. Part of the reason for choosing now to be intentional is because we recently moved to Tucson for the winter. In Boulder, we live in a cozy loft condo that does not have separate rooms. Doors, it turns out, allow people to get up at different times in the morning and pursue different activities without interrupting their partner. I think the world understands this concept (honestly so did I), but it really took on a different look when the pandemic hit and Kennett and I were trading who would do their Zoom call out of the closet. 

First Goal: To write content once a month that I hit publish on. 

I was asked recently what surprised me most about the last six years since my crash. I paused and said it was writing a book. If I had been consistent as a writer, perhaps I would have been confident that my skills would eventually lead to a finished product, but that is not how I work. I would edit my manuscript in states of hypomania or over the winter months when I had an off-season from triathlon. Inevitably, when training kicked back up in February, my writing and editing would become sporadically placed in between big training days. 

I mention this because I find myself now in a strange place. The book was such a massive undertaking that I never really worked on myself as a writer beyond that specific goal. In fact, writing scares me. I get caught up in making sure I have something important enough to share with the world, doubt my writing skills to get my thoughts across succinctly, and promptly give up.

I am also hoping to find more balance between using my body for physical activity, and my brain for the creative work required for writing. You see, those summer months during which I wrote less was not because I lacked the time to work on my craft. Athletes pour their energy into interval training, long weekend workouts, and fueling appropriately for the next session. I had time, but I did not have the energy to think about my book during high volume training.

Second Goal: Seek out more adventure

I know this one is vague. I think between my ups and downs of bipolar and PTSD I have stopped seeking out as many adventurous things. This became more apparent this summer when Kennett grew sad that I was selling my dirt jump bike and told me he worried I was giving up on adventure. 

After my crash, I started having more moments where if I asked myself, “What’s the worst that could happen?” the answer would be “I could die” or “Kennett could die”, or “Maybellene could die.” This used to primarily occur when I was riding my bike or traveling in a car. My mind would picture those worst case scenarios and I would do a quick switch of focus and reprimand myself for going down the rabbit hole. 

However, I frequently ask the worst case scenario question because it helps me plan for what I can handle in my schedule, given my mood swings. Do I want to substitute teach five days in a row? What’s the worst that could happen? Well, by Thursday I could be crying on the floor at night out of exhaustion and debate having to cancel the following day, which will ruin my reputation as a substitute. Except, this year with the pandemic, I can ask myself that worst case scenario question about almost any activity and come back with the answer being death. Do I go for a walk with a friend? Do I promote my book with an in-person interview? Potentially spreading COVID is a huge fear of mine because I’ve been the statistic. I know what it feels like to be going about your daily life with plans for the future only to end up in the hospital, completely derailed for months. Or permanently.

All that being said, I am not going to let the pandemic turn me into someone who is afraid to experience life and have fun. The adventure I hope to find in the next year until the pandemic is over will definitely be COVID-19 safe. Luckily, Tucson is full of roads I’ve never ridden and trails I have yet to explore. 

My list of goals is quite extensive, but there are only a few that need to be mentioned out loud. Some I know I’ll accomplish or track on my own. Others I am simply not ready to undertake. It is important with outcome goals, such as learn to play the piano, that you enjoy and have time for the process, which would be sitting down daily to practice. If not, it is a silly goal to attempt. Some of my long-term goals are waiting until I have space and motivation to dedicate fully to them. What has been on your mind to accomplish this winter? Feel free to share it in the comments.

My Story is in Your Hands

If you haven’t heard, DEGLOVED: Every Scar Has a Story came out last Sunday! Pause on that sentence for a moment. I want you to really appreciate it like I’m trying to, instead of moving along to what comes next.

It took six years to write and publish a very honest account of what recovering from trauma looks like, so I may as well continue with the honesty. The other day I video chatted with another author and dear friend, Betsy Hartley. Betsy and I met two years ago when we stayed at the same resort for a triathlon in Los Cabos. My relationship with her is an interesting one, because although we have only spent a week in person together over two trips, I trust her with my first thoughts. The completely unedited ones that pop up when my emotions are running the show up in my brain.

“Betsy, I’m a little worried that the book is too depressing...I mean, did it have good takeaways?” I joked that I have NO clue how worried or panicked to be, because I still have zero idea of how many copies have sold since pre-ordering began. With no numbers, I have no sense of how many strangers could be judging me.

To which, Betsy came back and gave me a wonderful response that started with, “The outcome is good because you are alive. Period.”

True, the good news is that since I am the author of the story, and the back cover states how I am married and living in Boulder, Colorado with my husband, the reader shouldn’t panic too much during those first few chapters. I cannot guarantee they won’t cry because people have already reported back that tears were streaming down their face by page 19.  

Next Betsy stated, “People are sick of bullshit, they are sick of whitewashing they’re sick of being told to keep their chin up and be positive and look on the bright side when in actuality, what people really crave and hunger and thirst for, is truth and authenticity and vulnerability.” 

Damn if Betsy didn’t nail the response and give me some peace of mind to sleep that night. When I wrote DEGLOVED, the intended audience was never a traffic victim or even an athlete. It was written for a person who perhaps needs to nod in agreement to the statement that life is so very painful and difficult at times—someone who needs encouragement to know that that state is temporary. Emotions are complex and it is okay to feel so incredibly lucky that you are alive at the very same moment that you are angry, scared, and wanting to give up.

2020 is a difficult year. We are all going through the collective trauma of the pandemic. While it has impacted each person differently, we’re in the early stages of recovery. The feelings, intense and overwhelming as they may be, are worth acknowledging and talking about. Since I wrote DEGLOVED as I was healing, I was able to include similarly raw emotions in the writing and I think readers will be able to relate my story to their own traumas. 

It is also important to note that, If I had begun writing the memoir now that six years has passed, I would have dulled the story. Not intentionally, but because over time and with a supportive community, trauma can be healed. DEGLOVED is not depressing, because I did not stay in those emotions. I continue to ride, create community, teach, and move forward with cycling advocacy. Just as I believe we will grow from the pandemic and it will bring positive changes when we are ready for them. 

An Episode

I’m just coming out of a depressive bipolar II episode. Let me share what it is like for you.

The exhaustion hit me last Sunday. I had gone for a 10-mile run with my friend Emily early in the morning. I honestly thought I was over my bipolar II depression. It had already been going on for close to two weeks, but I had gotten out on my mountain bike on Saturday and was very bubbly. Things were looking up. Emily and I did not run hard. We had the pups with us, so the route included a lot of water stops. I even took a gel. We had done this same run several times this summer at a faster clip and I hadn’t needed to fuel any of those other days. But I was being conservative, because I knew I was still coming out of an atypical depressive episode. When I got home from the run, I was EXHAUSTED. 

For atypical depression, one of the symptoms is 'leaden paralysis'. While on a normal day I can go run ten miles or ride for three hours no problem, when I have atypical depression I can barely move. At home I'll stare straight ahead because turning my head to take in my full surroundings is challenging. The other night I couldn’t even stand in the shower. I just sat on the floor with my head leaning back against the shower bench. Early on in this latest episode I was sitting on the floor upstairs when Kennett asked if I wanted to go for a walk. He was trying to encourage movement. He is my biggest support and the only person who fully understands how to help me. The idea of a walk was so exhausting I just tipped over and laid in a ball on the floor crying. My bed was right next to me, but the floor is grounding. There is a safety in the hardness, that I cannot possibly fall any further down. 

Atypical depression does not necessarily come with “feeling depressed”, but over the course of an episode I do become more traditionally depressed. I consider myself an athlete and a hard-working person and I mourn those lost traits during an episode. It halts my life. I do the bare minimum for work so that I don’t let anyone down, but most of my life drops to the wayside. I cry a lot. Sometimes I cry out of frustration, sometimes out of pure exhaustion. The naps I take during an episode are unique. . . I call them my bipolar comas. One of the best things I can do is sleep off an episode by taking long naps. If I take enough of these naps, eventually one of them will snap me out of an episode. I'll wake up feeling almost normal and then the work becomes trusting myself again.

About 30 percent of me believes my brain chemicals are off, about 70 percent of me believes that the world we have created for ourselves is broken. This particular episode has been triggered by stressful world and community-level events. One thing I know for sure, I am not alone in struggling through this world. One of the beautiful things about bipolar II is that it helps me connect with others who have health limitations. And despite what it may seem like on social media, difficult days are part of being human.

There is a cat in the nearby neighborhood that we named "Jules" about two years ago. During this latest episode, a highlight of my day would be a slow evening walk to say hi to Jules and the squirrels.

Why Do You Ride?

I am a cycling advocate. I am also a crash victim. I never want my story to overshadow the beauty of riding. Not for me, and definitely not for other potential cyclists. Below is my list of reasons why I love riding. I want to make this list a compilation of others ideas' too, so please send me any of your reasons that I may not have listed yet and I'll add them to this post.

• To keep the crazy at bay;

• To spend time with Kennett and friends;

• Because playing bikes makes me feel like a kid;

• To eat more food;

• To think about eating more food;

• To get into the quiet dirt roads of the mountains;

• To challenge myself;

• To save on gas;

• To avoid traffic;

• To commute (Often in the least direct manner because our society doesn't value bike commuters wanting to get somewhere fast);

• To get fit;

• To keep the crazy at bay;

• To really feel what the weather is outside;

• So that I don't get too comfortable in life;

• To feel powerful and self-sufficient;

• To see the neighborhood deer, peacocks, and other wildlife;

• To avoid parking in a congested area;

• To give myself space to contemplate what is running through my head;

• To justify my grocery store run for dessert;

• So I can say hi or wave to other people who are also on their bikes;

• To feel like part of the greater cycling community.

Why I'm Open about Bipolar II

There is a neighbor who lives a quarter mile from me who I met a year ago. She has a shy dog who likes to occasionally do sprints with Maybellene in the grassy park nearby. As any dog owner can relate to, I learned her dog’s name well before I could recall hers. However, I have seen her enough times on evening walks to confidently address her by name. For the purposes of this blog I’ll call her Ellie. Ellie is about my age, I know she has a partner and I’m pretty sure his name is Chris, but I’m fairly good with names and I think if I ever said, “Hi Chris” he would look at me sideways. While Ellie lives nearby, she is not in the same HOA and perhaps our proximity is not quite close enough to develop a friendship. But I have been thinking about my relationship to Ellie a lot recently.

One night this spring Kennett and I were walking around the park and bumped into Ellie. I asked her something random about what she does for work. It was a pretty innocuous and superficial question, but she responded truthfully. She had been struggling with a lyme disease diagnosis and found that she couldn’t maintain a full-time job because of her health. In response I told her that I had bipolar II and, while I could not relate to her health concerns directly, I understood what it meant to prioritize health over a career in a society that heavily values work. The sky was getting dark and Maybellene isn’t a fan of sitting still for conversations mid-walk, so we continued on our separate ways after only a few minutes of talking.

Ellie walked in front of our condo the other afternoon and I went out to ask how she was doing. She said she has been able to go on longer walks. For a while now she has thought that longer walks would be a sign of success, but that now she is dealing with a bout of depression. This time our conversation became interrupted by Kennett’s arrival home with groceries. As I walked over the to Prius to help grab a bag, I offered to go for a socially distant walk with her. She said, “I’d love to know more about how you deal with the stigma of your diagnosis.” We still have yet to walk. I don’t have her phone number so it will likely be an impromptu meeting like the previous two times, but until then I’m going to ponder how quickly our conversations went from our dogs’ running speed to mental health.

Am I okay with my bipolar diagnosis? I am no poster-child for it, but I definitely own it. It started after my crash when my injuries were severe and visible. During this time many people told me their own traumatic stories (with a capital “T”) that had happened years ago, their scars long faded. Still, they were able to share their experiences and we related and it helped me feel less alone. I was scared during this time about mood swings, so I started to experiment and tell more friends about bipolar II to see if I got the same  level of support for my emotions as I had for my physical injuries. The result was that I often had deeper conversations once I opened up more freely. Here’s the thing: People want to help.

Before I was diagnosed with bipolar, I remember telling co-workers I felt sick and was going to leave work early for the day. I wasn’t sick with the flu, but I was struggling to function because of a depressive mood swing. They would offer advice like, “Make sure to drink tea.” I would cringe. I hate drinking tea and I was not dealing with a sore throat, although I’m sure I implied as much to avoid questioning. Again though, people want to help each other. I believe, now that I have a bipolar diagnosis and understand it better, my job is to be honest about it. In return, people will stop telling me to drink tea and will offer more useful support. If simply for the fact that I don’t have to live out a lie, this aids in my ability to regulate bipolar. This makes me a more functional member of society. I’m not sure exactly what I’ll talk about with Ellie when I see her next, but I’m ready to listen. We may not become friends because of our physical proximity but by our willingness to speak honestly to each other.

P.S. I know I said I was putting my book aside, but circumstances change. Look out for more news about my book, Degloved, which is set to come out this fall.

The Ventilator

This is a section from Chapter Six of my manuscript. It feels like an applicable share at this moment for multiple reasons.

Friday night, day 7, was the scariest time I experienced in the hospital. It began with a new set of evening nurses who I didn’t trust. Irrationally, I thought they might do something wrong and I wouldn’t be able to communicate my schedule or needs with them. My parents had already left earlier in the evening but Kennett normally stayed with me each night until at least 10 pm. On Friday, I asked him to stay with me longer.

My fear stemmed from the fact that I was on a ventilator to help me breathe. The machine hooked up to a small tube that went into the opening in my windpipe from the tracheostomy. Mucus formed inside the tube over time and had to be suctioned out because it would block my airway, leaving me suffocating in my own phlegm.

That night, mucus built up every 20 minutes and each time my breathing became labored as my chest filled with fluid. Kennett was in protective mode and hit the nurse's button repeatedly in an effort to speed up the respiratory therapist’s response.

She seemed to move at a geriatric patient’s pace while pushing her instruments into the room, putting on sterile gloves, and unwrapping the sealed, sanitary tubing. The tedious process seemed to take minutes and, while I fought for enough air, both Kennett and I wanted her to hurry the hell up. Finally she’d connect the pencil-sized tubing to a machine, stick it down the hole in my neck, all the way into my lungs, and clear out the phlegm. Even though the suctioning was performed for less than 10 seconds at a time, each procedure was as terrifying as the last. The tubing blocked my airway, so it created the sensation of choking. I also had be temporarily unhooked from the ventilator, which aided my breathing in the first place.

Throughout Friday night when I’d close my eyes I'd hallucinate bright, gigantic mardi-gras characters, who were projected onto the wall and ceiling. Their legs were out of proportion with their upper bodies, as though they were on stilts. The women wore long dresses while the men were in vividly patched clothing. The background was tangerine orange as I watched them  dancing to big band music. The dancing was the most grounded element of the hallucination because Kennett and I were listening to my iPod.

My sister had brought me small speakers earlier in the week so we could play music as an activity. I had been a long-time groupie of the singer-songwriter Stephen Kellogg and his band The Sixers so we played song after song, repeating the same ones over again as the hours went by. I’d been to over 10 of his concerts before. I couldn’t sing along, but I knew all of the lyrics.

In one of the actual concerts I’d attended, Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers played Milwaukee and broke down each element of the music. The pianist did a solo after which Stephen sung, “It feels alright, the sound of that piano filling up the night, makes me feel alright.” As the piano solo continued he talked about getting scared at life and how friends, family, and the melody help him feel less afraid. When the drums came into the song he described them as the heartbeat. “Then, when all else fails and you just want to get out of your situation, you’ve got the electric guitar to scream.” That is exactly how I listened to each element of the music while in the hospital. Exhausted and anxious from each respiratory episode when I struggled to breathe, Kennett and I broke down crying through lyrics such as, “You relieve the, the clouds of rain, and you remind me there’ll be other days…”

And that was how the night continued. We played songs, cried to the lyrics, and I’d describe my imaginary giant people to Kennett with pen and paper. I’d complain that even with my eyes open I kept seeing purple, red, and orange colored fireworks bursting through the darkness. Mucus would fill my lungs, the respiratory therapist would shuffle in, and I’d look for reassurance from Kennett as I endured a few more seconds of choking and violent coughing. The goal throughout it all was simply to make it until the sun rose.

In the morning Kennett went home to sleep and I took a nap. When my parents came in at nine o’clock, I made my dad play Stephen Kellogg’s song Father’s Day. Over the speakers Stephen sung, “I'm sorry for the things that get messed up, And there will be places that you may not get enough, And some memories you wish you never had, But what won't kill you makes you stronger, And you just tell them, You got that from your dad.”

I needed the protection of my family, and to listen to the reassuring lyrics of my favorite songwriter to remind me there’d be better days ahead. While that night was the last I struggled to breathe, I had other looming fears that a slow moving respiratory therapist and pain medication couldn’t fix.

The Power of Photos

In 2014, it was estimated that people uploaded 1.8 billion photos to social media daily. Photos are a way we express ourselves and share our memories. Beyond the internet, photos are also a way people ID us. A prime example is our drivers’ licenses. 

I’m crying in my driver’s license photo. Hopefully, it’s as close as I get to a mugshot. 

It started on New Year’s Eve of 2015, when I took the opportunity of short lines to get a new driver’s license. I had already been running errands before friends came by for dinner. It was a fiasco from the start because I had forgotten proof of my new address. However, after a promise that I’d be allowed to skip any lines if I came back with the correct documentation by the end of the day, I pushed through to make it happen. 

Back at the DMV, a woman called me up to the front desk for an eye test. Then she directed me to another line for my photo. My mind spun out. 

No I can’t. I need to keep my old photo. My old photo was a good one. I had a great smile. Those were my teeth. She doesn’t understand…

I got in line and the tears started welling up in my eyes. Nine days earlier I had undergone my third facial surgery to pull my lip down away from my nose and clear up some of the thick scar tissue that had formed along my jawline. Now, sitting in a plastic chair, awaiting my new driver’s license photo, I still had black stitches lining my face.

All I wanted was to keep my driver’s license photo.

I wrote the DMV: 

Hello,

I renewed my license today at the DMV in Boulder and asked to keep my picture...Last October I was hit by a driver while on my bike. He has had 17 serious traffic violations. I almost didn't survive the ambulance ride to the hospital and due to the crash, I have severe damage to my face. The extensive scarring and damage has been extremely traumatizing. He still has his driver's license even though he is a danger on the road, while I'm being told I can't even keep the photo on my license.

It is important to me because I'm struggling with PTSD. I don't want to have a constant reminder of the crash everytime I pull out my ID. Plus, I'm a girl - I lost my smile and my license photo was a good photo that always makes me happy. I feel like it is such a small thing to do for me and it would make a huge difference to me in the upcoming years as I heal emotionally.

Please help, Adelaide

The response I got was that photos are required by the REAL ID Act to be taken if a document is issued at an office or at the very least, every 16 years.  When a customer renews a document in person a new photo and fingerprints are taken and the system is updated with the new information.

Had I renewed it online, I could have kept my photo, but I hadn’t known that until after I walked into the DMV. For months, I kept my old license tucked in my wallet’s clear ID slot on top, while my valid ID sat tucked underneath where I wouldn’t have to see it. 

These days I rarely think of showing my ID. However, recently I was talking in depth about my book with a person who generously read it in advance. It brought me back to how I felt during December 2015 and January 2016. I was in the midst of a surgery, which brought about another significant change to my facial appearance, and mediation with the insurance companies. Smack dab in the middle of both of those stressful events was when I went to the DMV for the new license. As I recall that time period I feel very sad for my prior self. I don’t think I had ever signed an email with the words “please help” before that day, or since. It was a sign of my desperation. 

Now, between all the forms of social media and phone cameras, we take photos without any thought. This is a reminder that photos hold a lot of power. In my book I discuss all of these events in much more depth and the power that other photos, like wedding pictures, had over me too.

If You Met Me After 2016...

It has been five years since my crash and in that time I've met a host of new friends and acquaintances. Initially, people associated me with the newspaper articles written about the crash when they could see my relatively fresh injuries. More importantly, I think during the first three years, before I went to trauma therapy, I wore my PTSD on my sleeve where everyone could see it. 

For example, in 2016 when Michelle Walters, a triathlete, was killed during the bike leg of Boulder Ironman, I spent a solid three days crying. At track practice the Wednesday of that week, I pulled off into the turf during my first 400 of the workout and fell to my knees convulsing as the tears flowed. I made other people deal with my trauma more back then. 

For a sense of how it's changed, yesterday a woman was pinned under an SUV in Boulder after being hit by a driver while riding her bike. While it has been on my mind since last night, I was still able to show up at run group and complete the 20-minute tempo effort with everyone else. I no longer feel personally wounded when someone else is hurt on the road. I understand that it can be hard to relate to that type of trauma unless you've been through it or near it, but for years I didn’t just relate, I lived it through other victims. 

I'm really struggling with new friends I've met since I've gotten my PTSD under control. One Saturday morning Kennett and I were cut off on our way to swim practice by the driver of a giant SUV. As the woman sped past, I saw it was a fellow swimmer who I really get along well with. She explained in the pool how her kids had made her late to leave the house that morning. I spent two days yelling at her in my head. It is SWIM PRACTICE and it is OKAY TO BE LATE. You and your giant SUV are DANGEROUS to others on the road. Especially if you decide you are too good for the speed limit!

People will tell me their traffic woes and I cringe. I'll be in a group and someone will say, "So-and-so just said they ran into traffic and will be three minutes late." What? That means they had their phone in their hand while driving, most likely texting.

A few weeks after the crash.

Many people who saw me during my recovery remind me that they put their phones away in the car because of my crash. They drive extra carefully when I’m in the car because they know I'm sensitive to traffic—particularly in instances when drivers pull out from side streets on the right, since that’s how I was hit. However, now there is a growing contingent of people who don't even know why I have scars.

I don't want to burden others with trauma that is mine. I don't need the world to support me on the days when I want to cry over my disfigured lip. I don't need to share my every opinion about crashes that happen locally. I DO need people to drive with an added caution and regard for others on the road. I am finding myself isolated from new friends, not because they don’t understand my emotional response to unsafe driving, but because the way they drive could cause a crash like mine.

While writing this I found out about two other serious collisions involving two pedestrians that were hit walking to school, and a cyclist who was hit by a driver all within 24 hours. The city needs to take real action and stop pandering to drivers—a topic for another blog post. Drivers themselves need to take responsibility for the way they drive, and start operating their vehicles like the deadly, destructive machines that they are.

Why CEMEX, a Multinational Building Materials Company, Cares about Cyclists

There is nothing better than reading a good book chock full of interesting information that you can use as a conversation starter for the following week. It keeps me from gossiping and encourages me to think more deeply about the world. Recently, my reading list has included two excellent books by Johann Hari, Life is a Marathon by Matt Fitzgerald, and How Cycling Can Save the World by Peter Walker. This last book has provided me with my most recent antidote to share.

Before this book came into my hands, I was talking with a friend who told me that CEMEX co-sponsored the Lyons/Nederland Omnium, a bike race that she competed in  earlier this summer. She was impressed that the company brought out one of the cement trucks to the race and had representatives there to talk with the cyclists, asking them to give the cement trucks extra room because they can't stop on a dime. (No surprise to me, they conveyed that the cement truck drivers often have more trouble with impatient drivers than with cyclists.)

It was after this conversation that I found myself reading How Cycling Can Save the World. In the book, they make mention of Cynthia Barlow, whose 26-year-old daughter, Alex, was killed by a cement truck in London way back in 2000. Out of grief and anger, Cynthia bought enough shares in the company, which was then Readymix and is now CEMEX, to be able to attend the company's annual shareholder meeting. In a prepared statement, she questioned why the crash had happened and demanded to know what the company would do to prevent it from happening in the future to someone else. The company listened and started to work with her to make improvements in their trucks and driving program.

As I sat there reading I thought, Holy shit, that was 19 years ago in England! Cynthia didn't organize the company to co-sponsor a bike race in Colorado but she absolutely is the reason that CEMEX cares enough to be involved. I decided to put a bookmark in and go downstairs to message my friend the backstory about why she saw CEMEX at one of her races.

In the years since Alex died and Cynthia attended her first shareholders meeting, CEMEX has added additional mirrors onto the trucks for visibility, sensors to alert drivers of cyclists next to them, and additional turn signals to alert cyclists of the drivers' intentions to turn. The company has also sponsored events, partnering with cycling organizations to allow cyclists to climb into the cab of a cement truck to understand what it is like from a driver's perspective. Just Google "CEMEX and bikes" to see how widespread their efforts are.

Photo from one of an event with CEMEX in Texas

Are you proud of Cynthia Barlow? Do you want to harness a little of that not-giving-up-until-someone-answers-me attitude? - Cause I do.

I'll leave you with this. Recently, I heard Rabbi Jonathan Sacks speak on the radio. His comment was, “Optimism and hope are not the same. Optimism is the belief that the world is changing for the better; hope is the belief that, together, we can make the world better." According to his definition, hope is believing a situation will improve, but only when action is taken.

I've been thinking about this a lot with regards to bicycle safety and advocacy. I'm not optimistic that the world is going to get better for those who commute or train on two-wheels. However, I am extremely hopeful and hearing stories like those of Cynthia Barlow only stoke my fire to make sure it happens.   

What Happens When Cyclists Finally Fill a Room?

Today I showed up for a group ride called Wednesday Morning Velo that leaves from North Boulder. As the organizers reminded people to be safe on the roads, many people turned on flashing bike lights, (I did too, but I think I forgot to turn it off and it is probably still flashing on my bike in the garage now...), and we left town. Shortly outside of town I made small talk with another rider who asked, "Have you done this ride much?"

"This is my first year, but I've been joining almost every Wednesday. You?"

"This is my second time out with the group. It is quite big. There must have been about 100 people there this morning."

Now, I don't have the exact numbers, but we did split across four different groups and I would agree with the assessment that there were at least 100 people in total—cyclists who set an early alarm and were on their bikes, ready to pedal out of town via North Broadway at 6:30 a.m.

The ride this morning fit my energy levels perfectly and I was happy to be in a pack. Briefly, I was even in the best paceline I've been in since I was a pure cyclist in 2014. Then I came home to shower and my mood shifted every so slightly because I got to thinking about this past Monday night.

Monday night was a Transportation Advisory Board (TAB) Meeting in Boulder. The hot topic up for public comment was a redesign of North Broadway because the asphalt has reached its lifespan. North Broadway is the same road that all 100 cyclists this morning had to ride on, at least in some small section because we left from the coffee shop on that same stretch of road. At Monday's meeting, all the public comments were from bike commuters and recreational cyclists, urging the city to chose protected bike lanes over simply adding two feet to the width of the current bike lanes. Whatever the city creates, it is expected to last 40 years. This is the last redesign of North Broadway that some of the riders out there this morning will see in their lifetime.

And while Monday's meeting went well because the support was overwhelmingly for better vulnerable road user infrastructure, guess how many people showed up to that TAB meeting? Fewer than 25 people including Kennett and myself.

Do you see where I am going with this? This is one of the main roads out of town for cyclists, and while I easily see hundreds of people riding on a sunny, summer day on Broadway, we couldn't even fill the seats at a TAB meeting.

To be completely fair, I understand that I don't have children to take care of in the evening. I also know that everyone has their own passion and just because mine is cycling advocacy, not everyone's is. A variety of passions in a community is important. For instance, we had a friend over for dinner who told us about the store Refill Revolution in Boulder and gently reminded us that we could be doing a better job reusing, as opposed to just recycling, in our house.

Still, if someone is passionate about cycling, then I believe they need to take a greater interest in cycling advocacy out of self-preservation. Reminding fellow riders to be safe and to turn on their bike lights is small in the grand scheme of safety. To make monumental changes I believe we, as vulnerable users of the road, need to ask for better infrastructure. No, we need to demand it. And show up en masse.

My Favorite Holiday

Bike to Work Day is a holiday in our household. It is not to be missed for workouts or appointments. Our excitement exists, in part, because winter Bike to Work Day was the first time my husband, Kennett, invited me to ride with him. He worked in the bike industry at the time, and his entire office met at Dushanbe Tea House early in the dark morning to take advantage of free chai, which Kennett's boss referred to as "rocket fuel."

WInter Bike to Work Day 2019

By Winter Bike to Work Day in 2013, Kennett and I had been dating for less than two months. He didn't own a car, which I found very attractive. It was a sign that he thought for himself and didn't just follow societal norms. While I had done a month-long bike tour with my sister, I didn't have the same close connection with the bike that Kennett had acquired during his previous seven years of bike racing. I didn't understand the nuances of being a bike racer or bike commuter, nor did I appreciate the dedication that it took to bike commute full-time. For instance, Kennett would ride 18 miles round trip that winter to have dinner at my house. Until I began bike commuting myself over the following year, I failed to realize that he must have really been interested in dating me because he was willing to ride home at 11 p.m. in the snow after spending time with me. (He wasn't riding all that way for my cooking, because apparently I undercooked all of my rice dishes.)

I got a taste of winter riding when I pulled my Surly touring bike out on the frigid January morning in 2013 to ride in a pack with Kennett's co-workers from one stop to the next. As we navigated across parking lots to the next street or bike path, people in our group would bunny-hop a curb or joke with the person next to them. I felt like a kid who was simply inhabiting an adult body, like Tom Hanks in the movie Big.

Bike to Work Day is more than just an anniversary of our dating life. The Bike to Work Day that meant the most to me was two years later in the winter of 2015. By then, Kennett and I were engaged. His co-workers had become my own because I started working at the same company. More than co-workers, I viewed them as friends. They had, along with many people in the cycling community,  jumped to support Kennett and me when I had nearly died in a crash with a car less than four months before. I felt an incredible sense of bliss and excitement, enhanced by the spicy chai, to be alive riding with them, cruising down the streets to the next sweet treat.

Winter Bike to Work Day 2015

Tomorrow is the next Bike to Work Day and I'm excited for it. As the summer version, there will be more fair-weather riders joining the festivities and the streets should be full of people who find joy on two wheels. For a little precursor fun, tonight we'll go ride bikes at Valmont Bike Park with our niece, who is just learning how to pedal.

I realize that I'm privileged to be able to ride my bike to work and activities, but I have also worked to make it happen. It is even more important now that I celebrate the good rides and the events like tomorrow because, while I want to open up about my crash and continue being a cycling advocate, I don't want to be consumed by the dangers of riding. Nor do I want to scare people away from riding. If you are a local, hopefully I see you tomorrow on the roads. If you aren't in Boulder, still consider pulling out your bike and celebrating my favorite holiday in your hometown.

CO Needs a Vulnerable Road User Bill

Colorado is currently considered a Vulnerable Road User Bill. In March, I testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee. Since then, it has made it through the Senate Finance Committee, Senate Appropriations Committee, and Committee of the Whole Senate. Today it is being heard by the House Health Committee and I will go to Congress again with Triny (another cyclist who was hit in a crash after mine) to testify. Below is my notes for what I will say this afternoon. It isn't edited the way I would for my writing, but I think it important to share anyway.

My name is Adelaide Perr. I’m a vulnerable road user and I’m here asking you to vote yes on HB-175.

Today is day one for a young woman in North Boulder. I got home from a run this morning and saw my husband a few hundred feet away, standing by the street as someone was loaded into an ambulance. When he walked over to me I hugged him. As he cried, he said the woman looked like me. He said she her eyes were rolling back in her head and it looked as though she was trying to move her arm. She was bleeding from her face. I’m here because this is important, but I’m worried about my husband who is at home suffering from PTSD today.

In 2014, I was the one on a bike ride, when a driver ran a stop sign and pulled abruptly into my lane of traffic. I was going downhill and didn’t have enough time to stop. My wheels skidded out from underneath me and I went through the driver’s side window. The last thing I remember from that day was hearing an EMT say, “Her face is peeled off.” The entire left side of my face was shattered, teeth broken, and my skin was what they call degloved -- it was ripped from my lip all the way behind my ear. My boyfriend was supposed to meet me midway through my ride. When he came across the scene I had been taken away. My injuries were so severe that nobody could tell him whether or not I was alive.

I went through two major surgeries, was in a sedated coma for five days, and spent 11 days in intensive care, which ran up a bill of $251,000. When I got out it took a long time to figure out what the traffic penalty was for the driver. He was charged with careless driving causing bodily injury. I didn’t understand why it wasn’t considered reckless driving so I asked to the deputy DA. She told me that for reckless driving the DA has to prove, “wanton and willful disregard for a person’s safety.” She told me that was very hard to prove in bike v. car crashes and that she couldn’t do anything to change the law. Her example of reckless driving was a person doing donuts in an empty parking lot, even though they are only endangering themselves and property versus putting people at risk on the road like the driver in my case did.

The driver who hit me had 17 traffic infractions, had caused 4 crashes, and had previously been listed as a habitual traffic offender. However, after my crash he only received 4 points on his license, meaning he could go out and cause two more serious crashes that year before his license would get revoked by the DMV.

The day I was hit, I didn’t own a car and commuted by bike. Due to my injuries, I immediately lost my mode of transportation. Even now that I ride again, I will probably always own a car because some days my PTSD is too severe to ride. I think it is appropriate to take away a person’s license after they have harmed someone with their vehicle.

The first night I was in a sedated coma, my boyfriend proposed to me. I’m not just asking for your support on HB-175 to keep me safe. Every day that my husband leaves for a bike ride, I make sure to give him a kiss because I worry he is going to be killed. Please help keep unsafe drivers off the roads and make the consequences for injuring someone severe.

How the Newspaper Learns About Bike Crashes

Be skeptical of crash reports in local newspapers. The police officer giving the journalist a quote is often sitting in an office miles away from the crash scene. He or she is only getting second information from the on-scene officer who has yet to complete an investigation.

The night of my crash The Daily Camera, Boulder's local newspaper, quoted a public affairs officer who was located 50 miles away in Lakewood, Colorado. His statement to the newspaper read, "The driver had come to a complete stop and yielded appropriately, when they were hit by the bicycle. The driver had started from a stop sign, but stopped for a turning vehicle. That's when they were hit by the bicyclist."

It wasn't until May, seven months later, before my crash was written down otherwise. I remember the day clearly. I was sitting at work when a new email popped up on my screen. It was the Deputy DA's sentencing memorandum, which had been submitted to the judge for the upcoming traffic case. The case was People of the State of Colorado v. Russell D. Rosh.

While the case did not officially include me, I had been in communication with the District Attorney's office multiple times prior to May for updates on the case. I asked what punishments Rosh could face. I requested photos from the scene. I wanted to make sure the letters that had been written by friends and family on my behalf were read in court. Most of all, in all of my communication with the District Attorney's office I wanted them to understand I wasn't at fault in my crash.

I'm sure law enforcement and the district attorney's office had determined long before May that I hadn't been at fault, but nobody had specifically informed me. So all winter I had the Daily Camera article in the back of my mind and it did two things. First of all it made me mad. I hadn't been able to stand up for myself because I was being treated in the ambulance and emergency room. Second, it made me question my bike skills. I would replay the moments of the crash I could remember and try to decide if there had been enough time for me to avoid the crash.

Now back to the day in May when I opened the email attachment. Here is a little bit of how it read:

L14T1161 People's Exhibit A (1)

When I got to section 6, where it stated that I could not have avoided the crash, my lips curled upward. My eyes lit up when I got to section eight. The DA understood that it would have been impossible for another car to have turned in front of the red Fiat and not been involved in the crash. The driver had lied. Finally a huge smile broke across my face when I read that I had been following the rules of the road to the "T" pursuant to section 42-4-1412(5)(a)(III) C.R.S.

By the time I saw the bullet points that went from the bottom third of one page and continued for two thirds of the next I was out of my chair reading the memorandum aloud to my coworkers. Each of the 18 bullet points listed a prior traffic offense that Rosh had accumulated. Four bullet points were bold and italicized. That was the way the DA had distinguished the offenses that had led to a crash. Rosh had temporarily lost his license three times. He was listed as a habitual traffic offender and this was only his record in Colorado. The DA could not collect any information on Rosh's driving record in other states where he may have lived.

Today as I share this story I relive all of the emotions. I grow angry when I pull up the Daily Camera article.  Then I become energized as I reread the DA's memorandum. I often feel the need to share these documents with someone and discuss my disbelief as though I still need to defend myself three years after the crash.

But here's the thing: because of that initial newspaper article I still occasionally find myself in situations where I have to defend that I was not at fault in my crash. For instance, over three years after the crash I found myself at the same social event as a prominent figure in the Boulder cycling community. As we began talking over small paper plates of chips and guacamole he told me that he always thought I had not being paying attention and simply run into the stopped car.

So I implore you, on behalf of other future traffic victims, please read each newspaper article about crashes with some suspicion. The article's writer and the police officers are doing the best job they can do at the moment, but they lack the details that only a full investigation can provide.

Those Left Behind at the Crash Scene

In this blog I want to stay at the crash scene because I think it brings home an important point — I wasn’t the only person who left that crash scene traumatized.

Immediately after the crash occurred a woman pulled her car to the side of the road. She had seen my trajectory into the Fiat and had heard the deafening shatter that followed. She stepped out and began walking towards me. When she saw me on the ground she threw her hands up to the sides of her head, a look of horror transforming her face. Then she about-faced, turning the full 180 degrees so she could bolt back into the safety of her car.

She wasn’t leaving me there to bleed. I was already being helped by the passenger, Steven Clark, who was out of the car in a second. I had the opportunity to speak on the phone with Steven a year after the crash. He attributed his quick response to the fact that he had been a boy scout and spent plenty of time at skate parks where injuries were common. Even still, thinking back on the crash his comment was, “When I see you, I see your jaw. When I helped you out, you changed my life so much.” It was a memory that revisited him often. He told me that he had flown in from Pennsylvania one year after the crash and went the intersection for several hours.

Steven was relieved of medical duties when Officer Crist rushed from his squad car carrying a first-aid kit. Having a professional who knew what to do alleviated the fear of witnesses, but even for medically trained personnelthese types of incidents are hard. Responding to the call he received for my crash sticks in Officer Crist’s head like it was yesterday.

I have never met any of these people. Let me clarify - I say in conversations that I have never met them and I am repeatedly reminded that I did see them at the crash scene. I was awake and speaking to them. I just have no recollection of it. Yet, they all have a life-changing memory of me. They all know what a person looks like when their face is de-gloved. To give a sense of how terrifying I imagine seeing me was, without traumatizing you as well, when I looked at the surgeon’s photos from before I was operated on I couldn’t discern where my jaw was. I didn’t see skin. I saw blood, and tissue, and bone. Trauma rarely happens to one person and I was not the only one to leave the crash scene in shock.

I recently discussed some of the details about the crash with Scott, the cyclist who was behind me. It wasn’t our first meeting. Within a few weeks after I returned home from intensive care we had talked at Amante Coffee Shop. The initial meeting provided him a chance to see that I was recovering and it was an opportunity for me thank him for giving a detailed, accurate witness statement to the investigating police officer. We never discussed the crash scene that day. We’ve seen each other around town since then, but again, our conversations never focused on events of that day.

Scott is off the the right talking with a police officer.

Up until our latest conversation that lasted several hours, again at Amante, I figured Scott seeing me alive and out of the hospital was what mattered for his healing. Unlike the others who saw my face torn off and life spilling out at the intersection of Hygiene and highway 36 that day, Scott has seen me recover. He knows I can scrunch my mouth to the side when I’m pondering an idea and smile while riding my bike. My assumption was that Scott had seen my scrambled face at the crash scene and it was good that he has seen it heal.

Actually, Scott never saw my face after going through the window. But he did see the blood and hear the frustration, fear, and anger in my voice. He was aware of how bad the situation was because he saw that woman as her face registered with horror before she turned to flee. What I failed to realize is that Scott and I had very similar experiences that day. I can’t remember the impact, and he can’t recall how he avoided impact and got around to the other side of the car safely. He fantasizes about having the ability to reach out and slow those moments down so that I could walk away unharmed. I daydream about whether I could have somehow navigated my bike around the back of the Fiat. We both agree that there was something about the Fiat, perhaps its bold red color or maybe simply its movement, that had immediately registered to us as dangerous and unavoidable. At one point in our conversation Scott expressed that it was good to finally be able to talk about that day. Over three years later, there was still healing to be done, and not just for me.

During any traumatic event the emotional reaches go far beyond what is normally considered. I am not the only one who has to live with the day of my crash. Others also have had to process what they experienced and find their own way to heal.

Chapter II of my book will delve into what my family went through when they found out I was in the emergency room. While they weren’t at the scene, they also experienced secondary trauma. Stay tuned for more...