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...

Chapter 1

This weekend it was triathlete Matt Russell who was taken out by a driver during the Ironman World Championships and was hospitalized in intensive care. Earlier in the week Tim Don was struck by a driver while preparing for the same race and fractured a vertebrae. This summer there was a similar story involving an older gentleman who got hit a few miles from my house. Last summer it was a father of three children who was killed on that very same road while enjoying his Saturday bike ride. The more egregious stories are featured in the news and, while the circumstances change, the cyclist-being-hit headline has been used too often. Changes need to be made. Each news article does its best to report the physical injuries but the full scope of a crash cannot easily be described, which is why I am writing a book. Below is the first chapter. Today marks three years since my life was nearly ended by an impatient driver.

“I was following Adelaide Perr and witnessed the accident, the severity of her injuries…I will simply say it was the worst single thing I have ever witnessed and left an indelible memory of absolute horror.”

- Scott Robinson, cyclist on March 13, 2015

On October 18, 2014, my future husband, Kennett, and I woke to a brisk but sunny Saturday. I walked our seven-month old puppy, Maybellene, along a bike path and up a tiny dirt hill to a street that led to the 1.5-acre dog park near our two-bedroom apartment. When we returned 45 minutes later, Kennett was in the kitchen flipping two plate-sized pancakes. Decked out with peanut butter, banana, and honey, these pancakes were our standard Saturday breakfast. We ate on the couch, at times resting the plates on the coffee table while we perused the Internet.

As athletes we kept our lives simple and full of routines such as the Saturday pancakes. Money went towards training and racing. Nights were spent eating salad and dessert in front of a Netflix show so that we could get to bed early. The reason we ate on the couch was because our dining room area lacked a table and was filled with bikes instead.

As the final bites of pancake were devoured Kennett and I discussed our separate rides for the day. He was going to enjoy an off-season ride with friends and they planned to climb up Lefthand Canyon, a narrow two-lane mountain road. In my off-season from cycling I was training for HITS Lake Havasu iron-distance triathlon. The 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride, and 26.2 mile run were only three weeks away. I liked tagging along with Kennett and his fast friends so I decided to ride my first few miles in their pack before separating. I needed one last multi-hour, flat ride to boost my confidence.

We went upstairs to change into our bike kits. I was testing out my old blue triathlon shorts to see if they’d be at least marginally comfortable over a long ride. I also put on Kennett’s old King of the Mountain Jersey that he had won at Sea Otter Cycling Classic the previous year and gifted to me. Even though the short sleeves were snug against my triceps, I loved the red polka dots on this jersey and felt spunky wearing it.

I’m sure we debated what other articles of clothing were necessary for the fall weather. I opted for a pair of black arm warmers and a vest that was given to me by Kennett’s team the previous season. The vest, brightly colored with the Swedish and United States flags, lay against my body better than my other cycling apparel, which made me feel lean and confident. Both the jersey and the vest were irreplaceable and held special meaning to me, but both would later be cut off my body.

Even if you wouldn’t be caught dead in cycling gear, picture wearing your favorite shirt or jacket; they almost surely boost your mood. Now you can appreciate how I felt leaving the house that morning.

We grabbed the bikes by their top tubes and handlebars and headed out of our apartment, down the inside stairwell, and out to the street. We coasted a block down our residential neighborhood to Amante Coffee Shop on the corner — a hot spot for cyclists leaving town on group rides. Like so many others, we met up with friends. I pulled up next to the brick-walled corner and sat on my bike waiting for the full group of guys to form.

Our friend Matt was in front of me and because I was on my triathlon bike, a conversation about racing came up. Matt was at one point a triathlete, but he had become a professional cyclist who occasionally trained with Kennett. I’ll never forget Matt encouraging me to get a coach. After watching my cycling progress over the 2014 winter and spring, he believed I could go places in the sport and that meant the world to me. It was the last time I’d been told I was a powerful athlete before the crash. In the months that followed I often returned to that conversation in my mind and used it as motivation to regain my strength.

Word spread between our small group of eight that we were headed out. We navigated through the black wrought iron patio furniture outside the coffee shop. With a chorus of clicks and beeps, we all clipped into our bikes and hit the start button on our Garmins. The Garmin screen showed my speed, average speed, distance, time, and watts exerted. I would use all of these data points to stay on track for a steady ride.

The group organized into a pack that rode two people side-by-side. I stayed out of my aero bars so my hands were closer to the brakes, allowing me to react quickly to the movements within the pack. The upright position also ensured I could safely ride in the pack because I could see around the riders directly in front of me. We got through the last two stoplights in town, turned left onto the wide shoulder of US Highway 36, and headed north. While the road is designated as a highway, US-36 is only a two-lane road. Each side has a paved shoulder that varies between five and 10 feet wide, making room for cyclists even though the speed limit for cars is 60 mph.

I rode in back of the group next to Matt so that I wouldn’t push too hard for the first fifteen minutes of my planned five-plus hour ride. At the left turn for Lefthand Canyon the guys turned their heads to check for traffic behind and then slid over a lane while waving a quick goodbye to me as I continued along the shoulder of US-36.

Once I was alone I glanced down at my Garmin and refocused on executing my ride. Physically, I wanted to see if I could hold an average pace above 20 mph. My plan was to complete four loops on rolling-to-flat roads, twenty-five miles per loop. I wanted to feel comfortable with that distance but doing the ride as a series of loops gave me the option to cut it short if my energy was dragging.  If I got too tired I wouldn’t be far from home -- the end of each loop was only three miles from our apartment. When I parted from the boys I was only two miles into my first lap, so I just settled into a steady effort. Every 20 minutes or so I'd eat a gel or part of a Clif Bar and wash it down with water. I spent the majority of my time hunched over my aero bars. I went from the highway road to 75th where I passed The Purple Door Market, a small local store. I planned to stop there on my second lap to refill on water. I turned right onto Neva Road and had to push a little harder to hold my average speed on the false flat. The quiet two-lane road took me past a field of horses to the north and a trailhead to the south.

I finished the first lap at the intersection of Neva Road and US-36 in an hour and ten minutes, which was right on pace. Cresting the hill, I looked behind me for other cyclists before I took a right turn onto US-36 for lap two. I began calculating where Kennett would be based on the time since we parted ways. To break up the ride, Kennett had agreed to meet up with me after riding with his friends. He was going to ride my loop in the opposite direction until he saw me and, after my mental estimations, I had a feeling that would be on this lap. I’d have to make sure he didn't pass me when I stopped at the Purple Door Market.

As is probably the case for almost every local rider, I’m normally happy to leave the noise of US-36 behind me. The road serves merely as a means to another destination. Given the bright blue sky and warming rays of sunshine, I was just one of the thousand cyclists who rode this stretch of road that Saturday.  I thought it was odd that, despite being on the busiest road I'd travel, it was my favorite part of the ride. The rolling part of the road varied the pace which was more fun. I specifically remember being calm, content, and proud of my willpower to push through what, for me, would be a hard ride.

Still gauging my speed, I naturally slowed down on the climbs, picked up my pace during the flat sections, and relaxed when I had the momentum of going downhill. In my constant pacing, I passed riders along the way. One guy passed me back shortly after I came by him, and then I passed him again a few minutes later. While I became irritated by playing leap frog, I wanted to stay on target with my goal pace for the ride. I later learned the guy who I had been trading spots with was Scott Robinson.

After passing Scott the second time I tucked into my aero bars and took a deep breath. The upcoming section of road, which heads north into the town of Lyons, was my last downhill to rest until the next lap around. As I approached the intersection of US-36 and Hygiene Road, a two-lane country road, I moved left from the shoulder of US-36. This put me in the center of the right-hand turn lane that existed for drivers traveling east. Moving into the turn lane would deter cars from cutting me off with a right hook, while also providing a straight, safe trajectory through the intersection and back into the shoulder of US-36 again. Since US-36 is the larger road, there is no stop sign for north or southbound traffic; only cars approaching from Hygiene have to stop in order to get onto US-36. This type of defensive riding was instinctual to me at this point. I knew the rules of the road and and how to explicitly show cars what action I’d be taking.

When I was fifty feet out from the intersection a large red obstacle suddenly appeared in front of me. I knew it was a vehicle, but it drove several car lengths past the stop sign so quickly that when it stopped directly in my lane of traffic I felt my situation to be momentarily surreal. Given that I was on a six-percent downhill my pace was averaging close to 35 mph. My hands jumped up from the aero bars to my bullhorns where I grasped the brakes so tight that they locked against the rims of my wheels. Slowing down wasn’t a good enough option, I needed to stop. The feeling of my rear tire skidding out from underneath me sent an electrifying sense of panic throughout my body. I knew my control was gone, I could no longer correct the situation, and I was going down. The moment my body slammed into the red Fiat, Scott was behind me by mere seconds. With those extra moments, he swerved to the left and into the oncoming lane, narrowly avoiding the Fiat and oncoming traffic. Behind him, tires screeched as another car swerved to miss the Fiat.

While I don’t recall impact, I know that I went straight through the driver’s side window. My face shattered the glass into thousands of shards. Those pieces sliced my face open before they settled onto the car seats, between the folds of the stick shift, and across the soon-to-be bloody blacktop. In addition to the driver, there were two passengers in the Fiat, drivers from other cars, and nearby cyclists who watched the scene unravel. One passenger, Steven Clark, jumped out of the car and ran to my side. He pressed a blue-and-white plaid shirt against what was left of my cheekbone. The driver, Russell Rosh, was shaken and stood back. What felt like split-seconds for some witnesses must have felt like a lifetime to others. I’m not sure how time passed for me.

Away from the chaos, my clear water bottle with a yellow cap came to a stop down the hill. Kennett had filled the water bottle for me earlier that morning and it would be his first sign that something was amiss.

Among the people who assisted me and directed traffic there was someone who made the 911 call. According to police documents, at 11:48 am Sergeant Bill Crist from the Boulder County Sheriff’s office was on patrol in the nearest town, Lyons, when he received the radio call. By 11:50 Crist was on the scene with a first aid kit.

I was sitting against the driver’s side wheel. His entire focus went to me and providing the ambulance updates. I was going in and out of consciousness. He assured me I was doing a good job staying calm. “Stay with me. What is your name? Take a few breaths for me.” My grip on his hand was strong.

I tried to say Adelaide multiple times, but he couldn’t make out the garbles. Finally I spouted out my first name, which is Sara. According to Scott I also asked, “Why is there so much blood?” My unanswered question has been — how was I able to speak at all?

When the paramedics arrived one of them rushed over with a bandage. “I want to get this on her face.”

Officer Crist tried to convey that probably wasn’t going to be feasible. As the paramedic began removing the flannel shirt my face came off with it. With a greater understanding, the paramedic agreed. “Ok, we will leave the shirt there for now.”

All official documents described the bleeding from the left side of my face as significant, extensive, brisk, and severe. Another term used for such injuries is de-gloved. Picture peeling off a glove, except replace that with peeling off skin and soft tissue after blunt trauma to the bones. Officer Christ wrote in his after-action report that he realized it was a level one trauma incident. As such, I had to be transported to a designated level one trauma center. These hospitals are required to have a helipad along with 24-hour emergency care including trauma surgeons, oral surgeons, plastic surgeons, and most important to me at the time, maxillofacial and anesthesiology care.

The helicopter was called to transport me to Craig Hospital in Denver, but an ambulance was closer to the scene. It took four minutes from the time of impact to get me loaded into the ambulance. It took only another seven minutes until I was wheeled through the emergency room doors of Longmont United Hospital, seven-miles due east of the crash. The EMTs weren’t sure I’d stay alive for those crucial minutes. I was in and out of consciousness throughout the entire process. My only post-crash memory of October 18, 2014 is a blurry image of being lifted into the ambulance and the voice of an EMT who said, “Her face is peeled off.”

What haunts me more than those final words from the EMTs is what I can’t recall. The details I’ve written about what happened after I hit the window — those aren’t my memories because I don’t have any. I wonder, what I was thinking during those moments of consciousness? What did I want to ask but couldn't due to my injuries? Did they tell me where I was headed? Did I realize there was so much blood because I was bleeding to death?

Recently Kennett and I began watching the movie Free State of Jones starring Matthew McConaughey. Within the first few scenes his character’s son is shot. I decided that, while I didn’t want to see this boy die, I’d continue watching because I enjoy movies that are based on true stories. What I wasn’t prepared for was when the son didn’t immediately die. Instead, Matthew McConaughey carried his son towards the medics. The son, in his father’s arms, pleads for answers to his questions, “Am I going to die? Why am I so thirsty?”

I immediately jumped up from the couch and hit the off button on our DVD player. I stood there and started bawling. It made me feel sad for my person after the crash. I say, “my person” because I can’t emotionally connect with who I was while I was facing the possibility of death. I have no idea if I was thirsty or sick to my stomach. Since I lack the memories from the crash, my imaginary experience of that afternoon is like that of a bystander - as if I were a character in a movie who looks down at themselves in an out-of-body experience as they die.

I’m fortunate. I did make it to the hospital alive that day. I have since married my best friend and happily qualified as a professional triathlete. Still, I deal with the emotional repercussions from the crash on an almost daily basis. Today in particular, because it is the three-year anniversary, my thoughts will turn to how I almost missed getting married, watching my sister get married, and the birth of my niece. Often I’ll yell at a distracted driver and point at the scar on my face as if they should personally be held responsible for my crash. I’ve also learned that what happened extends emotionally well beyond me. When a cyclist is hit by a car the witnesses, family, friends, caretakers, and community at-large also suffer from trauma. My book will share my recovery, my family's experiences, managing PTSD, and more. Stay tuned for more excerpts.