A few months ago, it seemed like a great idea to sign up for a mid-week cyclosportive in Surrey. Paula and I drove to Box Hill to cycle part of the bike route used in the 2012 Olympics. The roads were immaculately paved and the views were breathtaking. And the roads were very slippery after a light rain.
We were very enthusiastic, despite our long stop to fix a puncture but little did we know the fate that awaited near Shere. It was that descent; that steep, tree covered, scary, dark descent. A marshall warned us of the dangers (and the ambulances seemed like a bad omen) and seconds after turning the corner and breaking to slow down, my bike skidded out of control, my knee and the road meeting each other with great force.
I immediately knew I had done something wrong to my knee. There was a First Aid man at the hairpin turn who calmly scooped me up and stablised the knee. Hours later, in A&E, I got the news that the knee was fractured, not the best thing to have 10 days before doing the final practical exam for my 200-hour teacher training (that we have been focused on for this past year!). I am very sad.