Why do people think that something lasts forever?
This is the story of how I accidentally reassembled myself using morphine, unicorns, cycling, and an unlicensed emotional support playlist. It starts with a crash and ends with trophies. Somewhere in the middle: jigsaw bones and roast dinners.
Oh hi. How are you? You’re looking well. That’s great to hear.
Anyway, small thing—I’ve just been looking at your records, and, uh… yeah. Bad news. Unfortunately, you’ve got a terminal condition. Called “being human.”
It’s incurable, universally fatal, and wildly under-discussed.
You could have years. You could have days. We don’t know. Sorry about that.
Life is short. Sometimes we need to be reminded.
Anyway, enough about you. Let’s talk about meeeeeeeee…
It was February 2013. I’d just bought a new time trial bike and had been training hard all winter. I was riding back from work one evening. It was dark. The lights on my bike were dim, but it was a road I knew well. So I didn’t really need lights. I had to go up onto the cycle/footpath from the road where the kerb dropped down, but it’s okay—I knew where it dropped down.
Until I realised that I didn’t.
I went sliding along the pavement on my side.
As I was sliding I thought, “at least I haven’t broken my collarbone.”
I thought I’d got away with it. There was a moment of silence and stillness as I lay in the darkness.
Then I began screaming.
I’ve broken bones before.
Lots of them.
I’m not proud of it. I wish I hadn’t.
But I know what it normally feels like.
It’s a sharp pain. It’s bad at first, then your body releases endorphins.
The pain comes and goes in waves.
Bones are like humans’ scaffolding—if you break a collarbone, it’s hard to lift your shoulder up.
This was nothing like that.
I was in total agony.
The worst pain I’ve ever experienced.
I would try to talk and be in the middle of a sentence and then scream. I couldn’t stop it. I’d forget what I was saying.
It’s like the pain would reboot me.
Someone found me and called an ambulance.
When they arrived I could not bend any part of my right leg.
The pain was excruciating.
They gave me gas and air and I perked up.
At hospital they took x-rays and said it wasn’t broken. Just a really bad sprain.
I couldn’t walk.
I could barely stand.
I felt like a prat.
They said I could go home, but I still couldn’t walk so they lent me some crutches.
It was difficult to walk on the crutches as it was so bad. I gingerly went home.
I couldn’t sleep the pain was throbbing the whole night.
At 7am the phone rang.
It was the hospital.
They wanted me to come back in because they’d had another look at the x-rays and it might have some cracks.
They wanted to do an MRI.
So, me and my mum go in. I’d just brought a drink.
I walked to get the MRI scan.
Afterwards, they were like, “Hey, do you want to ride back in this wheelchair?”
They were quite insistent I get in the chair.
They had seen the results but couldn’t tell me.
I’d shattered my pelvis. That’s why it hurt so much.
I saw the doctor.
He said my pelvis was “like a jigsaw.”
And not in the “hours of fun for the whole family” kind of way.
Nobody knew what was going to happen.
They suggested putting me in traction for “a few hours.”
So I got admitted.
Traction is where they hang a weight on a limb that’s broken, to give it space to heal.
I was basically tied to a bed.
I realised I wasn’t going to be going home anytime soon and asked mum to get me some things from my house—including my noise cancelling headphones (thank god).
I was on a ward with 4 other guys. All way older than me. All snorers.
One of them would get to sleep then snore so the others couldn’t sleep. They’d all be complaining.
But with my noise cancelling headphones I was fine.
I slept like a baby.
Finally, they were giving me some proper painkillers and the pain subsided.
The morphine made it hard to concentrate and easy to sleep.
I did a lot of sleeping.
I was good at it.
Most days I’d wake up and start listening to Boards of Canada (my favourite band).
I’d listen to it all day whilst snoozing. Staring at the ceiling.
Next day I’d do the same.
Later, I was looking back at emails I’d sent in this period.
I’d emailed a friend telling him about a dream where I was “Riding a unicorn in space.”
His wife, a doctor, said, “I think they’re giving him too much morphine.”
No, it was the right amount.
I don’t really remember the unicorn thing.
I’ve been on holiday many times but never a holiday from myself.
“Lovely trip. Great music. The unicorn ride was awesome! 10/10. The journey there was a bit painful though.”
Of course it wasn’t all clambering up the side of gigantic strawberries…
When the morphine wore off my hip and leg were agony even when completely still.
Just the thought of putting my full weight on my leg made me feel sick. It was hard to imagine walking again.
For sure I wasn’t going to ride a bike.
I started thinking back over my racing career.
I’d done lots of exciting rides and won lots of races.
But I never reached the heights that I could have.
I’d gotten close, but never won a regional championship.
I thought about all the training I’d done.
Sometimes when it got hard, I’d quit.
The thing is there is always another turbo session or another season to do that extra bit of training.
Until there isn’t.
I began to regret all the times I had given up.
Time moves slowly in hospital. But Sundays? Sundays stretch.
They serve roast, sure—but the place is quieter than usual.
No visitors.
No buzz.
Just more time to stare at the ceiling and get lost in your thoughts.
I was listening to Boards of Canada whilst snoozing—for a change.
I opened my eyes and there was a surgeon standing at the end of the bed.
A real one, this wasn’t a dream.
He told me the traction wasn’t going to work.
That they could do an operation to put in a metal plate.
It would be a long operation—8 hours.
I’d have a massive scar.
I asked, “Will I be able to ride my bike again?”
“Yes.”
“To race?”
“Yes.”
New mission acquired.
Hell yes, I’m in.
The day after the operation was the first time standing up in two weeks.
Soon I was walking around on crutches.
It was nice to explore the ward and stare at other bits of the ceiling.
I wanted to get better at using the crutches. I wanted to go home.
So I would walk up and down the corridor.
I think they might have thought I was being a bit passive aggressive.
I live alone.
They wanted to check I could cook for myself so they took me to the basement and asked me to cook some pasta.
I aced the pasta cooking.
He said, “That’s good, just strain out that pasta.”
I got it a bit wrong—it splashed up and boiling water went all over my hand.
“Did you burn your hand?” he asked.
“No, it’s fine,” I lied. I just wanted to go home. On the walk back up to the ward he said, “Is your hand sore?”
“Well, yes.”
They let me go home anyway.
At home the pain was exhausting.
I watched every episode of The World at War, including the bonus ones.
Then I watched every episode of Breaking Bad.
Every day I’d go for a walk with my crutches.
The walks got longer.
I got pretty fast with my crutches.
I wanted to keep up my strength.
I went to see the physio.
In the first meeting they assess you and ask you to set some goals.
You know, “walk the dog” or “go shopping.”
She asked me to set a goal and I said, “I want to be a regional time trial champion.”
She told me I shouldn’t ride my turbo trainer.
So I didn’t tell her I was riding it.
Most physiotherapists have trouble getting their patients to do any exercises.
Later I found out she had written on my notes that I was the most motivated patient she had ever met.
Eventually I moved off 2 crutches to 1 then none. I remember the first time I went for a walk crutchless.
I made it 20 meters.
It was too soon.
But the next day it was good.
It was easy to walk with crutches, but I’d forgotten how to walk normally.
I spent months practicing walking so I didn’t limp.
Soon after I started cycling on the road. By then it was summer and it was lovely.
At first short distances then longer.
It was just nice to be back on the bike.
At the end of the year I was chomping at the bit to get on the turbo trainer.
I didn’t know how many seasons I’d be able to race so I wanted to make them count.
It was hard.
I was starting from a low base.
When it got painful, I’d think about the pain of a shattered pelvis.
In comparison, the training was nothing.
I didn’t give up.
I didn’t quit.
I rode through the pain.
I trained all winter.
The first race of the new season I didn’t know how hard to ride it.
I’d got a power meter the season before my accident.
My best FTP was 300 watts. So I thought a bit less than that.
I started the race and it felt too easy.
I thought my power meter was broken.
In the end I just went for it and averaged 326 watts.
I only just missed out on the win.
That season was pretty mad.
I won a lot of races.
I’d told my physio I wanted to win a regional champs.
I didn’t.
I won eight.
Later someone asked how I got to be a fast rider.
I said it’s easy… you just shatter your pelvis. (Not medical advice.)
But really—you don’t need to lie in a hospital bed for two weeks, tripping on morphine re-evaluating your life while riding a unicorn.
You don’t need to endure the worst pain imaginable to power through a turbo session.
The problem is most people don’t really believe life is short—until something breaks. A bone. A heart. A promise.
We think there’s always another tomorrow.
Another season.
Another chance.
Until there isn’t.
There might only be this season, this day, this chance.
Don’t let it slip through your fingers.
Regrets are just the things you haven’t done yet.
Ride the Unicorn before it vanishes.
Davide la Locomotive 
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