Page 9 of Geordie

“Do you want to ride behind John?” asks one CEO. “You should have a turn up front,” he suggests.

I know this is a way of the group accepting me. “Sure, I'll take second, no problem.”

We talk a bit longer as the wait turns into anticipation for the more difficult part of the trail. I down the last of my water and return the empty to my pack.

“Gentlemen, your ten minutes are up,” John says. “It's time to hit the trail.”

We fall into line, heading towards the path into the woods, with me behind the leader. He's traveling at a fast pace, but it's not as fast as he could be going. It's plain that he's still mindful that he's leading a group up the mountain. The path up is a series of switchbacks as we move higher. I can hear John talking to himself, but I'm not able to make out the words. I realize he's commentating as we ride the trail.

The foliage is dense, the path narrower. Constant engine noise blasts my ears as we take another turn and John moves faster. I gun my engine to keep up, working the turns with my foot down to make it around.

I'm feeling confident as I'm able to mimic John's movements. The vibration of the bike rattles my body. It's a contest to keep up, but I'm winning.

John speeds forward, taking a turn, disappearing around a corner. I push to take it the same way, swinging too close to gigantic oaks lining the path and beyond that, a steep embankment. Something in the road appears suddenly and I can’t make out what it is. I swerve to avoid what I think is a hazard, but the front wheel of the bike hits it. The bike flies up. Unable to control the machine, I'm thrown off, flying over the edge. My body bounces down the mountain as it hits the hard ground and I’m rolling down until the world turns sideways, then black.

Chapter five

Tales of a Misadventure

Geordie

Thelighttouchofa large hand rests on my shoulder. I appear to be on the ground, banked between two trees. My helmet is on, my head pounding.

“Can you hear me, Mr. MacTavish?” Someone asks.

The question seems to come from a distance; it doesn’t sound like anyone from our group. “Aye, but I’ll thank you not to scream.” There’s a chuckle and a sigh of relief behind him.

“Jesus, he’s finally responding.” It sounds like William, but my eyes aren’t focusing. “We didn’t want to move him,” he says to someone.

“You did the right thing. We’ll get him off the mountain.”

“Mr. MacTavish, we’re going to move you onto a stretcher. I need to assess you first. Is that okay?”

“Aye.”

“Do you know what happened to you?”

“Some.”

“Tell me what you remember?”’

“I remember I was riding.”

He asks a series of questions while running his hands over my body. “Are you experiencing pain anywhere?”

“My right ankle, and knee,” I grunt, as pain shoots through my leg.

They remove my helmet and roll me onto my back, securing a stabilizer around my neck. A few more people scramble down the embankment. Hands gently roll me onto a sled-like stretcher, then I’m dragged up the embankment and onto the path where I’m loaded into an all-terrain vehicle. One man secures me into the back while the other attendant climbs into the driver's side. The one strapping me in does a running commentary about what he’s doing as he works.

I’ve disengaged to concentrate on my breathing, stopping when I have to respond to a question. The journey down the mountain to the main road is going to be a long and bumpy ride. I know my slow breaths aren’t enough to stop the pain, but it helps to keep my mind focused during the trip.

I’m losing track of time as we move, but with my discomfort, it feels like we’ve been traveling over rough terrain for days. Just as I’m about to ask how much more of this torturous ride I’ll have to endure, the vehicle stops. Pushing onto my elbows to see out. I recognize the wide path where the group had its mid-ride break. There’s the deafening sound of an engine idling and large metal blades whipping through the air, stirring up a small tornado. A medical evac helicopter, like the sort you see in films, is waiting. I’m quickly loaded on board, and we fly to the nearest hospital.

I must have lost consciousness while in the air, because when I wake up, I’m in the emergency room hooked up to equipment. A vision of red-haired loveliness is standing over me with the name of Bridget pinned to her uniform. “Well, Mr. MacTavish, it appears you’re back with us.”

“What hospital am I in?”

She places a clamp thing on my finger, then glances over at the machine it’s attached to. “You’re at St. Regina’s just outside of Hollister. It seems you blacked out on your way here. We just finished getting you settled in this cubicle. The doctor will be in to see you shortly.” She points the thermometer at my forehead for a reading. I lay there for a few uncomfortable minutes, not wanting to disturb the flow of her work. When she’s done, I ask, “How are my vitals?”

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