Deja vu - the hospital, Ardeche, France

I knew the climb was run out and knew it would be tough, but still desperately wanted to climb it. We were in Castlejau, France where the limestone is pretty and polished, and the river is a welcome respite for sweaty climbing bodies. As I approached the third bolt of Strappel my mind became preoccupied and dark, it was lonely up there where the next move was beyond me, and any fall would be huge. The fear made my legs move like Elvis and my arms like a chicken. I knew I couldn’t climb any further particularly in this dismal form, so I began to down climb.

Suddenly, my deadly scream echoed throughout the valley scaring everyone in its wake, as I fell barely a metre and smashed my feet against the wall. As usual, after being lowered to the ground, I laughed off everyone’s concern and swore at myself for not going for the move and for making a scene, until a twitch told me my right foot was not so right. As it gradually started aching I looked back at the climb in disbelief. Déjà vu. It was the same foot ... the same foot that caused me 6 months of rehab ...the same foot that I had put down when falling off a Vespa..... how could I have been so stupid to injure it again!

Good old Vinnie the Vespa was the best accessory I had ever had. He was a funky dark purple colour, 120ccs and gave me all the freedom and speed I needed. Even playing it safe (unlike the sexy Parisian girls who little tops and heels) by decking out in my big puffy silver and purple bikey jacket, matching silver helmet, gloves and boots I felt free and alive. Bzzzzzz as I roamed the streets zipping down to the beach to check out the surf.... bzzzzzzzz as I popped down to the cafe to meet a friend.

But even before I had chance to get my licence, someone else fell in love with Vinnie and stole him away from me – right outside our house! Vexed but not deterred, I hired a moped to go for my P test anyway, but the writing was on the wall.

The morning of the test wasn’t so bad. We spent a lot of time doing circuits around the local streets in a line of six greasy teenage boys, with the instructor out in front, and me and my moped bringing up the rear. In the tea breaks we had a chuckle about the ugliness of the fluoro yellow RTA shirts we had to wear. The boys told me excitedly about their own shitty bikes, their future Ducatis, and the big trips they planned after they got their licenses. Then, in all sincerity they asked me about my (hired) moped, which, at only 100cc was the last accessory they ever wanted.

We all got through the day unscathed, and the last test was an obstacle course consisting of four short elements. Firstly, a left turn where you had to stop in a bay. Secondly, a weave in and out of orange witches hats. Thirdly, a few laps around a track stopping at various designated points, and lastly the emergency stop. By that stage I was tired and just wanted to go home; so when the instructor asked who wanted to do the test first I was quick to respond. All went well until some clouds which had been threatening during the day burst, and rain swept over the track. The ground quickly became wet, my boots slippery and my helmet cover fogged over. But I just had one more thing to do to pass - the emergency stop. I pressed on the accelerator to reach the required 30kmph before slamming on the breaks at the designated spot. The breaks jammed on the painted line, the tyres slid, and I fell - letting out that same deadly scream – and getting an automatic FAIL.

“Don’t worry ‘blossom’” said the instructor “you’ve just hurt your pride”, and I glared back at him with the evil eye. I hobbled off across the tar with my right foot becoming more and more painful until arriving at the RTA shed where I burst into tears when asking to use the phone. It became apparent that I wasn’t going to be doing anymore walking let alone riding that day, and so Mum and Dad came to the rescue. We decided that any trip to the doctor would have to wait till the next day as it was approaching dusk and we would be lucky to find one open.

That whole night I lay in agony, my foot burning, so Mum rushed me to the hospital the following morning. After we relayed what had happened, the doctor promptly rushed me into the surgical room, put my right arm on the hospital table and began plastering my right wrist!!? (Apparently there is a bone in the wrist is commonly broken after falling, and can cause problems if displaced further and not plastered. ) I was perplexed, but he assured me that my foot should be fine but should be xrayed just in case.

Nic took me to the hospital the day after where I had x-rays taken of the right wrist and the right foot. After reading the x-rays, a doctor gave my foot the all clear, but said I needed to keep the wrist in plaster for at least a week as only a later x-ray would truly confirm all was in order. So, not able to walk due to my foot, and not able to use crutches because of my wrist, Nic carried me out of the hospital, (much to the nurses envy;) and I lay in a position on the couch, that was to be my home for the next week.

The quicker my foot healed, the sooner I could get back into climbing. So in true rehab style I began little walks to assist with the healing process. I knew if I could just walk a bit further each day eventually I would be able to walk to the beach (about a 15 minute return walk) and maybe climb in a few weeks, I thought. It was painful, but I would work through that pain.

Then, out of the blue, a week later (when my foot wasn’t feeling much better and I still hadn’t made it to the beach) came a random phone call from the hospital and a message to come back in as the xray looked rather.... suspicious. I went back and they took a CT scan. Ah yes! Its as we expected, they said, your right foot is broken. BROKEN!! Oh, and errr... your right wrist is fine. FINE !! so no need for that plaster on the wrist, and we better put something on that foot. I was MAD. So began 3 months of no walking, 4 months of no running, and worst of all 6 months of no climbing.

So, as my right foot began to ache more and more through the night in the tent at Castlejau, France as it had done at Mum’s almost exactly a year before, we had dark visions of “something vertical” being more like “something hoppable”, of changed flights and plans, of months of no climbing ... but the next morning, the hospital at Aubenas was a (boys) wet dream. Jolie French nurses, no queue to see them, no queue for the x-ray, and an angelic doctor who told me that NOTHING WAS BROKEN.

So whilst I might be off the rock for 1 week or so; I’m content at Castlejau, and anyway, we’re staying here for 2.