In the hospital bed, I tried to recount the crash. Images ran like a film through my head, but then suddenly cut, as if moments key to putting the sequence together had been edited out. I replayed it countless times, unable to recreate the lost moment. Frustrated, I reached for some more stale cake, trying to satiate my sadness with gluttony. As I devoured the pile of cakes and croissants, then slugged down water to wash it all down, my mind shifted away from the challenge. The pain throughout my body faded with the sugar and medicine. Crumbs tumbled to the floor, landing on the pile of torn, salt crusted, blood stained race clothes. At the top of the dirty pile were crumpled race numbers. I had been wearing number 13.
And while we're at it, hook up my kid with a matching trike!
Ok...get to work...