In the middle of a rain storm, a crack in the road caught my front tire. I went one way, my bike went the other, and after I kissed the concrete I realized that things weren't normal, especially since I was feeling a sharp pain in my right ankle. My foot being useless, I stayed at a Motel 6 for a night -- intent on heading to the hospital the next day and seeing what was wrong with me.
"Can I have a room close to the office? I don't want to be around any drugs."
The man at the front desk nodded his head, his fingers scrambling over the keyboard efficiently. I was assigned room number 81, second floor.
I laid in bed, watching television for the first time in what felt like ages. Rest. Ice. Elevate. Heal. Ibprofin. Rest. Ice. Laugh at the Mexican soap operas. Rest. Ice. Repeat.
After a month and a half of being on the go constantly, This waiting around was killing me. And it has only been a few hours.
I woke up the next morning and took an uber to the hospital.
The emergency waiting room was cold and fluorescent. I waited two hours for a doctor to call my name.
The conclusion: a sprain. The doctors recommended that I rest for a week, and to stop biking. My grandfather called me up and told me about some family I had in Santa Barbara, and how they wanted me to come over. I called an Uber, and away I went.
Finally, with my ankle healed enough to ride to my next destination, I headed for San Luis Opisbo.
Sunset in SLO. Headed out to Big Sur in the morning...