I DON'T remember any of this but I was heading west on a rural B sealed road in south western Queensland.

For legal reasons I cant be more specific but it was a road I'd ridden three previous times. I knew its character; I'd written 90 percent of the draft article for this magazine and my notes on this stretch were, 'a deserted gem of a ride'.

Coming over a crest at 83kph, leaning into a left turn at 4.16pm (and 32 seconds), sun slightly in my eyes, I hit an unsignposted 25 metre stretch of roadworks.
Two inches of loose gravel had been spread across my entire side of the road.
I fought the low side lose but got catapulted over the top, ending beside the bike 15 metres from the roadside. If I'd been solo, I would not've been seen from the road.
Charlie, my ride buddy told me later that head lost about a second and a half drop jawed in 'Holy Shit' mode watching me fly, tumble and slide before grabbing a handful himself and stopping in time.I'd sprained an ankle and every finger, broken my pelvis, smashed my shoulder in seven places and (now for the left side) broken my wrist in two places.
I remained conscious but very concussed. I had a puncture wound in my hip which was leaking blood but the concern was my spine.

I asked Charlie whether my toes were moving and he confirmed they were. Likewise my fingers moved when I made them. We both relaxed. A little.Adrenaline was taking care of my pain. I lay on my back waiting for help. Charlie's Vodaphone had no reception but he found mine and in my haze I told him the code. (After this I could not remember it for three days.)
Telstra, bless 'em had five bars and soon the local cop and the fire brigade had got to me.
I'd been wearing my number one kit: Nolan helmet, Rukka Armas Jacket and gloves, Dririder Avalanche pants and Forma boots from Andy Strapz.It was all cut off me. I'd lost no skin and once the hip wound was dressed the ambo had arrived and I was taken to the local hospital and then helicoptered to Toowoomba Base.If any of this is incorrect blame Charlie as we've still not got to anything I can remember.
Apparently I was MRI'd and x-rayed. Apparently I screamed each time the morphine wore thin.

A window of my memory recalls speaking with a surgeon who suggested an airlift to Sydney and there's dim fogginess of being strapped into the Royal Flying Doctor twin prop in darkness, nothing of the flight and then a little of arrival at the hospital in the Emerald City.
It was now three days since the prang.
My doctors told me I won't ever get the memories back. This was about the best news they were to give me in the next few days.
I'd wake to find riding mates beside my bed; Ramjet and Tracey (who just broken both wrist from hitting a roo on her monster, an accident that'd caused her to give riding away) came by with flowers, Aunty Mal rang, Panorkle called and others sms'd their best wishes. Each call, each message, each email lifted my spirits.

My shoulder was causing the most consternation and it was decided it was beyond repair and would have to be replaced. The pelvis would be pinned and the broken wrist left to mend inside its fibreglass cast. The sprains were to be ignored and left to their own devices. I was told I'd never again be able to raise my hand above my head, I'd never swim, I'd never ride a bike, never again throw a ball nor have sex in the missionary position. I'd never swing an axe or sledge hammer…
This recitation went on through no push-ups and no chin-ups but I switched off. I needed to hear some short term impossibilities. These were all too abstract, too far down the track. So I asked about my plans for two weeks hence. No, I was told, I'd not be fit to get to the NRL Grand Final, and no, I'd not be able to get to the row four seat (plus pre-event meet and greet) for Meatloaf's concert a few days later.

All this, I do remember! I needed these short term prohibitions because I knew I was going to need to prove the surgeon wrong! And quick. I couldn't wait for a couple of years to ring him from the beach and kick metaphorical sand in his face with my just surfed feet. I couldn't wait a year to give him a friendly riding gloved finger after a zip up the old road. The day before the Grand Final I checked myself out of hospital and set about organising the next day's lift to the footy. It was a great match but nothing compared to meeting Meatloaf, to having him sign my cast and having him dedicate 'Bat out of Hell', to me. Nothing compared to dancing, well kinda dancing with my crutch above my head! Next day I could hardly walk but I knew that now I'd proven the surgeon wrong on these things, the others were a matter of time. I was on the way back. 
Next month: The start of physio and making pain a friend. And why the accident's time and speed details are so mercifully accurate!

– Colin Whelan