Of clavicles and cowls; and the demise of weeks

I guess it's normal to look back and curse one's luck,
if one has been in an accident.

But no, I am not doing any cursing, though its been a
slow / boring / painful / incapacitating stretch of days
adding to weeks (and one whole month) since I broke my clavicle
somewhere on the road to Kolkata and Rider Mania 2011.

For one, when I look back I wonder how I have managed to stay
lucky so far, without being involved in a serious accident or
even breaking a bone; considering the "active" way that I have
lived.

I could have broken this (or some other) bone in my largely
unsupervised childhood (a very Huck Finnish one) days scampering
up and down hills, or jumping from tree to tree.

Or I could have broken it in some wild west saloon / setting,
catching a cosh meant for the ear, stopping a stray bullet or
getting thrown by a horse -- in all my repeated readings of
assorted cowboy westerns in my extended childhood.

You can imagine me in similar scenarios / situations / settings
from combat comics / Alistair Maclean novels. Breaking a bone is
pretty common in adventurous / active scenarios.

So, I guess it isn't exactly mind-boggling that I broke my collar
falling from my Bullet one cold winter evening some 40 or so kms
from Kolkata. I mean, maybe it wouldn't have happened if had
stayed at home instead of answering the call of the road, but
then again, it isn't that strange right?

No, I am not being facetious or mock stoic. After all, as per
the law of averages I had to crash sometime and I am lucky to
get away with neck and head (and everything else) intact. And just
bust my collar bone.

Having said that, it has certainly been a bitch -- sitting on my
behind and watching time add up the days and eat up a month, while
I wear a sling for my right arm and a brace around the shoulders and
cultivate patience; waiting for the spot-weld on the bone to
strengthen enough to pick up a pen to write.

Or for that matter, wait for the mind to move on from the hurt, pain
and ignominy of having to come back home leaving a ride incomplete
(my original idea was to ride long into February and wander around
over the North East). Or wait and learn how to deal with the wretched
feeling of watching my trusted Bullet gather dust, parked motionless,
missing its headlight cowl (part of the minimal damage to it due to
the fall) and urgently needing a service.

I am seeing my Doctor in two days (to know when I can stop wearing
the brace). Incidentally, I have got back to "writing with a pen" a
week back. So I guess I am healing, in a slow, more or less steady way.

But it doesn't mean that I will forget or ever get over the ignominy
of leaving a ride incomplete (and I hope I never have to do it again in
my life). Nor does it mean that I will forget my un-kept date with the
North-East.

For whatever my Doctor says, healing for me means being able to ride again.

After all, there are some hungers that time can't sate (or heal).