Words & Images Chris Owen
Turning forty is a milestone that deserves a decent celebration. A couple of years ago, I was on the verge of hitting the big Four-O, but it was hard to believe… How had I been a ‘grown up’ for that long? When it came to the good times I had on bikes, it didn’t seem I had progressed far from adolescence really!
I’d spent a good part of my adult life riding bikes, and the things I loved about it hadn’t changed since I was a kid; doing skids, hucking off stuff, and trying (failing?) to go faster than my mates – all put a big grin on my face. And, of course, that surge of adrenaline and relief you experience when you ride out the other side of something terrifying.
On the 10th of September 2022, I suddenly felt my age pretty significantly, following a crash that was one for the books. Bike parks often promote the ‘Pre-Ride / Re-Ride / Freeride’ approach to hitting new or re-built trails, and a popular jump line had just re-opened after having some work done on it. I was keen to sample the new features, but I was also in a hurry to get home and keep promises to my wife – no time for pre-rides or re-rides. Bombing down the trail, I overshot a jump at full pace and, looking ahead with horror, saw what was about to happen.
The second my wheels touched down, way past the landing, my bike ploughed into the back of a freshly built berm. The result (after getting flipped upside down and clipping a tree), was twelve broken ribs, a split diaphragm, three broken vertebrae and a spinal cord injury. In a split second, some bad decision making had changed my life.
The weeks and months following the crash pushed my body and my mind to their limits. I spent four months as a patient in Burwood Hospital’s spinal unit, full of uncertainty about what the rest of my life was going to look like. Burwood is an excellent facility, but even the most qualified doctors were reluctant to tell me whether or not I’d walk again. When your lower body suddenly goes offline and you don’t know whether you will get it back, it’s terrifying; there is so much to process. At Burwood, I felt like I’d been plucked out of my ‘normal life’ into a whole new world; one that involved wheelchairs, catheters, an endless array of medication, and a total invasion of privacy. The first few evenings there were the hardest; after visitors left and the ward was quiet. In those moments, negative thoughts, anxiety and fear tried their best to consume me.
Reflecting on my time in Burwood, I consider myself one of the lucky ones, for so many reasons. Firstly, I didn’t hit my head. Secondly, I did have a shot at getting back on my feet, due to the way I’d damaged my spine – it wasn’t certain, but if I put the work in, I may just walk again. More importantly, though, my accident taught me just how much the people in my life cared about me. I was deeply moved by the ongoing flow of love and support I received. Collectively, everyone strongly believed that I would crush my recovery, and this lit a fire under me – I had so many incredible people in my corner, I was seriously motivated to work as hard as possible; not just for myself, but for them as well.
Amongst the patients at Burwood were some inspirational people who became close friends. They helped me realise that the hard work started in my head. I learnt early on that I couldn’t let negative thoughts see the light of day. Easier said than done, but crucial to getting out of bed every morning, into a wheelchair, and down the hallway to physio. I did my best to focus on the present – I tried not to pay attention to the sheer scale of work that lay ahead of me. It became obvious pretty quickly that this recovery was going to be a slow grind, so I chose (and still choose) to celebrate the small victories. It was all about the small victories. Focus on the battles, don’t think about the war. Block out thoughts about the future, just visualise walking out the front door on discharge day. Most importantly, believe in myself. There were plenty of rough days when this mindset went to the dogs. But, for the most part, I tried to see life through this lens, and so I went to work.
Fast forward to November 2023: it’s been a heavy year but I’m on my feet, and even better – I’m back on a bike! I discharged from Burwood by walking out the front door just as I had imagined. But, despite that milestone, I’m not out of the woods – a number of leg muscles still lack proper function, and it doesn’t take much to absolutely exhaust me. It’s still uncertain how much strength I’ll get back but, after everything I’ve been through, I’m insanely grateful to get this far. It’s been months of life on repeat, working with a cast of amazing people: physio, acupuncture, hydrotherapy, gym, Pilates, work, family time, rest. Rinse and repeat weekly. The progress is glacially slow, but there is always noticeable improvement every week or two, even if it’s minimal. That’s all the motivation I need to keep going at it. Small victories.
Focus on the battles, don’t think about the war. Block out thoughts about the future, just visualise walking out the front door on discharge day. Most importantly, believe in myself. There were plenty of rough days when this mindset went to the dogs. But, for the most part, I tried to see life through this lens, and so I went to work.
Seemingly out of nowhere, my 40th is just around the corner and, aside from special time with my beautiful wife and cheeky children, there’s only one way I want to celebrate it – on bikes in the mountains (eBike for me), with my mates and my brother. Doing something that, for a while, looked like it may never be possible for me again. Group chat created, keen participants locked in, route and hut suggestions getting thrown around. Lots of ideas are kicked to the curb. Understandably, everyone is concerned about what I’ll be able to manage. I convince the boys an overnighter in the Hopkins Valley is perfect, based on my very faded recollection of a climbing trip there 11 years ago. I sell it as a cruisy pedal up a flat valley, mostly 4WD track with a few shallow river crossings. Sold. Packing starts in earnest, including all the usual bikepacking and camera gear as well as crutches, a bag of meds, and bathroom consumables (if you know, you know… if you don’t, ignorance is bliss). It’s the night before, forecast looks perfect, and I can’t wait. I decide to dig out the photos from that climbing trip, years before. I notice suddenly that the ‘shallow’ river crossings I recalled were actually knee-deep and swift, in more than one photo… Hmmm.
The drive down is great. I can’t believe I’m on the road with mates, heading into the hills, after the year that has just passed. Unreal. It’s a thought that sticks with me all of Friday evening and well into Saturday morning as we set off up the valley. We enjoy a chilled 4WD trail for the first few kilometres, but suddenly we are faced with our first river crossing. It’s definitely not shallow, but it’s not ridiculously deep either… it’ll go. One by one we egg each other on as the acoustic bikes get across with a few near-swims, and a lot of laughs. Then it’s my turn – I’ve done my research on the Turbo Levo’s waterproof rating, now it’s seriously about to get tested. So is my skinny right leg – if I mess this up and have to tripod quickly, there’s a fair chance the leg will just buckle, and I’ll go down with the ship. Stop thinking, start pedaling. I charge at the river and emerge on the other side upright and grinning. The boys are cheering, and so am I. More importantly, the bike is still working!
That first crossing sets the tone for the next two or three hours; weaving our way up the riverbed, carefully looking for good spots to cross, then going for it. The kilometres fall away and our bed for the night, Elcho Hut, is only a couple of km’s away. I couldn’t be more content.
Suddenly, we’ve arrived at a bottle neck. On our right, the river has become noticeably deeper and swifter. Even the strongest amongst us (including an ultra-runner and a 6-foot sheep shearer) reckon it’s dicey, let alone for a bloke with semi- functional legs! We have no choice but to explore options on our left, where the river cuts in abruptly against the bush. Looks OK on the map, just have to link up with the nearby tramping track. The boys can portage my bike along the track for about 500m while I hobble along it on crutches; all good. Except, it’s not…. the boys find the orange track markers amongst an ocean of windfallen trees and thick saplings. Pretty average terrain to push a 23kg eBike through, loaded with gear! Regardless, everyone gives it a damn good go, trying to clear a path, knowing that it looks like our only option. To me, that shows the character of guys I’m privileged to be here with. They have my back, just as they have right through this injury.
I feel a bit helpless, sitting on the riverbed while everybody else is working so hard to find a way through. We regroup, confirming my worries – the bush route’s just not going to work. At this point, I notice the fatigue starting to creep in. I know this feeling after limping home from physio more times than I care to recall, and it means my body is on the gas light. I won’t have the energy to backtrack five hours to the car. Nobody says it out loud, but it’s looking like an unplanned night in the bush could be on the cards. Everyone spreads out on one last recce. We might be in luck: Phil thinks he has found a goaty little route sandwiched between the bank and the river’s edge, about one foot wide in places, weaving under and over fallen trees. Beggars can’t be choosers, so we set out in single file – me on crutches and everyone else carrying bikes in one hand, balancing against the riverbank with the other. So far so good. After about 15 minutes of this procession, we are nearly through the worst of it. The last obstacle, a semi-submerged tree, has me doing my best to crawl/dry-hump my way over it, in an effort not to fall in the drink. We regroup on the river flat, chuffed. The Type 2 fun is over, and we’re looking forward to knocking it off with one last pedal.
Suddenly, we’ve arrived at a bottle neck. On our right, the river has become noticeably deeper and swifter. Even the strongest amongst us (including an ultra-runner and a 6-foot sheep shearer) reckon it’s dicey, let alone for a bloke with semi-functional legs! We have no choice but to explore options on our left, where the river cuts in abruptly against the bush.
After everything I’ve been through, the privilege of being in this valley on a clear moonlit night with my bro and my mates, is not lost on me. What a way to turn 40.
The final, grassy river flat has us surrounded by a chain of snowcapped peaks, and it’s a pleasurable bit of riding after the last couple of hours. We all feel the relief at this point, roaring with laughter when Brion suddenly goes over the bars, courtesy of a camouflaged hole. Elcho Hut comes in to view, stoked. The evening is spent glassing for Tahr, taking pictures, swatting sandflies and spinning yarns. We are an eclectic mix of blokes, so the conversation topics are wide ranging to say the least.
I break away from the boys for a bit, camera in hand, and hobble around on the riverbed. As much as I want to enjoy the campfire yarns, I also want a quiet moment to enjoy what’s around me, and reflect on where I’ve come from. It’s been a wild year. I always thought spinal injuries happened to those at the pointy end of the sport. Truth is, we risk an injury of this magnitude every time we swing a leg over our bikes. Despite the issues I still face today, I’m immensely grateful that the injury wasn’t worse, and proud that my body has been able to repair itself to this point. I can’t ride the kind of trails I used to enjoy, and on a bad day, that fact hurts…. But this injury (and this trip) has taught me that just being out in the hills surrounded by good friends and family is what matters most. After everything I’ve been through, the privilege of being in this valley on a clear moonlit night with my bro and my mates, is not lost on me. What a way to turn 40.
“We don’t know how lucky we are mate” - Fred Dagg
