Some days the trails give you flow.
Some days they give you bruised ribs and a reminder that you’re not as invincible as your helmet would like you to believe.

This little lunchtime ride was supposed to be exactly that: a quick spin, nothing heroic, nothing fast, just rolling through the woods to clear the head. The Strava file even proves it — no KOM ambitions, no red‑zone heart rate, just a relaxed loop. And then came that corner.

The trail was still damp from the previous night’s rain, the kind of damp that looks harmless until your front wheel politely decides it no longer wants to participate in the concept of friction. I wasn’t even going fast — which is the embarrassing part. At higher speed, the wheel probably would’ve cut through the mud instead of surfing on it like a bored seal. But no. Slow and careful was apparently the wrong choice of the day.

Front wheel slips.
Bike tilts.
Ribs meet ground.
Gravity wins.
End of story.

Well… beginning of the story, actually.

The Aftermath

At first, it didn’t seem too bad. I stood up, checked the bike (obviously the priority), took a few deep breaths — ouch — and continued riding. Surprisingly, biking to the office was still possible the next day. Not comfortable, but possible. Pedalling doesn’t require much rib involvement, apparently.

Running, however… running was a whole different universe of pain.

Every step felt like someone poking a bruise with a stick. Uphill? Manageable. Downhill? Absolutely not. Flat? Also not. Breathing? Optional, but recommended. It took almost a full month before running stopped feeling like a medieval punishment technique.

And sleeping? Forget it. The first nights were an endless rotation of “this position hurts” and “this position hurts even more.” Lying on the left side? No. Right side? Also no. Back? Only if you enjoy feeling like a stranded turtle. I basically slept in 12‑minute intervals and woke up every time my ribs reminded me of their existence.

Slowly Back to Normal

Weeks later, things finally calmed down. Running became tolerable again. Sleeping returned to something resembling sleep. And the bike? The bike, of course, was fine the whole time — smugly hanging in the garage, waiting for the next ride, pretending it had nothing to do with any of this.

But that’s trail life. Sometimes you get flow. Sometimes you get mud. And sometimes you get a gentle reminder that even slow crashes can hurt like hell.

At least the Strava activity looks innocent. No one would guess the trail tried to assassinate me.