Billy Connolly's Route 66_ The Big Yin on the Ultimate American Road Trip - Billy Connolly [93]
Once inside the hospital, the doctors examined me thoroughly. After several X-rays and some tests, the verdict was that I had one broken rib and lacerations to my knee. It could have been much worse. The pain was hellish, but I was more concerned about my jacket. Someone in the crew offered to take it to a seamstress, who pronounced that the damage wasn’t terminal. My jacket could be saved. Twenty-four hours later, I had it back. Both my jacket and my leather waistcoat had been magnificently reassembled. I was left marvelling at the thoughtfulness and care of the ambulance crew. That’s one thing I love about America – they think about little things like that.
Unfortunately, getting my body back into shape wasn’t as easy as repairing my clothes. A broken rib might sound like nothing, but there’s nothing anyone can do to help the healing process. It can’t be bandaged and there are no fancy creams to apply. So I just had to rest and leave the bloody thing as it was.
Back at the hotel, easing myself into bed, I coughed. Christ! I thought I’d been hit by a bolt of lightning. And when I sneezed, it felt like someone had dropped a Volkswagen on my chest. The pain was excruciating. I couldn’t laugh, either. And getting in and out of bed was a nightmare. Just hellish pain.
I was prescribed some serious painkillers, but they were so strong that I was a bit scared of them and soon decided they probably weren’t the best idea. I was feeling too good on them. Opiates can creep up on you like that. Opting to give the serious stuff a wide berth, I settled on some simple anti-inflammatories and had a good rest. Meanwhile, the crew and everybody else who helped me were very kind, even though I was turning into a grumpy whinge-bag. Eventually, I had to sit down and have a word with myself about my behaviour. This was real. It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t an act. People really were that nice, kind and pleasant. They accepted that I’d been through the mill. I’d really been kicked on Route 66.
12
Flagstaff, Arizona, Don’t Forget Winona
After four days’ recuperation, I had to face the fact that I’d have to get back on the bike the next day. My rib was still tender, my knee was still bandaged and covered in weeping scabs, but I needed to continue the journey. To be honest, I didn’t give it too much thought. Like getting back on a horse, it just had to be done. Hanging around until everything had healed was not part of the deal.
The bike itself held no fear for me, but I was a wee bit apprehensive about going over bumps – simply moving around on my bed still sent sharp shocks of pain through my rib. I told myself I’d be okay. After all, the bike was a relatively comfortable vehicle with a relaxed riding position, so I ought to be fine. My main problem was that I’d now reached the part of the journey where every destination was a very long way from the previous stop. This was the big country with big distances and big, big drives.
Thanks to my emergency helicopter trip to the hospital in Flagstaff, I’d ended up further down Route 66 than I’d planned to be, so I double-backed to Payson, Arizona, where it was rodeo time. I’d never seen a rodeo in the flesh before, but I’d watched it on television and quite liked it. It was like skate-boarding or BMX biking; I hadn’t realised it was a proper sport until I’d seen it on TV, but then I’d learned about it and become interested. And I’d worn cowboy boots for many years, so that had to count for something.
I was most fascinated by the clowns. For ages, I’d thought they were kind of useless, some of the worst clowns I’d ever seen. Then I discovered they aren’t there to make the crowd laugh. Their real function is to protect the guy riding the horse or the bull by acting as a human