The police still had my bike. First 10 days were free, after that I had to pay a fee. Time to pick it up. Holly went to find out where it was (not easy in Spain) and found it. The woman in the storage was surprised. “Do you know the guy that rode this bike? Wow…”
I expected my bike back, maybe a few screws lose, but ready to ride again soon. Boy was I wrong. The first sign was the brand of the car that had hit me. A Land Rover Freelander. In other words, a truck…
My bike, that had done countless trips with me, I learned how to ride on it in Belgium, it went to Russia to do half Ironman, had fun trips in Croatia and so on, it was gone. Broken in pieces. With blood everywhere.
Even the pedals and shoes are badly damaged. I am still wondering how I did not break my arms or legs!
