I Had a Motorcycle Travel Accident… But Not the One You Think!

When travelling by motorcycle everyone expects the worst to happen one day, right? Yet sometimes, it’s the tiny, stupid surprises that screw you over.

We had spent an amazing few days discovering Argentina’s Wild West, filling our lungs with dust and our boots with sand when disaster struck. Not on the bike, not on the gravel, not in the heat. No. It happened when we decided to set up camp at a place that looked more like a farm from the olden days than a camping.

It all happened in the safest of environments, when walking around our home, our tent. Maybe I still had some dust slightly blinding me or maybe I was driven by a purposeful walk when – without warning – my toes met a very stubborn piece of wood sticking out of the ground.

I tried to stubborn back, but alas. We confronted one another and I lost. My dear toes paid the price.

Walking turned into a hopping cry. The skin was torn and those toes suddenly forgot how to move properly. Nothing to worry about, how bad can it be? That’s at least what I told myself. I could still convince myself it wasn’t serious.

Jonas turned into a toe doctor and professionally bathed my toes in disinfectant before cuddling them into a small bandage. We both agreed that tomorrow would be better.

As it turned out, it wasn’t. The hopping cry had now turned into a limping wobble. I could slightly walk. Or at least, I could move about. The only benefit? Cleaning up camp for the most part went to Jonas because my speed had been reduced to that of a lazy ant.

It might be hard to believe, but the worst was still to come. Putting on those motorcycle boots. I mean, seriously? How can toes hurt so badly? Most of the time I don’t even realize they exist. With some tears and a lot of determination, I put my foot in. One thing was for sure: that boot wasn’t coming back off until it absolutely had to!

The first 80 kilometres or so were gravel. Nothing challenging. Normally it’s the easy kind, the playful wobble you enjoy. But this time every wobble shot through my whole foot. The joy was soon replaced by tears.

Ridiculous, right? It’s just a few toes. How painful can it be? Well, I invite you to be surprised one day. I will for sure no longer take those tiny toes for granted.

The day did have one major highlight: I got the honour of showcasing my limping wobble at the infamous cabin of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. They clearly knew how to build a proper home! If I ever manage to own something even remotely as cosy as their cabin I will be one happy lady.

At the end of the day we found a nearby garden to camp in, and the limping wobble slowly turned into a silent acceptance that something was probably a little wrong.

Boots off with a slight grudge towards the pain they had given me all day. That wasn’t looking too good. One toe might have somewhat survived its stubborn battle with a stick, the other one most certainly had decided that a blue color and swelling were the way to go.

As doctors in general can’t really fix toes, we decided to wobble into the coming weeks ourselves. Tie them together to support one another and follow the road ahead. A road where Jonas was the doer and I could fully focus on, well, my brain and finding the best sitting option I suppose.

Fast forward just over a month and that silent acceptance finally turned into the ability to make shorter walks and to put on those motorcycle boots without being scared of the pain they were about to cause me.

But not to worry, more of that later. I suppose you have heard quite enough about those toes of mine … for now.