A proper break in the sand

Moto X.

The heat is high, the competition is on.
The sun glares down on the slick helmet of the biker who surges over the peak of the hill in a cloud of sand. Momentarily he's hidden from sight, lost in the swell of grit. But a split second later, he bursts through the dust with a mechanical growl and his front wheel thuds dully into the soft golden track, as the rest of the bike follows and ploughs on downwards.
Yet his balance is jaded; his control is gone. The front wheel wobbles as the rider panics and swerves to regain command of his bike. He breaches the next hill - the largest and steepest one in the course. His bike leaves the ground, but it doesn't land as it did before. The bike slides and lands on its side, skidding through the sand and sending up a plume of earth. The rider falls and lands almost acrobatically on his feet, but the force of his fall sends him forward again and he tumbles to the ground, skidding through the dust like his still sliding bike ahead of him.
He comes to a stop, and suddenly everything else seems to do so too.

A marshal runs forward, missing the still speeding bikes. Another man joins him. Suddenly, we too - Amy and myself - are running with bumbags in tow, surging across the thick, deep sand as fast as our sinking boots would let us.

Determination turns us blind; we climb the steepest side of the hill instead of the steadily sloping side of the track! What numnuts - we near the top and the sand breaks away under our weight. Now we are fighting to reach our fallen casualty, grappling for stable ground to grip on to, so we can haul ourselves up onto a level surface.

More people have gathered at the scene by the time we almost crawl to our casualty's side; he's rolled himself onto his back now and he's groaning in pain. Beneath the helmet I can see bright red blood, trickling from his nose and open lip. His mouth is full of it. But thankfully he's fully alert and breathing. His airway is fine - he can swallow the blood himself. And he can talk. In fact, he's crying slightly, and he's able to tell us where the pain is. His neck and back are hurting... a lot.
Dammit, I think.
Now, this sounds quite unprofessional, but for some reason we were left without radios on this particular Moto X stint. So we had to rely on our mobile phones for contact. But Amy discovered she had no call credit, and, as it turned out, neither did I.
"Amy, can you text Caitlind and ask for help?" I say as I grab a hold of the helmet. "We're gonna need a collar and a board."
Amy starts texting away as I turn to our casualty. 15 years old, lying on dry dust on a boiling hot day, undoubtedly melting in his body armor and his heart pounding with the shock of what's happened to him.
Don't move, keep as still as you can, don't move your head, don't nod, don't nod...
Caitlind arrives, out of breath from the climb, and with no gear.
So we send Amy running back down the hill to RE6 at the far side of the track. Meanwhile we - the usual duo - tend to the poor lad who's still not quite sure how this could have happened to him.

Eventually we get our gear - a collar is placed around his neck. By now, the rest of the team minus one has appeared, along with even more people.
Two guys are there - they announce that they too are first aid trained. Great, so we have extra hands if we need them.
Two women make a nuisance of themselves; clearly with the best of intentions, but we really don't need it when they're bustling about and talking over us to the patient and each other, when our communication is, to be quite honest, far more important, to both casualty and team mates.

Someone's dialled an ambulance - it arrives almost as soon as 999 was entered in the phone.
Usually we have the casualty all set for transportation by now, but by this point we had been battling with a wonky scoop which just wouldn't close. It seemed as though the sand had clogged up the clips, and no matter how hard we pressed, the damned thing just wouldn't click shut.
And to add to the poor image, the entonox mouth piece broke in some unfixable manner. So although our efforts were up to scratch, the equipment wasn't quite with us.
But the paramedics had arrived, with their own board, onto which we log-rolled the young man.
Soon, he was strapped up and away in the ambo to ARI.
To add to our poor resource performance, we didn't even have a PRF to hand over.
Yet despite the negatives, the hefty crowd which had watched on in awe graciously thanked us for what we had done. Clearly, we had done something.

But from the morning, to the afternoon.
A second young lad - 14, this time - left his bike with a heavy collision into another rider. The second rider was dazed for a moment, but was more pissed off than anything when he realised what had happened and how this had affected his racing time.
The first rider, however, was left with a far worse issue.
Ronnie and Caitlind cut through his pricey racing suit, while the lad sucked on entonox with all of his might - he was in a lot of pain, and this didn't add up to a hopeful outcome.
Right enough, the moment the boot was off and the clothing cut clear, there was a faint blue bruise and a lump where both the tibia and fibula had broken, and were now prodding at the skin as though urging to break through.
The boy was incredibly brave, and perhaps this shows just how well entonox works (n.b. different canister, therefore working mouth bit).
And this time, we managed to strap him up in a splint, secure him on a scoop (one which actually worked too) and carry him to our ambo, ready for the SAS ambulance to come and transfer him to DGH.
Job well done, with working gear and no annoying spectators to intervene at awkward and inconvenient moments.

Moral to these stories?

If you happen to be a part of the audience watching us work with a major injury at such an event, then please remember we need space and a bit of hush so we can work quickly and effectively. If you're first aid trained too, then let us know; it's great to keep in mind so we know we can rely on someone else who knows what they're doing if need be. If, however, you are neither relative nor first aid boffin, and rather just want a piece of the action but with 'good intentions,' then you do more good standing to the side and spectating. Please and thank you.