Yeah, if it was one of those "midair nosedive" situations you might be able to blame it on the valve-pushers, but it doesn't sound like it was. Just a statistical result of what happens when you have things as crazy as dirt bikes with heavy, high-speed traffic.
The following is taken from page 635 (which is to say, the end) of Monkey Butt. Super Hunky sayeth:
If you should choose to ride or race a dirt bike, chances are you'll get busted up a good few times. By the time you're as old as I am, your knees will have scars, and will probably make clicking sounds when you walk. You won't have two good shoulders and at least one of your collar bones will have an ugly lump on it from where it healed crooked. Chances are your ankles will hurt when you first get up in the morning, and if all your toes are straight, it will be a minor miracle.
You'll pay a price for being involved in this particular risk sport. The bigger the thrill you get, the greater the chances you'll take in the process. If you ride or race dirt bikes for a few decades, you'll have the living shit scared out of you more than a few times. The trade-off will be the great times you'll have, and the unbeatable thrill and sense of satisfaction when you win a race every now and then. Even a trail ride with a group of good friends can turn into a life-long memory that you'll treasure.
Over the years, I've had the good fortune to be able to ride and race all over this country, and many places in the world. I've ridden everything from near-worthless piles of crap, to genuine factory works bikes.
[...]
In the process, I've broken at least 30 ribs, a half-dozen toes, numerous fingers, broke my back, pulled my arm out of its socket, had three shoulder separations, broke my nose four times, experienced four or five concussions, ripped my knees to shreds seven times, shattered one ankle, had several tree branches rip into my flesh like spears, received dozens of cactus needles in my legs and arms without asking for them, been nailed in the body hundreds of times by flying rocks, had many bloody lips from flying debris, filled my eyes with enough grit to use for potting soil, ground enough skin off my elbows to make a good sized teepee, ate so much dust that I puked mud-balls, hit the ground so hard that I pissed blood for the next two days, got blisters on my hands the size of ripe grapes, experienced leg and arm cramps that brought tears to my eyes, pulled muscles to where I couldn't take a deep breath and had my ass rubbed so raw that I not only looked like one of those monkeys in the zoo, I even walked around like one.
Monkey Butt, indeed.
Would I do it again?
Only if I had the chance.
