“I was hit by a bus while riding my bike. The accident changed my life”

I was born in 1971, the youngest of three brothers, in Saint John, New Brunswick. My father was bipolar, self-medicated with alcohol and emotionally abused my mother. When I was 11, my mom left to protect herself. After that, my dad would come and go, occasionally giving us money. But, for the most part, my brothers and I fended for ourselves.

By the time I was in high school, my place was the clubhouse for my crew. We would hang out, party and do stupid stuff on our BMX bikes. I was naturally athletic, and I was always willing to take the biggest risks for a trick. A bruise, a sprain, even a broken bone—which happened more than once—wouldn’t deter me.

I briefly attended university for engineering on a full bursary before flunking out because I blew all of the money on partying. For a few years, I spent my time cycling, thrill-seeking with my friends and hanging out with my girlfriend, Laurie. I got into downhill mountain bike racing, ice climbing and motocross. By 1992, what started as a hobby had become a serious pursuit. My dad loaned me, my brother Rob and a friend $1,000 to open our own bike repair shop. We called it Single Trax Cycles.

At the same time, I decided to go back to school and enrolled in the business program at the University of New Brunswick. Within two years, Single Trax Cycles expanded and became one of the biggest bike shops in the province. It paid for my tuition.

In 1996, we closed the shop, and I moved to Toronto with Laurie to work at a consulting firm—but I never stopped chasing my next hit of adrenalin. On my time off, I would ice climb and mountain climb, travelling to places like Khumbu, the Andes, Peru and Yosemite.

Laurie and I eventually got married, settled in Toronto’s east end and had two children, Brooklyn and Xander. In 2021, when Xander was 15, he asked me if I wanted to take up skateboarding with him. The fact that I was 49 years old wasn’t going to stop me. I had survived a fall from a 40-foot ice formation, 15 broken bones and at least 10 concussions. I could handle it.

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We went to the Ashbridges Bay skate park a few times, but when Xander learned it would take many hours and bumps and bruises before he could come close to doing the things he’d seen on TikTok, he was out. Skating was a different beast than I was used to. I had always been able to show up to a sport and look like I had done it for years, even on my first go. That wasn’t the case with skateboarding—you have to take it step by step. My determination went into overdrive, and I became hooked. I started going to the park for two to three hours a day between work calls, teaching myself tricks like boardsliding handrails and skating stair sets.

I became known by the local skaters as the old dude who could shred. After a year and a half, I even got spotted on Instagram, where I’d post videos of my tricks, by skateboard brand L’État, and they offered me a spot as a brand ambassador. Just like when I was a kid, I felt indestructible.

On April 20, 2023, I was at Ashbridges doing my thing. Instead of cycling home on the Martin Goodman Trail like I usually did, I took Eastern Avenue. I was heading down the busy thoroughfare, five minutes from home, when I heard a deafening screech of brakes and then a smack of metal. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the concrete, my legs trapped under the back left corner of a TTC bus. A stranger who had been walking by was holding my hand, crying. I knew from her tears that I wasn’t in good shape, but I couldn’t feel anything.

Whenever I get into an accident, my thought process is Get up, shake it off, move on. That’s what I tried to do, except this time my body wouldn’t respond. I tried to stand up, but nothing happened. Without a body to move in, I thought, my life was over. I looked at the woman and said, in total seriousness, “I’m paralyzed. Could you get the bus driver to run me over?” In that moment, I wanted to be finished off.

I floated in and out of consciousness, and when I came to, I was in an ambulance. I overheard a paramedic telling the hospital to brace themselves for what was coming in. I looked down at my feet—I was wearing my favourite Emerica skate shoes—and I saw my right toe move. I realized, with a massive wave of relief, that I might be all right. Then I passed out again.

When I opened my eyes, at St. Michael’s trauma clinic, I was on a metal slab, being prodded and poked by what felt like 40 doctors. There was a woman next to me, who told me she was a social worker. I knew that wasn’t a good sign—never in all the times I’d been injured had a social worker been required to translate the gravity of the situation. She called Laurie, who rushed over when she realized this wasn’t one of my usual no-sweat accidents.

I had a six-inch round gash on my head and ballooned discs in my C6 and C7 vertebrae, which meant my neck was broken. The doctor told me I should be paralyzed or dead. Yet I was alive. I didn’t even have a concussion, and I could move. I was ushered into emergency surgery, which lasted six hours. While I was under, surgeons slit my throat to perform an anterior cervical discectomy and fusion surgery, which removed a damaged spinal disc and fused the bones above and below it using a titanium plate.

Malcolm Gladwell famously said that if you do something for 10,000 hours, you become an expert at it. That applies to me when it comes to the damage and recovery of my body. Six days after my surgery, I saw a physiotherapist. She said she was going to try to help me walk again but that I should get used to the idea of walking with a cane for the rest of my life. I couldn’t accept that. I was determined to bounce back.

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The physiotherapist told me she was going to help me out of the bed, but I told her, my wife and two large, husky male nurses to get out of my way. “I got this,” I said, before immediately crumpling to the ground. The nurses picked me up and helped me shuffle, very slowly, with a walker. But something went off in my brain: I was moving, and I wasn’t going to stop.

That night in the hospital, I lay in bed as messages streamed in from friends: “You’ve got this, Brad—you’re indestructible.” “If anyone can beat this, it’s you. You’re Superman.” They were meant to make me feel better, but the messages only made me panic. I was worried about disappointing everyone. I wasn’t the same guy, the fearless person they knew and admired, anymore. Even if I built my strength back up, I didn’t know if I would ever be that guy again.

I asked my wife to help me out of bed. I got to my walker and I started pacing the hallway, back and forth, for hours. I felt like a newborn fawn—nothing moved right, and I was unstable and light headed. It was like there was a broken circuit between my brain and my body. The nurses thought I was crazy. But, within 24 hours, I didn’t need the walker anymore. When the physio saw me walking without it a few days later, she couldn’t believe it. I didn’t touch a cane once.

After an eight-day stint in hospital, I was discharged in a neck brace. I was set up at home in a reclining chair and did physiotherapy twice a week. Every morning, I walked a kilometre to the neighbourhood Starbucks, shuffling slowly at first and then, over time, cautiously walking. I was regaining my strength, but I logged far more hours panicking and crying. I lost 30 pounds of muscle and had to come to terms with my body’s weakness. I had been coping with pain all my life—the pain of not having parents, of always having to fend for myself—but it took the accident to make me realize it was there. In the face of physical trauma, I had to face my emotional wounds to recover.

I started seeing a social worker for counselling, and though my former self would have teased me for going to therapy, I’m so glad I did. I’ve never cried so much in my life, but getting permission to let go was what I needed to recover from my wounds, old and new. Within four months, I was riding my bike down to the beach again. Within 10 months, by January of 2024, I was back on my skateboard. The first time I returned to the park, my buddies were all there to support me. I could barely stand on the board and roll at first. Pushing was difficult because my agility and balance were out of whack. I had to start from the beginning, but muscle memory allowed me to relearn quickly. After two hours, I was rolling around confidently, to the joy of my homies. Since that day, it’s like I’ve been adding Lego pieces, one by one.

I learned in therapy that the trauma from the accident is never going to disappear completely. Every time I hear a siren now, I think it’s coming for me. More importantly, I’ve learned I’m not actually Superman—but I’m a better man for it. I’m more thoughtful, more affectionate. I’m a better listener and more engaged. My wife and I have never been more connected, and I cherish every single moment with my family. Though it sometimes feels like I’ve lived a thousand lives, I only have this one. Now, I’m making the most of it.