Now seems a good a time as any for a trip down memory
lane. Come with me, will you?
It’s a lovely fall day in 2012. I was out on my bike for a pretty solid
training ride a few weeks before an event and was just about 10 miles from
home. Just south of the George Washington
Bridge, there is a downhill steep enough and long enough to make you pucker all
parts of your body capable of doing so.
In addition to being a screaming downhill, there is
traffic. A lot of it. And while many stereotypes of New York are
not entirely accurate, the conception that we drive like Cruella De Ville on
crack cocaine is somewhat spot on. It’s
not that we’re mean or crazy, we’ve just got shit to do and God help you if
you’re in our path to getting it done.
So here I was on said hill, fighting with said traffic. One thing I am pretty convinced of is that
the typical driver out there, teeth-grinding New Yorker or not, simply does not
have a concept of how fast bikes can go downhill. It is not unusual for us to hit 40+ mph on a
good day. This seems to surprise
motorists.
Trying to be a considerate citizen, I was doing my best to
stay in the right shoulder, out of the flow of traffic. Why I felt compelled to do this when I was
going 40 miles an hour with a speed limit of 35, I haven’t the foggiest. I mean, if I am exceeding the legal speed
limit by 5mph, cars should not be passing me, right? Well, hindsight is 20/20, and all that.
About half way down this hill-of-death, a pretty spectacular
BMW passes me, but not by much. If I’m
doing 40, he’s at 42 or so, which clearly means he should have spent the night
in the slammer for speeding. Jerk.
Then, for no apparent reason, and certainly no turn signal,
he starts to slow down. No cars in front
of him to cause this, but there is an upcoming street. So I says to myself, I says, “hmmm, surely
this guy isn’t slowing down to turn right onto that street. Surely he didn’t just pass me so he could
then turn directly into the path of my bike.”
Isn’t optimism adorable?
As feared, he was doing exactly that: slowing down to turn
right in front of me. Normally this is
easily handled with a well-timed swerve and brightly colorful language. Perhaps a hand gesture or two to convey how I
feel about the persons driving skills.
You know what I learned that day?
It’s hard to come up with a juicy, yet vulgar, insult when riding 40mph,
much less muster out a good swerve.
While I did manage to slow down a bit, and swerve and cuss
to my greatest ability, we connected. I
also learned that day that it is hard to stay on your bike when a fender hits
your back wheel. Funny that.
So there I was, airborne and soaring majestically over an
overpriced Beemer, and a few thoughts came to me. They say this happens in a near death
experience. Suddenly you become clear,
time slows down. And you know what, it’s
true. In that matter of about 2.6
seconds, I had some serious cognitive breakthroughs. They also say that it isn’t that time slows
down, it’s that your brain speeds up to its actual capacity. That’s right people; our brains are usually a
lazy bunch of slobs until vital organs are in danger. Then it jumps into action and starts paying
attention.
I’m left wondering why my brain can only do this
time-slowing Jedi mind trick when I’m about to die. I can think of lots of other moments I would
like to draw out and appreciate that have nothing to do with my imminent
demise. How about that last bite of ice
cream? The feeling you get between
snoozes in the morning? The pure
unadulterated joy of seeing people fall down on home videos? Judge away from the comfort of your computer
chair, but seeing people fall down is just about the funniest thing around, am
I right?
So hear I was, flying through the air, and the first thought
that came to me regarded the appearance of the whole thing. Think in terms of the guy who hit me for a
moment. Here he was, driving along and
feeling superior in his sweet-ass car.
Then, seemingly from the sky, comes a man in a helmet and a total body
spandex outfit. I like to think that for
just one brief moment, his childhood dreams of seeing a super-hero were finally
being realized. I mean, I was indeed
flying, and I was indeed in spandex. For
that moment, I’d wager his heart swelled with pride that he could bear witness
to some Superman knock-off flying off to save the day.
Note to self: start wearing a cape when biking for artistic
effect.
Second note to self: attempt wrapping yourself in bubble
wrap just before getting hit by a car again.
Pavement is hard.
Next thing I know, I’m lying face up in the street with a
few rather concerned sets of eyes looking down on me. Honest to God I’m not making this up, but my
first question to them was, “are my tattoos ok?”
Now I am all for using humor when faced with an uncomfortable
situation, but perhaps I took it too far?
That, and I was genuinely concerned about my ink. Those things are expensive!
Second question, while still laying in the street, concerned
my bike. Please keep in mind that my
bike retails for more than most models of Honda vehicles.
The folks looming over me seemed annoyed with my questions
and were persistent on finding out how I was.
What nonsense. I have a great
ability to heal myself. My carbon fiber
bike however is perfectly lousy at healing.
After a quick body check of my own, we determined that I was
alright, as were my tattoos and bike (thank you Jesus). Then we had the whole matter of dealing with
the turd who used me as target practice.
Once I assured him that I was miraculously ok, he asked if
there was anything he could do. Could he
drive me somewhere, call someone, grovel at my feet. And you know what I told him? Brace yourself. I told him that all I needed was for him to
go out for the rest of the day and do something exceedingly nice to a
stranger. Hitting a biker has got to be
accompanied with some spotty karma, so I told him to help someone out and pay
it forward.
What the hell was that about???
Retrospectively, I should have knocked the guys teeth out
and stolen his wallet, right after taking his car and hitting him right back,
just so he got a taste of his own medicine!
Not only did I not do that, I didn’t even get his information. No name, insurance, name of
first-born-child. Nothing.
My only defense is to claim momentary crisis stupidity.
The story ends happily though. I had a touch of road rash and a sore hip,
but everything else was in good working order.
I also have a healthier level of paranoia about peoples driving, which
can’t be a bad trait to adopt. I do
however get pretty worked up and tense every time I go down that hill.
On the plus side, I did get to be a flying superhero, if
only for a few seconds, and I’m pretty certain that makes the world a safer
place…
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