Thursday, November 8, 2012

Year of the Rabbit Dragon

The corner of Stewart St. and Waterloo
One, single day. That's how short of a year I came without a wreck.

I swore off wrecks. No longer were they funny, no longer were they thought of as just the cost of doing business.

I made it 364 days.

Almost exactly 364 days, to the hour as a matter of fact, after Nick and I slammed into each other and I broke my ass.

I was heading home from Jeremiah's after a little election night TV watching. As I pedaled, feeling good about the future, I skillfully maneuvered onto the Fremont Bridge approach. The air had a nip in it, a nice nip, like a teething puppy.

I wouldn't say I was going too fast, or that I was too stoned, or that I was feeling too good about the future, but I leaned into a gentle turn and my front wheel slipped on a wet metal sidewalk panel. Before I knew what was happening, my brand new frame disappeared from beneath me. Vanished. Poof.



Scary clowns are worshiped among Fremontians

Down on my right shoulder I fell. I heard myself groan upon impact. Down went my bike. My U-lock broke free from my backpack and skidded across the concrete, coming to a rest at the curb.

My first thought was: holy shit.

Second: Not again.

I landed on my shoulder, and it hurt, but not too bad. I lied on my back and waited. Nothing. I waited a little longer, splayed out. Nothing. It's still a little tender, but no broken bones. I feel comfortable making this assessment, as I now have a frame of reference.

Tonight, the actual anniversary of our ill-fated ride, Nick and I hit the streets.

We took a spin on the new waterfront Ferris Wheel (which just as well could be called a Ferris Wheeeeee!) and rode through Interbay, up Stone Way to Green Lake. Nothing epic, no crazy hill bombing, no distance, no black outs. This ride was more symbolic than anything. The clouds cleared from the sky, the air was cool, but good riding weather.

As we climbed up north Capitol Hill to begin our fate-tempting ride, a Honda with a bike rack on the trunk, turning from a stop sign, locked up his wheels to avoid hitting me, skidding four feet on the wet pavement.

"God doesn't want me to finish this ride," I said. Nick agreed.

We pedaled on, toward triumph.


This photo doesn't have anything to do with this post, but it is funny.

1 comment:

  1. *Kiss on your cheek*

    Glad you did finish the ride.

    Be careful please

    ReplyDelete