So it finally happened to me. After a week’s worth of premonition in my mind as I navigated the pedestrian filled streets, the labyrinth of trolley tracks and the cars constantly unloading in the bike lanes of West Philly, the moment came in a way I could have never imagined. The car door flew open too quickly for me to even react, let alone question why I chose to take Spruce when I always take Chestnut. The only time it did allot for was a quick reaction, one my gratitude will never fully grasp. For in that wonderful world of sub consciousness, I employed the training I must have received through my years of action film appreciation. After Mrs. Fantuzzo swung her door open, there was only three seconds between me being ejected from my seat, barrel rolling like a stuntman past the side of the door just clipping my leg and finding myself sitting in the street, screaming, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
By the time they were both out of the car, I was already trying to get on my feet, only being stopped by the two road workers who witnessed the entire scene.
“Man, sit down,” the worker yelled.
“Call an ambulance,” Mrs. Fantuzzo screamed.
In a fit of disoriented exhaustion, all I could say was, “No, I don’t have insurance.”
“But we do,” Mrs. Fantuzzo countered.
And they certainly did. But I wasn’t looking for health insurance. I knew after sitting on the ground for two minutes that there were no breaks, and I’d have to wait to see about internal bleeding anyway. What I did need was ease, compassion, and understanding. For the week before, for some reason I was visualizing this happening, almost waiting for it, knowing that my time as an unscathed biker was running out. But when my turn came, unlike my friends who’ve been abandoned or dropped off at their home and given the runaround with the law to get some help, these two people helped me.
Mr. and Mrs. Fantuzzo took me into their home, cleaned my wounds, put my bike in the car and took it to the shop, where it was deemed too damaged to fix for the price. The wheels that looked like they were warped in a magnetic field pointed to the obvious, but it was settling to know for sure.
Part of me still can’t believe that it finally happened. I can still feel the metallic, mechanical surge through my body as I felt the bike connect with the door, and then the rush of my skin as I slid across the ground. It was such a mix of the organic and industrial, the moment where the body experiences something completely outside of its realm of sensory, processes it, and catalogues it in the mental department of a feeling never felt before. I imagine it’s like the first time I smashed a car, or what it would be like to be shot; a physically jarring experience that is enacted by forces so completely outside of yourself.
Some people have advised me to get a substantially nicer bike out of the deal, some keep putting false ailments in my head.
‘Are you dizzy? I woke up one day after hurting my ankle and found it broke. Are you sure there’s no internal bleeding?'
I know they mean well, and as the pain in my leg fades, I get a new bike, and the whole morning is retired to the frontal lobes, which are thankfully still intact, I hesitate to see my premonition as fate and my accident as a karma that will reward me with a new bike for almost being killed. This could have happened to anyone, and it can happen again when I get back on a bike. All I can do is let this experience wash my sensibility of moving too fast and dry my adrenaline that I just escaped a terrible injury and possibly death. And hopefully, it leaves at least two more people with the awareness that bikers exist in this city. I even find myself as I've driven around for the past day looking much longer in my blindspot and in the bike lane before I open the door. But in the end it’s just another of life’s experiences, but one that has me enjoying the day that much more. Nowhere to run, no worries to subscribe, just thankfulness.
No comments:
Post a Comment