Well, all that has come to a crashing halt. I was riding my bike home last night, and got in a wreck.
The way it happened was this: I was riding home on a relatively low-traffic road in Sacramento. I came to an intersection where the cross street had a stop sign and I did not. A lady in a late-model Mercedes stopped at the stop sign, glanced both ways, did not see me, and pulled out in front of me. I hadn't planned to stop, since I had the right-of-way. Despite slamming on the brakes, I ran into the side of her car on the driver's side.
My bike tore the driver's side rear-view mirror off the car and made a big dent in the driver's side fender. I flew off the bike, landed on the hood, then rolled off onto the ground in front of the car, taking off the hood ornament on my way. I was glad she stopped - she could have run me over.
I got up slowly, and had the following injuries, some of which are seen in the picture, though Amy points out that the picture does not do my road rash or the gauges in my fingers justice:
- Scrapes on the middle, ring, and small fingers of the right hand.
- A large road rash across my right forearm.
- A swollen, scraped right shoulder right at the point of the bones at the top of the shoulder.
- Two small scrapes across my right forearm.
- A swollen scrape across my left forearm.
- A scrape across the back of my left upper arm.
- A scraped, bruised right knee.
I also have a scraped and dented helmet, and a sore ego (as well as a sore bottom).
Thinking back, I realize that I don't remember visual images of the whole accident. I remember thinking "Oh no! I'm going to hit that car!" and yelling out loud "Noooo!" Then, I have the recollection of a series of thumps (probably me flying onto, then rolling down the hood) and a bigger thump as I landed on my right side on the ground.
Another bicyclist who had seen the accident stopped and gave me her business card, in case I need to get corroboration for my story.
The lady felt awful - she was more shaken than I was, as might be expected for one who has seen a grown man go flying across the hood of her car. She called her husband, who courteously brought his pickup truck and gave me and my somewhat-worse-for-wear bike a ride back home.
When we arrived, a troop of worried girls came out to greet me. My three-year old wore a grave expression, and kept coming up to point at my bleeding knee with both terror and fascination. My wife reports that she has been perseverating about her daddy, repeating over and over that "Daddy has big owies!" and looking out the window for me.
My wife gave me the "I told you so" look when I got home. She has never felt safe about me riding a bike, and now feels vindicated and upset that I didn't listen to her warnings. I feel wretched, but not nearly as wretched as I would have felt if I were paralyzed or dead.
I showed up to work the next day, showing off my bruises and scrapes (and kind of enjoying the attention - this story gets better every time I tell it). My father-in-law, attorney that he is, points out that I am not being a very good client - I should have stayed home, with my neck in a soft collar, moaning and groaning.
I think my days as a road warrior are over. Like Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce, "I will fight no more forever."
