It was spring, and after my brush with death/disaster the preceding fall (see previous installment, “Near-Disasters in Biking—No Brakes!”) I’d gotten back on my bike and resumed my daily commutes to dental school. As we all know, April and May can be unpredictable in Minnesota, but the dictum “Just dress for the weather and you’ll be OK” still applies as usual.
It was May 1st, and I’d been too distracted during breakfast that day to pay attention to the weather report when I gulped my coffee and saddled up to ride to school. A look out the window showed trees full of tender green buds about to expand Ka-boom into leaves anytime, and I figured it had to be a nice day. As always, I kept my rain jacket and pants tucked in a corner of my pack.
I had an uneventful, if chilly ride to school. Inside school, I had a really bad day. I somehow forgot to bring the wax crown patterns I’d carved at home the night before, meaning they wouldn’t get cast in time for a patient that drove 100 miles for their appointments. Also, I was convinced that I bombed my Neurology midterm that morning—a course I detested.
But worst of all, my girlfriend had dumped me during a mutually tearful lunch. “I’m sorry, but this just isn’t working”, was all she could say. She was a young woman I thought I loved, even though I knew that I really didn’t like her. How is it that we can consciously make these kinds of mistakes in relationships—wanting someone whom we know is definitely not right for us? The Fates could have told me “Wake up, Todd! She’s yet another Oedipal re-enactment, get it?” but as usual they weren’t talking. We may be stupid or crazy to want the wrong person, but this doesn’t make it hurt any less.
When I saw that it had started sleeting rain and freezing flakes outside at the end of the afternoon, I thought that the sky was either sympathizing with me—or else mocking me, I couldn’t decide which. All those bright green optimistic and vulnerable buds out there getting sleet and ice dumped on them. You didn’t need to be a Freud or Jung to get the metaphor for how I felt. Down and out, I got into my rain jacket and pants for the ride home and shouldered my backpack. After a few blocks it was clear that riding my bike was going to be more trouble than walking it.
After nearly two miles of walking, completely absorbed in feeling sorry for myself, I reach a stoplight and when it turns green I begin to cross. There’s a couple of inches of snow on the ground by now, and walking just then seemed to be getting harder. A car honks at me, and then another. “OK, well so what, it’s snowing and I rode my bike today. Big deal!” Another car honks. I think, “Well f*ck you all anyway! So what!? You think this is funny?! My life is totally f*cked—go honk someplace else!!”
At that moment, I feel like something is grabbing at my ankles. I look down, and my rain pants have fallen down around my ankles; the waist cord had broken. It doesn’t matter that I have jeans on underneath. I was a biker crossing the street with his pants fallen down around his ankles, and clueless—until that moment—of his condition.
If I weren’t so sad about my now former girlfriend and at the same time pissed off at everybody honking at me, I could have spent a lot more energy at that moment feeling humiliated, as most of us would tend to feel discovering that our pants have fallen down in the middle of the street in rush hour traffic, with drivers laughing and honking at us.
I’ve had better days.
Showing posts with label biking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label biking. Show all posts
Friday, October 3, 2008
Near-Disasters in Biking—No Brakes!
It was late October that year, and having begun dental school in September I thought I was doing a good job proving that I really could manage the daily ten mile round trip on my bicycle to and from school. Although, the experience was made occasionally challenging by insane motorists who seemed intent on murdering me, the rare flat tire caused by riding over broken glass in the gutter, and inscrutably belligerent dogs sometimes tearing out into the street after me.
After nearly two months of unseasonably dry weather, rain promised for that day had held off during my morning commute. But a steady hard drizzle had then set in during the afternoon, taking more of the yellow and red leaves off the trees with it. As the evening darkness closed in, I headed home to south Minneapolis through the fall rain. My books were safely wrapped in plastic inside my backpack, and I was covered head-to-toe in my yellow and orange rain suit. Wearing my helmet and with my bike well marked front and back with bright lights, I felt reasonably safe.
The rain had made the layer of leaves on the road wet and slippery, but I prided myself in being defensive. However well marked I was, I always assumed that cars wouldn’t see me. Halfway home, I was busy watching for wet leaves and cars as I began a descent down a long hill. Then about 30 yards before an intersection at the bottom of the hill, the light turned red and I started to brake—tried to brake. I squeezed my brakes and nothing happened. Instead, it feels like I’m gaining speed, doing maybe 20 miles an hour, as I’m going towards this red light at the bottom of the hill.
The cross street I’m headed for has now filled with cars rushing through the intersection left and right. Meanwhile, I’m passing a line of cars on my left with their taillights all shining bright red as they’re slowing to stop for the red light ahead. On my right, there’s a solid wall of parked cars glistening in the darkness. Nowhere to go. And no matter how hard I squeeze my brakes, they do nothing. I’m almost at the intersection—I’ve used up my chance to stop. That opportunity is now gone.
The next thing I’m flying into the intersection—not thinking any words—rather a starkly clear and concrete knowing/feeling, “I'm going to die now.”
But sometimes, for reasons no one knows, the Universe smiles upon us. Somehow, the moment I entered that intersection an opening in the traffic parted for me—like some absurd cosmic joke. It was so improbable, like a scene from an old black-and-white Keystone Cops silent flick. With horns blaring on my left and right I sailed on a charmed path through the jaws of death, while out of the darkness some understandably enraged driver shouted, “Ya stupid sh*t, what’cha tryin’ ta do?!”
Then, I was coasting through the darkness of the street on the other side of the intersection, with the rain on the pavement and the staccato clicking of my bike gears the only sounds. Mercifully, no one followed me to point out that I’d very nearly gotten myself killed.
There’s the adage about getting right back on the horse after you’ve been thrown. And those of you who have ridden a horse and been thrown will recognize how apt and oh-so-very-true this advice is. I probably knew better, but I didn’t take this advice that fall—I was too shaken. The next day I took the bus to school, and didn’t get back on my bike until the following spring.
After nearly two months of unseasonably dry weather, rain promised for that day had held off during my morning commute. But a steady hard drizzle had then set in during the afternoon, taking more of the yellow and red leaves off the trees with it. As the evening darkness closed in, I headed home to south Minneapolis through the fall rain. My books were safely wrapped in plastic inside my backpack, and I was covered head-to-toe in my yellow and orange rain suit. Wearing my helmet and with my bike well marked front and back with bright lights, I felt reasonably safe.
The rain had made the layer of leaves on the road wet and slippery, but I prided myself in being defensive. However well marked I was, I always assumed that cars wouldn’t see me. Halfway home, I was busy watching for wet leaves and cars as I began a descent down a long hill. Then about 30 yards before an intersection at the bottom of the hill, the light turned red and I started to brake—tried to brake. I squeezed my brakes and nothing happened. Instead, it feels like I’m gaining speed, doing maybe 20 miles an hour, as I’m going towards this red light at the bottom of the hill.
The cross street I’m headed for has now filled with cars rushing through the intersection left and right. Meanwhile, I’m passing a line of cars on my left with their taillights all shining bright red as they’re slowing to stop for the red light ahead. On my right, there’s a solid wall of parked cars glistening in the darkness. Nowhere to go. And no matter how hard I squeeze my brakes, they do nothing. I’m almost at the intersection—I’ve used up my chance to stop. That opportunity is now gone.
The next thing I’m flying into the intersection—not thinking any words—rather a starkly clear and concrete knowing/feeling, “I'm going to die now.”
But sometimes, for reasons no one knows, the Universe smiles upon us. Somehow, the moment I entered that intersection an opening in the traffic parted for me—like some absurd cosmic joke. It was so improbable, like a scene from an old black-and-white Keystone Cops silent flick. With horns blaring on my left and right I sailed on a charmed path through the jaws of death, while out of the darkness some understandably enraged driver shouted, “Ya stupid sh*t, what’cha tryin’ ta do?!”
Then, I was coasting through the darkness of the street on the other side of the intersection, with the rain on the pavement and the staccato clicking of my bike gears the only sounds. Mercifully, no one followed me to point out that I’d very nearly gotten myself killed.
There’s the adage about getting right back on the horse after you’ve been thrown. And those of you who have ridden a horse and been thrown will recognize how apt and oh-so-very-true this advice is. I probably knew better, but I didn’t take this advice that fall—I was too shaken. The next day I took the bus to school, and didn’t get back on my bike until the following spring.
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