Rite of passage.
It was bound to happen, I suppose.
There are a few things tragic to bicyclists in San Francisco and last night, at 115am as I was biking home from work up Market from Soma, I found three of them simultaneously. I got squashed into the F-Market Muni rails by a street cleaner spewing water. True-brew for head-over-handlebars! In all situations, DPT street cleaners get right of way when you’re not motorized. But, for my sake, the rite of passage for being an urban biker, and experiencing my first blood-ridden bike injury sur concret, wasn’t all that bad.
A gnarly gash to a thumb that sent me to the emergency room for stitches and a sweet, rotund forehead abrasion are my souvenirs of the experience. I feel initiated into a fraternity, actually, and I was laughing by the time I left the hospital. To say I didn’t feel like hot shit would be a lie. Perverse, isn’t it?
Perhaps it’s a concussion speaking, but I didn’t lose consciousness (cheated!) and though I both noted that the roads were already slick from fog-mist at departure, and I was aware of the task as I needed to go over the rails, my live-geometry skills were off, and in a perverse moment of everything lining up against me, I hit the rails too straight and… somersault.
The upsides are that even though I bit it into the intersection, no perpendicular motorized vehicle ran a red light last night, which, you know, is usually de rigeur in Baghdad by the Bay. A taxi was practically waiting for me when I got up off the ground and my trusty Gary Fisher only seems to need a chain reset and a seat adjustment.
All in all, a fun hazing.