I am the biggest loser ever. Okay, maybe not the biggest, but I am a total effing loser, loser, looooooooooooser!
“Why,” you ask?
It’s Saturday night, the Saturday before Halloween, and what have I done today??? Yeah, rode to the bank. Did some homework for the writing class I’m taking. And…. Oh god, this is horrible! And, I baked super dorky Halloween cupcakes. *sigh*
Of course, M Diddy would be uber impressed with the fact that I made the fuckers from scratch — none of that boxed bullshit for me: tastes like plastic ass. (Not that I was sober the last time I partook of plastic ass … er… I mean…. heh.)
And, well, I did get hit by a car Thursday night, so I am, quite honestly, sore as hell.
Now, people around me are shocked … shocked! … when I relate to them I got run down by a sedan on my way to class, especially when I add this is hit No. 7 or 8 — I can’t remember. I’ve lost track. You would too.
All in all, it would have been understandable — if the driver was blind.
It was dark, it’s late fall, the sun tends to go down earlier and earlier, but I had one of the schmancy blinky light doodads on the seat post, and my bag has a reflective strip on it. But alas, that did not seem to matter to Dickhead Driver, who, like Jaws, snuck up behind me and basically side-swiped me.
Only I’m not a several-thousand-pound piece of metal (though there are days… ) and flesh and blood balanced on two wheels against the Four Door of Death … well… I never stood, or rolled, a chance and down I went, face first, hands and shins sliding along the pavement, my bike clattering behind me.
Now, here’s where the story would have been different: instinct No. 1 — get the plate, which I did. Instinct No. 2 — get up, back on the bike, and chase the motherfucker, smash my lock through the window and get face to face with someone who, obviously, has no problem running down hapless cyclists and going on his or her merry way, because I was lucky — next poor sap could wind up six feet below.
Probably also very lucky for me, however, was the fact that the chain had spontaneously leapt from its home amongst the cogs and was useless, so I went back to plan 1, called 9-1-1, and, after laughing with the dispatcher, who immediately asked, “Are you conscious?” (I’ve wondered that before about myself, but never had a stranger wonder the same!), I immediately gave her the plate, explained I was fine just scraped, bruised and shaken, and told her I simply wanted to report the incident.
Now, being the professional, she immediately wanted to err on the side of caution, I can’t blame her, and send a medic my way. To make her feel better I said okay, send a medic, I could use some Advil and probably a few Band Aids …
And as I sat on the curb, explaining to my roommate I might be a little late to class and assuring her I would somehow survive, a wailing siren got louder and louder, closer and closer … my medic, I assumed, feeling a bit foolish.
But that feeling was replaced by absolute mortification as a full-sized ladder fire truck came roaring to a stop at the corner, lights flashing, a handful of firemen holding axes at the ready, I imagined. It sat there. It didn’t leave. I kept wishing it would leave. It didn’t.
Finally, I stood up, limped up next to it, gave a little wave and, when one of the firemen rolled down the window, asked, “Are you here for me?”
“We got a report of an accident.”
“Um, yeah, that’s me. But, ah, I’m not on fire … “
Note to self: next time you get run down by a car, and a fire truck full of firemen pulls up next to you, and, when you explain you’ve been run down, practice fainting. Especially when the medics immediately spring out of the secret back compartment and start feeling you over to make sure you’re not bleeding, broken or actually dead. “Oh, I don’t know what came over me! But you caught me, you big strong fireman you!” (This said with dramatic hand held over forehead, of course.)
Now, not that I’m that sort of person, but, in retrospect, considering the fact that it’s the Saturday before Halloween and I’m sitting in my kitchen making homemade cupcakes from scratch for who, I don’t know, certainly no offspring of mine, when I could be on a booze cruise with my friends, maybe I need to be more of that sort of person.
And, there’s still hope. Tomorrow morning’s the 5K run, and I’ve still got the option of falling over and rolling about on the side of the road in faux (hopefully! knocking on wood!) agony. And, there are bound to be medics there, right?