Accident

The car and the cyclist had been parallel. Both facing the same red light. The cyclist was just to the right of the car. When the light turned green, both started moving. The cyclist moved forward, but the car turned right, crashing into the cyclist and propelling him simultaneously forward and to the right. He was shocked by the strong warm pressure of the car pushing into his leg. There was a loud nose when the car hit, and the a louder screech, followed by the sight of the cyclist being pushed forward into the intersection.

He was lucky. He slammed his feet down quickly and didn't fall. He stood, straddling his bike, in the middle of a busy intersection on Telegraph. He didn't feel any pain, but was aware of many people staring at him. The cyclist's first thought was that the pedal of his bike might have scratched the car. He was concerned. He looked back to see if the driver was mad. It was a very old woman. She was tiny, barely visible behind the wheel. She gestured for him to move forward. The met on the other side of the intersection.

First, he apologized. Then, she apologized. He peered into her large beige car. Her legs were covered with a thick tartan blanket, even though it was a warm day. Her walker rested on the passenger's seat. She was trembling, and her voice quivered with shock. She had thinning white hair and kind lines on her face. He said that he felt fine, because, at that moment, he did. She asked him if he needed a ride, and he politely declined. He wished her a nice day, as if he had been her server at a particularly friendly coffee shop, and continued on his way home.

After saying goodbye, he found himself wanting to cry. Pain is always a revelation. Every time experienced, it is as if for the first time. "So, this is pain." Not too recently, he had experienced pain from love, though now he had forgotten the feeling, even forgotten the love. He only remembered his body's reactions to the pain, but not the sensation itself. He remembered opening his mouth in his bed and a whispered scream forcefully escaping and the following sharp tightness around his chest when he tried to inhale. He had been struck by the paradox that while was glad that there was no one to see him, he hated being alone.

But this was pain out in the open, on a glorious sunny day in Berkeley, California. He had left behind the old woman and everyone who had seen the accident accident. He pulled over to the side of the road. He felt a slow throbbing in his ankle.

"I got hit by a car! I'm ok. My bike is ok." He sent a text to everyone who he thought might care. He didn't send it to anyone who had ever caused him pain, as they, clearly, didn't care. He didn't text his parents. He didn't like to worry them unnecessarily, and telling them that he had been hit by a car would make it a larger experience than he was ready to comprehend.

Slowly, over the evening, calls and text messages relayed warm wishes. He sat in his room, and the pain had already faded to a dull ache. He put ice on his ankle and elevated it. He wished for company. Eventually, he called his mother who immediately started to cry.

"You are always so brave," she said.