Brush with death
My life flashed before my eyes tonight. That flash of events past and future really does occur the second you realize are about to be smeared off of the face of this planet.
Tonight I went on a 26-mile, 3.75-hour bicycle ride up and, more importantly down, Mount Hamilton Road. My brush with death did not occur on the dark, twisty mountain road where downhill speeds can reach over 35mph (this is on a bike, mind you) or trying to catch fat air in the darkness. The hand of death brushed by me in the form of a shitbox Chevrolet Lumina on a well-lit suburban street. I was riding down the straight, well-lit road, with my lights on my bike (which are pretty bright) as I watch the speeding sedan approach me in the opposite direction. With no turn signal or other warning, this fucker makes a left, coming right for me. My heart jumped out of my left ear, and the contents of my stomach dropped to my socks as I prepare to take the hit. I slam on my brakes, putting myself into a sideways-slide, preparing to lay down the bike in a last ditch effort to save my sorry ass. The driver sees me, as I am about to eat his passenger door for my last meal. Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me. I was literally inches, MAYBE 2, from being smeared all over the pavement like chunky peanut butter and jelly by this two-ton pile of Detroit shit. I saw it, I saw the ride I just took down the hill, I saw my Dad, my Mom, my brother, Allie, my bed, school, the hospital, all of the shit I would never see again got consideration for a split second while at the same time a made all of the decisions needed to avoid the accident. The human mind is an amazing thing.
Fuck, that was a half an hour ago and my hands are still shaking.
I have been riding bikes for 18 years now. I ride down unpredictable dirt hills at irresponsible speeds every week. I pound the mountains or the pavement on my mountain machine whenever I get a chance. I realize it is an extremely dangerous sport, on or off-road, and I have had my share of harsh diggers, road rash, dirt eating, broken bones, sprains, dislocations and things of the like. I call it acceptable risk. I have also had my fair share of close calls with assholes brainlessly piloting their motorized death machines, but none as close as this.
I am by no means going to stop riding. FUC-to-the-k NO. I love riding, and I ain't stopping until my knees give out. Or some buttmunch runs me over. I am just glad to be alive, ya know? Ok, I am going to go eat a fucking pizza.
SHARE THE ROAD, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!
Oh, and have a nice day, too I guess.