Carma

There was a divine second where I thought I'd make it, that he'd glide by and I'd shoot silently through the narrowest of steel and glass margins. I've made better estimates in my life. I don't think my fingers had even fully tightened around the hoods - not that hood-top braking makes much of a difference in these kinds of situations - before I punched head and shoulders first into the broad side of a late 80s Tarago, right into that big people-moving, sliding door.

I should preface the details by saying that it truly wasn't anybodies fault. Or we were both at fault. Assume mutual lack of care, or rather a lack of dutiful paranoia. We don't really lose our care altogether, but exchange it for a wiser type of careful that tells us to preemp, expect and assume. It's an evolution of skill and awareness that keeps us safer than normal in most situations most of the time. You're more visible in the traffic. You're more maneuverable at speed. You're safer at the speeds of those around you than toddling along and being buzzed by every passing car. I'd already assumed that there was no gap in front of the stationary bus to my right. He (fairly reasonably) assumed there wasn't any unnaturally fast kamakazi bicyclist shooting the gap between parked cars and dead-in-the-water rush hour traffic, but it's no co-incidence that 'ass pumt on I' is an anagram of assumption, and if you spend enough time dicing with traffic, eventually you are going to get ass pumt.

I remember that moment, thinking that I might make it, then realising very casually that I wouldn't and flinching like I did a few years back when I rode into the side of a bread truck that jack-in-a-boxed out of an alleyway I was passing. This time I was going about twice as fast. There was the usual painless impact, but no crazy sensation of force, no ringing ears or momentary paralysis on the ground while the mental system check runs through. I stood up off the road, glass everywhere, and thought 'Hey, I'm standing up! I'm not hurt. This is ace!' I looked after the car, somehow sure that he wouldn't stop, knowing that I'd need his plate. He actually did stop and ... Woah, I did that to a car? I sat back down again. No, better not sit down here. Get off the road and sit over there.

I dragged my bike off the street and sat down on the footpath to wait for the comedown and aftermath. 'Mate, do you need an ambulance?' A bystander had run over to see if I was ok, which was very impressive to me. No, I can walk to the hospital from here, it's not far. Said the voice in my head. Wait, what would Fee say? My wife's voice in my head: 'Don't walk to the hospital, you idiot!'
'Yes please.' Besides, roadie shoes suck for walking.
'Mate, your arm is a bit...'

I stand up again and the driver of the Tarago, P plates blazing, is here and he's terribly upset that he's killed me. He motions to the car and to me, looking shocked. I look at the car and yeah, it really does look like smash-em bash-em Hot Wheels Tarago. The glass is all gone and the window frame is buckled out from the panelling. He's not so good with the English words so I clap him on the shoulder and tell him I'm ok. I want him to understand that I know he couldn't have avoided me. I reach out to shake his hand as a gesture of good will, but there's blood dripping off it and he just freaks out more. I watch the red spatters on the footpath and have a little inward smile, knowing that on this pub-side Footscray footpath people will later misread the story behind them.



The bike is very definitely retired, crimped in the top and down tubes. When the ambos arrive they're super nice and arrange for the police to take it back to the station for me. We talk about bikes while they put me in a brace and precautionary spine board (joy) and set about cutting up everything except my gloves. He doesn't say he rides, but one of them estimates both the weight and value of my bike with surprising accuracy. They call Fee, for whom this is business as usual, and we head off to the Alfred for an x-ray, scrub and suture.



'Let us know if you want anything for the pain', ambo Luke offers.
'That's ok. It's not really going to hurt for a few hours yet.'
'Done this before, eh?'
'Once or twice, but not usually with cars.'

In the end, I walked away with a small chunk of my back missing, a good cut to the arm - 10 stitches in total - and few weeks' worth of very sore ribs. I'm minus one bike, a set of bibs, a jersey and some winter warmers. Insurance is a tangled mess of don't-even-go-there and given how lightly I came off it doesn't seem right to chase a newly emigrated P-plater who did the right thing for the cost of my expensive toys. He'll be hurting enough with the panel damage, and I'm keen to keep karma on side. Had I been a half second earlier to the gap I could have been under the car instead of into it and that's not a pleasant thought.

I've been back on the commuting trail for a few weeks now, and strangely I'm not riding any slower. The first day or two I flinched for the brakes a little earlier than usual when cars roll up quick from the side streets, but I'm still convinced that the speed needed to be in the flow of the traffic is more of a mitigator of risk than a contributor to it. Just try to keep karma on side.