We leave Matt’s apartment just off West Burnside to make our way to the Rogue Ale House for some late night beer and grub. ”So what else have you been up to lately, man?”
I carefully rotate my left arm at the elbow, hearing a few pops. ”When did I see you last? It was that night that Niels and I drank that whiskey with you right before we saw District 9, right? Yeah, I took a pretty wicked spill off my bike two days later.”
“Ouch. What happened?”
***
It was an overcast Sunday morning, not too uncommon in Portland, even in the summer, and I was making good time on my road bike as I rode towards Gravy on North Mississippi to meet LSL and Sizzle and Kerri Anne and Jenny Two-Times for breakfast. As a chronically late individual, I was absurdly proud of myself for having left the house more or less on time; as I neared the intersection of Shaver and Mississippi I realized I was going to arrive right on schedule.
A car came around the corner — thinking that I recognized the drivers, I squinted at them for a moment before realizing the people behind the windshield were no one that I-
THUNK
holy-
handle bars are caught. bike is going to
what the-
rear wheel lifting off the ground. turning over. upside down? I
this is really going to-
bike is flying and so am I, it’s going to land there and I’m going to land
THUMP
I was on my back in the middle of the street, my bike somewhere off to the side. ”Ow” I said after a moment, and then a stuttering “f-f-f-FUCK” and then a long, drawn out “ohhhhhhhhhhhh”. My first thought was not actually as to whether or not I was injured or even a blogger’s I wonder if I can get a post out of this, but rather the reflexive mortification of a life-long klutz. I fell down AGAIN! People probably saw. Those goddamn hipsters on the corner are probably laughing at me! I sat up and tested both of my arms to make sure nothing hurt too fiercely. I started to wonder at how badly I managed to lose my balance as to run into a parked car. I had cut it close before and clipped my arm against rear view mirrors but had never managed to bump anything so fiercely as to get thrown off my ride and into the street. I played back the memory and realized that something else had jumped out and caught me right between the handlebars. Looking up, I saw a man in late middle-age getting out of a parked car.
***
“He opened up his door literally the moment that you were passing by?”
“Yeah! It was almost like he was laying in wait. I’d been on that street for a few blocks and hadn’t seen any cars pull over to park, otherwise I would have been a little warier. There was someone else in the passenger seat who didn’t get out; I assume he was sitting in the car talking to his wife and just happened to choose the exact moment I was riding by to COMPLETELY NEGELECT CHECKING HIS MIRROR and open the door when I was so close I couldn’t react.”
“Son of a bitch. Did he at least apologize? Look like he felt bad? Ask if you were okay?”
“Oh yeah. He got out of his car looking completely mortified. I mean in his head he’s probably all, “Well, time to go feed my face, do dee do dee doh” and goes to get out of his car and kills a cyclist. He asked me if I was okay like seven times in the first minute.”
“And what did you do?”
“Well,” I say, getting into character, “ideally in these sort of situations you want to come out of it looking like as much of a bad-ass as you can. Someone asks if you’re okay and you want to channel a little Marsellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction and stand up holding a shotgun and growl, ‘No. I’m pretty fucking far from okay.’”
“Ha! You do a pretty good Ving Rhames impression, friend. Is that really what you said?”
“Uh, not exactly. I didn’t have a shotgun.”
***
The man walked up to me as I finished climbing to my feet and shook both legs to make sure nothing felt like it had snapped on impact. ”Oh my god — are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I was flexing my arms again. No shooting pains, no horrible noises other than some popping, no abrasions. Nothing seemed broken, but I knew I was going to swell up later and be useless from a hit that hard. No scrapes either, which I found disappointing, because if I was going to take a spill like that I at least wanted something tough-looking to show for it.
“Seriously, are you okay?”
Now I was just irritated. I held both hands up and looked at him. ”Well, what the fuck do you think? Jesus.” I turned to see how my bike had fared.
“I mean…wow. Are you sure you’re okay?”
What I really wanted to do at this point was to show him that he was beneath my contempt by riding off without another word or glance in his direction. But the chain had come completely off the front and back gears of my bike, and with my left side all banged up I was having some trouble getting it back on on my own. ”Can you help put this chain back on my bike? I have to GO. You are MAKING ME LATE.”
“That looked….are you okay?” he fumbled with the chain, working it over the gears. I held up my bike with my functioning hand and put one foot on the pedal to start turning the wheel, making sure the chain was setting.
“Looks like this is still working,” I said, more or less to myself. I gingerly lifted one leg and slung it over the bike as I eased onto the seat. ”Well.”
“Hey…I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”
“Good Lord,” I said, and started pedaling away. ”Some people,” I muttered. Gravy was only another block or so away. I was pretty sure I could manage that far before my limbs would start swelling up and becoming useless.
***
“And so you just — rode off?”
“Yeah, dude, I was hungry.”
He laughs. ”You’re some kind of bad-ass.”
“Matt, c’mon, we took database design together. What kind of a bad-ass do you think I am? Probably more dumbass than anything else.”
“Did you go to the doctor or anything?”
“Nah,” I said, carefully flexing my arm through its range of motion again. ”They would just end up embarrasing me for a week again and then telling me to take a bunch of Advil for the inflammation. I can take Advil all on my own. That, and making sure I get plenty of beer.”
We walk the last few steps to the Rogue Ale House. ”Well, for a story like that, can I buy you a round?” he asks.
“You know, I can’t argue with that.”
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