|Image from Wisdom Quarterly's "Unknown Pain Facts"|
So yesterday, I'm riding home from work, running a little late, but when you single-speed it, there's only so fast you can go. Thus, I got caught at the light at the 27th & J ST intersection.
As I sat there, I saw a once upon a time athletic, but now 30 pounds over, guy flying up the sidewalk on an old road bike. His sweaty t-shirt was sandwiched between a bag and his meaty back. His oversize basketball shorts flapped in the wind as he hovered over the saddle, accommodating the bumps and cracks in the walk.
He approached the intersection. Across from me a SUV sat in the turn lane. The driver and I watched. The man jumped off the curb and the entire front end of his bike crumpled. It was as if the landing impact sheered off the front skewer ends, allowing the fork to be driven down to the pavement. The momentum of his body carried him over the front end of the bike and laid him flat out on his belly, face down. The driver and I watched, horrified, hands over our mouths. He didn't move. And then, a thick arm swung up from the prone figure and out popped a thumbs-up sign from the softball sized fist. A moment later, he drug his bike out of the street to examine the damage. The light changed. The driver and I made eye contact as if to confirm we'd both just really seen that.