Those who know me have known that I am a clumsy fool. Yet, I’ve always enjoyed doing things that clumsy fools shouldn’t be good at, like dancing, cherry drops, gymnastics, and doing it. Several months ago I purchased and built up a beautiful vintage Mercian red-and-gold bicycle, which I have been riding almost every day to and from work and almost everywhere else, as well. On New Year’s, splendidly drunk and at near five am, I careened joyously through the streets of San Francisco sans helmet, fearing nothing. But, at the insistance of my boyfriend and fear for my own head I have begun wearing the awesome red helmet provided for me by said boyfriend. Unfortunately it has now seen some action.

When I woke up this morning, I awoke from a dream that I was late for work and was in a taxi cab downtown trying to get to berkeley. The cab driver picked up this young bike messanger who got in the cab with us. She started talking to the cabbie, an elderly Middle Eastern man, calling him “baba”. They were having the type of conversation that is ongoing, a debate of sorts that I couldn’t follow because I was very anxious about being late for work. The cabbie stopped the car and he and the bike messenger started walking across this large grassy field and going down some huge concrete steps. Right before I got to the steps I told the cabbie and the messenger that I couldn’t follow them, that I had to go to work. They barely glanced up as I walked away.
When I woke up I was, in fact, extremely late for work. I dressed really quickly and hopped on my bike, starting the coffeeless plow downhill to the BART station. When I got to the first intersection I checked for cars, hoping to speed through it without slowing down. I saw a car coming, a black mercedes which was approaching the stop sign in perfect time for me to get through the intersection before the car started up again. However, instead of stopping, the stupid driver of the mercedes tapped her brakes and continued on into the intersection, already occupied by myself and my bike.

Stupidly, my first reaction was to hit the brakes on my bike, which would only have increased the likelihood of crazy-lady hitting me and decreased the likelihood of me getting away scot-free. In a panicked combination of braking and car-avoiding, my bike gave way under me and I found myself sprawled out on the asphalt.

My first reaction was to burst into hot tears.. The second was to yell at the woman. Sitting up I hollered through my tears and the little white stars appearing in front of my eyes about stop signs and what they exist for (stopping). My third instinct was to get the hell out of the road. The good people of San Francisco were suddenly available all around me–one to put my bike chain back on, a few others to help me onto my feet and ask me if I was all right. One man even gave me his card (to my surprise, he wasn’t even a personal injury lawyer).

Although initally nowhere to be seen, the Mercedes lady came back, her attitude a mixture of apology and defensiveness. She asked me if I needed a ride, and although I initially was going to refuse (this is, after all, the woman who almost took my life), I had no idea if my bike or my body was okay. Due to my shocked state, I asked to be taken to BART to get to work instead of to my house to make sure nothing was broken or –my real fear–internally hemorraging. It was an extremely akward car ride–the woman had mousy hair and a slimfast shake in the cupholder of her nice car. She also smoked Marlboro Lights. I watched, dazed, as she put my car in the back seat and sat there on the way to the BART station as she made really akward conversation. She let me out at the station and I began my long commute to work.

I’m sitting at work now in a slightly concussed daze. My back and shoulders are aching and my ankle and wrist hurt. All I want is a vicodin and a bath.

I guess the long and drawn-out moral of the story is that I really can’t do anything without cofee. A couple of weeks ago I was ajusting the cofee cup in the basket of my bike (while riding) when I found myself heels-over- head in the bike lane. Unlike a Mercedes, you can’t take a cofee cup to go in a Mercian.