It’s been nearly five years since I was almost killed.
Specifically, it was October 25, 2011 at 9:46 AM.
That Tuesday morning was brilliantly sunny.
There was a delicate bite to the crisp, clear morning air as I pedaled my bicycle north on E Street to a 10 AM yoga class. After waiting for a green light on the corner of Fifth, I slowly pedaled into the intersection, immediately noticing a silver Honda was turning left into me, leaving no escape. Since the driver faced directly into the sun, she didn’t see me and accelerated, causing me to fly from my bike onto her windshield, shattering it with the force of my impact. Although I was conscious, I don’t remember details well; they were images scrambled like a video of a riot. However I clearly recall being tossed about like a leaf in a tornado; frenziedly trying to grab on to anything to hold me in place. Seconds later I slammed head first in the roadway 15 feet from impact.
Strangers flooded the intersection from every direction, protecting me from traffic as I lay, in shock, on my back. Cell phones clicked to life; people were shouting, running to my aid; someone grabbed my helmeted head from behind and said he would stay with me until the ambulance arrived, insisting I not move.
I could wiggle my toes and fingers, alleviating a minor level of anxiety, especially since I could see my pants were shredded and blood was flowing freely from my left leg. All I could do was let go and wait.
Five hours later, the emergency room doctor said to me, “You’re either made of steel or someone is watching out for you because men your age don’t take a hit like that and walk out of here. Go home.”
