I passed you on my way to work this morning at Logan Circle, you on your bike in your black T shirt and black shorts. No helmet. All buzzcut and tatts and piercings. Muscles and sweat. Young. Cool and slightly dangerous looking. You were not in the Marching Band in High School. In other words you are everything that I’m not.
But that red bike you were riding? One of those cute little bikes that fold up for storage! “Dude, I thought, No one can look cool on that bike. Not even you.”
"Hey, get a lot of dates with that bike?"
Satisfied that God had leveled the playing field, I smugly drove my Honda on down 13th St knowing that I was slightly cooler and endowed with a larger 401K.
I guess at some point you passed me and I didn’t see you again until I saw you and another biker sprawled in the middle of the intersection at 13th and I. Not sure if the two bikes collided or a car hit you both. Bystanders were just now helping you up. The other biker was lying motionless in the street.
As I inched up to the intersection you limped onto the sidewalk obviously in pain. You asked that someone bring your mangled red bike to you. The other biker still had not moved by the time I finally made it through the intersection.
I was shaky at work all morning. I need to work on being a better person. You need to promise you will wear your helmet. You will still look cool--cooler than I could ever be.
And what happened to the other guy?