I rode my bike to church like any other Sunday. 200 feet from my destination I wiped out. No one saw it. I hopped back up and acted like it was part of my Sunday routine.
Only when I sat down inside did I realize I was in pain and bleeding, but where? I wore long sleeves and pants. I can’t check myself in the middle of the auditorium. I go to the bathroom. When I open the door, I’m greeted by two cops surrounding a homeless man. I graciously wave and act like I don’t have any pressing needs and head back to my seat.
The crash made me several minutes late. I was already late due to my electric razor running out of battery mid shave, but I was determined to have the appearance of being on time. By the time I entered the auditorium a second time, the service was in full swing. People were singing. I was sweating.
I couldn’t tell where I was injured. My elbow and knee hurt. Were they bleeding?
After sweating through my shirt and half-jokingly saying to my friend sitting next to me, “I’m not okay,” I remained put. I didn’t try the bathroom again. I sat through the whole service. Mind racing and only thinking about my physical needs.
Only after the service did I have time to survey the conflaguration of the asphalt to my body. I had holes in my pants where my keys were in my pocket. My boots were scuffed up. My jacket was torn. All in all, not bad. Ruined clothes, but a renewed interest in staying alive.
Maybe this was a good reality check. My torn up pants and scuffed up shoes are a reminder that you shouldn’t put value in things without value. My cut up skin and lingering headache remind me that I’m a cocky son of a gun. I should take safety more seriously.
I always thought I was better than crashing, and those will probably be my famous last words.