starsinmypockets/bikecrash.txt

## bikecrash.txt
Damn. The vagaries of life as a contractor left with me with the morning off and I figured I'd go for a run in the cemetery -- there's so much peace to be found there. Laced up, grabbed my bike and headed out on 40th st. I was stalling at the intersection of Market, men with Jesus tracts and loosies nervously eyeing the police car parked across the street by the steps to the el, and my wheel went into a manhole-pothole -- a term I invented on my way to the ground. I think that the years spent doing Aikido (certainly an advertising keyword, we'll see what happens) always help, and I somehow ended up more or less flat on my back, the bicycle (a light one, I'll admit it) on top of me chin tucked (though my helmet did smack the pavement, I'll admit that too). As soon as I could tell which way was up I realized that there were still cars racing through the just-turned-red-light, now my primary concern. Of secondary concern, a concerned-themself med student sprinting towards me in scrubs, reaching out to me and yelling:

"Are you alright!"

I've been "helped" up against my will in post-crash situations enough to know that I'll get up at my own goddam pace please and if you want to be useful make sure that that car racing towards me doesn't hit me, thanks; all of which I communicated with an extended hand and three words:

"Don't touch me."

The helpful med student recoiled and slunked away, as if they had just suffered a great indignity (and suddenly no longer interested if I was alright).

I got to my feet - scraped and bruised but wholly intact, and joined the never-not-interesting scene that is the NW corner of 40th and Market. I looked myself over more carefully, spun my wheels, examined my helmet, and put the chain back on my bike. I was just catching my breath when a woman in braids and a summer dress looked me up and down and raised a skeptical eyebrow:

"You ok?"

"Yes, thank you."
	Damn. The vagaries of life as a contractor left with me with the morning off and I figured I'd go for a run in the cemetery -- there's so much peace to be found there. Laced up, grabbed my bike and headed out on 40th st. I was stalling at the intersection of Market, men with Jesus tracts and loosies nervously eyeing the police car parked across the street by the steps to the el, and my wheel went into a manhole-pothole -- a term I invented on my way to the ground. I think that the years spent doing Aikido (certainly an advertising keyword, we'll see what happens) always help, and I somehow ended up more or less flat on my back, the bicycle (a light one, I'll admit it) on top of me chin tucked (though my helmet did smack the pavement, I'll admit that too). As soon as I could tell which way was up I realized that there were still cars racing through the just-turned-red-light, now my primary concern. Of secondary concern, a concerned-themself med student sprinting towards me in scrubs, reaching out to me and yelling:

	"Are you alright!"

	I've been "helped" up against my will in post-crash situations enough to know that I'll get up at my own goddam pace please and if you want to be useful make sure that that car racing towards me doesn't hit me, thanks; all of which I communicated with an extended hand and three words:

	"Don't touch me."

	The helpful med student recoiled and slunked away, as if they had just suffered a great indignity (and suddenly no longer interested if I was alright).

	I got to my feet - scraped and bruised but wholly intact, and joined the never-not-interesting scene that is the NW corner of 40th and Market. I looked myself over more carefully, spun my wheels, examined my helmet, and put the chain back on my bike. I was just catching my breath when a woman in braids and a summer dress looked me up and down and raised a skeptical eyebrow:

	"You ok?"

	"Yes, thank you."