Black and blue are two of my favorite colors. But not on my body.
After riding my bike to work for seventeen years, my luck ran out last Thursday. It was a brisk, cool day with full sun, and I was riding through a busy intersection near my house. I had the light. A car coming in the other direction took a left turn in front of me, and I had no place to go.
It was quite a scene. Two people called 911. Soon I was at the side of the road, surrounded by helpers—the EMT’s, the state police, a colleague from work who came along on his bike and told me he has been hit by a car three times.
I assured everyone that I was fine, and if my bike hadn’t been badly damaged, I probably would have continued riding it to work. The driver who hit me is a very nice woman named Pat. She was appropriately concerned and told me that she would pay for all the damages plus a massage if I needed one. The police took all the information, a kind stranger gave me his card and said he would be happy to be a witness for me, and then the state police drove me and my damaged bicycle home.
After all that, I was only thirty minutes late to work, thanks to a ride from Peter.
At the time, I thought I had only bruised an ankle, gotten a small cut where my watch went into my wrist and jammed the middle finger on my right hand. But that evening I hurt everywhere. And just as everyone predicted, the next day was worse.
That’s when I saw that I was black and blue all over. The outside of one arm, the inside of my foot and ankle, the inside of one thigh, the outside of the other and my shoulder.
But all I can think about is how lucky I am to be here. Another reminder that life can change in the blink of an eye.