I'm late for a meeting and even the never-red traffic lights are against me on this morning's commute. Two miles to go, approaching a left turn which is usually a slow and go. Today there are several parked cars lined up round the corner. One of them, a stationary white van hides a moving white car in a dangerous alignment I don't see until there's nothing to do but reef both brakes hard. Front wheel locks, plants and sends me hurdling over the bars to land in a heap in the roadway. Just once I wish I could stick the landing. The car, traveling at a conservative speed on the quiet neighborhood street, saw me and stopped 30 feet short.
As I scrambled quickly to my feet, someone calls my name. The driver of the white car has made a right onto my cross street and stopped. I look up and see one of my coworkers, who'd been taking his daughter to school. Nice. Considering there are only ten of us at the company, what are the chances of getting run over by a coworker? I laughed out loud. He spotted an old wound on my shin and worried I was hurt. I was more worried about the Cervelo so I didn't tell him it was a shaving injury caused by a bad blade in one of my wife's razors. My pride can only take so much damage at any one time.
Later he told me his daughter might ask me to do that again the next time she sees me. I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint the child. Close call.