A Close Call

The Great Plotnik fell off his Plotkicycle yesterday, going full speed down his hill. One second he was passing the UPS truck, the next second the UPS driver was standing over him, twenty feet down the hill, asking him if he was OK. Plot hit the ground so hard, his handlebars were turned backwards, his seat turned sideways and his bike lock ended up upside down in its holder.

Today, Plotnik has a sore knee, but he is counting his blessings. Last night he called Mummy Plotnik and thanked her for his hard head, which, thankfully, he probably did not land on, because there are no marks on his helmet. He has a few abrasions on his right knee, hip, elbow, palm, fingers, and a sore left knee. In the shower this morning he found a few new youch!es out of sight on his back. However many lives he had when he started out yesterday, he most likely has one less now.

Afterwards, The Great Plotnik felt disoriented, confused. He walked his bike back up the hill, opened the basement door, put the bike away and took off his shirt in front of the mirror to count his bruises. A little soap and hot water -- ouch. Then, he sat down on his back steps and -- stared. He kept asking himself: What happened? How many times has he ridden down that hill before? Everything was so lightning fast, so unexpected.

Let's say it straight: The Great Plotnik knows two men who had hideous bicycle accidents: Ralph and Mark. Neither will ever walk again. Both of them say they were probably going too fast on their bicycles when...something happened. Plotnik always thinks about Ralph and Mark when he rides, but yesterday he just forgot. He was probably going too fast, too, when...something happened. But he walked away.

The Great Plotnik promises everyone he will never ride that fast down a hill again. It's just not worth it. Bodies break. Old knees take longer to come back. Concrete streets hurt. Wow.