Three close calls. That’s the limit, the way I’ve heard it. These are the kinds of things that “come in threes,” right? Of course they do.
Except not. Assumptions like that can lead to eventful days–like yesterday. Being a warm October day, I thought I’d bike into Durham on the American Tobacco Trail and try out the early voting opportunities there. A mile from home, I hit something in the leaf litter that threw me onto my front tire. I was balanced there, like one of those stunt motorcyclists. I held it together on one wheel for a second and righted myself. On I went.
Crossing a normally peaceful side street, I was confronted by a hurtling, two-ton vehicle bearing down on me. Brake hard; take evasive action. Check.
Later, taking off from a stop at a light, going straight, a driver beside me decided to make a right regardless of my existence in the space toward which he headed his car. The booming bass and rattling widows gave me an aural picture of what I had to miss. Sporting of him. Not even that close.
And we’re riding! We’re riding! Read more…