Down and Out: Junior recounts bike ride gone wrong

It was a sunny, breezy March day in my eighth-grade year at Redwood Middle School when I decided to go back to school to watch a boys’ volleyball game to support the team in their final game of the season. I began biking through the streets of Saratoga bound for Redwood, making my signature sharp turns along the backroads.

I reached the intersection of Fruitvale and Allendale Avenues and noticed that there was still some leftover traffic from after school clogging the intersections to the school’s entrance, so I redirected my route to enter the back of the school, crossing the Post Office along the way and entering the gym from the back.

Little did I know that this would be my last time biking this route.

A big green bush blocked my view of the exit of the Post Office, so I was unable to see as I approached the concrete sidewalk.

Bam.

The next thing I knew, I was lying face flat on the sidewalk. I peered around. I didn’t know what had happened. My bike was next to me, twisted abnormally on the dirt, one pedal having been seriously loosened.

“Oh my god! Are you OK?”

I heard a lady scuffling behind me as she grabbed my shoulders to turn me over. I brushed her hands off and sat up. Seeing her car stopped dead in its tracks, I looked down at my legs and saw a series of deep cuts.

Putting all the pieces together, I realized what had happened: Her car had hit my back tire, which had spun me around and sent me careening in circles until I finally lost balance and fell in the dirt.

“I’ve broken something,” I thought.

I stood up after realizing that there wasn’t much physical damage, although I was disoriented and upset. The lady who had hit me only furthered my internal struggle as she laid into  me for my carelessness.

She looked to be in her mid-50s. Her white Volvo sat slightly turned and abruptly halted in the exit of the Post Office. No dents, no scratches, no scrapes, no damage.

That was more than I could say for me. I had several deep cuts lining my legs, blood slowly welling up almost waiting to pour out. Luckily, my helmet prevented a serious head injury.

As I slowly regained my senses, I realized she had been yelling the whole time. Rather than helping me to my feet, she decided to chew me out for biking too fast on the left side of the road, and in my confused stupor, the only response I could utter was “I’m sorry.”

To this day, I still don’t know why I was the one who ended up apologizing. As a driver, she should have known to look both ways before proceeding out of the exit rather than simply disregarding the stop sign.

After she made sure I could walk, we exchanged phone numbers. She jumped in the car and sped away, never to be seen or heard from again.

The cuts on my legs had worsened, and blood was now dripping off onto the concrete. Bruised and battered, I stood next to my fallen bike as I made calls to my dad and my mom.

I sat down, tears dripping from my eyes, as I waited for my mom to come pick me up. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to go to soccer practice. I was startled and slightly confused, but there was one thing I was sure of: One of my favorite pastimes would never ever be the same.

As an eighth grader, I lived for independence. I felt invincible, being able to bike through the streets of Saratoga without any sort of parental guidance. Not only was it a necessary mode of transportation but it was a symbol of my freedom. Being hit by that car did major damage to my ego, and my independent spirit took a major hit.

I haven’t biked much since. The few times I did bike, a lingering doubt remained in my head about whether I would be able to complete my route safely or even make it home that night. Part of me cringed every time I saw a car nearby. My hands became magnets to the brakes. I completely lost my rhythm. It was really the first time I had lost something constant in my life.

From something I used to boast my independence, biking, since that fateful day, has become something that I can no longer find solace in.