I'm riding down the pavement with my eyes closed, and I'm about to die.
At first I wasn't sure what happened, and then I thought, “I'm about to fly off a bicycle into Muni tracks.”
I didn't have time to think about what was going on, I only knew that I wasn't wearing a helmet, and there was an oncoming trolley - not 400 feet away.
My right arm hit the asphalt first, followed by my legs and finally my head.
I can't feel my arm; I know I'm bleeding.
I lie there, completely vulnerable - and then the oncoming J-line street car comes to a screeching halt 20 feet from my head.
"Are you okay honey?" Yells the Muni operator who sticks her head out through the side window of her train.
"Yeah, I'm okay, I can't feel my arm, but I'll live." I respond in agony. I quickly pick myself up and head over to the nearest driveway, collapsing on my back.
The train speeds off while everyone on board looks at me with empathy because they see me, they see my bicycle, and they see the obvious pain I'm in.
"What just happened?" I keep asking myself while I lay in the driveway, and then I realize I could have died.
I remember talking to my father last month about bicycling, and in the middle of our conversation he made me promise him to wear a helmet – no matter what. I could hear the worry in his voice. My old man in his prime was an avid rider in the East Coast – he’s seen his fair share of head injuries from not wearing a helmet.
Head injuries account for more than 60 percent of bicycle related deaths in the United States, according to the Bicycle Helmet Safety Institute.
However, I was not destined that night to become another statistic. Perhaps because I hit my arm first, ultimately softening further impacts between my body and the ground, but I’m not a doctor.
As I lay on the driveway, I remember something about my front wheel getting caught between the pavement and the Muni rail. There just had to be a space between the two that is the exact same width as my front wheel.
The first drops of rain this season began to fall as I stared into the night sky. I was certain now that I hadn’t broken anything as I began to stiffly move my right arm – and then I became bathed in light by a sheriff’s patrol car.
“Are you okay? I completely saw what happened,” the officer yelled from his car.
“Yeah, I just need to breath, and I’ll be alright,” I said, more conscious than I’ve been since I fell.
He began to explain the numerous times he’s fallen as a kid growing up in the area because of getting his bicycle wheel caught on a Muni rail. We chatted for a bit; he made sure I wasn’t seriously injured and then swiftly advised me to get a helmet before patrolling along.
Why don’t I wear a helmet if I know what the consequences are? Is it because I don’t want to carry it around with me? Could it be because it looks stupid on me? Or is it because I feel like “it’s not going to happen to me?”
Whatever the reason, it’s trivial not to wear it, but I still don’t strap one on. I tend to think I don’t ride reckless and aggressively, but I don’t exactly come to a complete stop at a stop sign.
It’s about 3 in the morning by the time I start walking my bicycle home; luckily I live a couple blocks away. As I walk, I think about what could have happened if I had a serious head injury.
The words: hospital, vegetable, medical bills, and suffering come to mind. You could use statistics to prove anything, but how can wearing a helmet hurt your chances from staying off a gurney?
The safety institute says the direct costs if cyclists’ injuries due to not wearing helmets are estimated at $81 million a year with indirect costs totaling to about $2.3 billion annually.
I start thinking about my friends and family who would have to take care of me if I became a vegetable, the hospital bills and relentless sadness – just because I couldn’t be bothered with wearing a helmet.
It’s not something anyone should have to go through.
I walk through my door, lie down on my bed, and call the girl I like just because I want to hear her voice.
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