She drew our attention as we waited at the red light, standing in the middle of the lane with her bike rather than snaking her way between the stopped cars like messengers and experienced riders do. “There’s a newbie”, I mused. “And not really dressed for biking”, my wife added, a dimension of awareness that I had missed completely. Several riders caught up and headed to the front of the pack, and she, apparently feeling the strength in numbers, followed, disappearing around the bus ahead.
By the time the light changed and the #37 had made its right onto Market, she had already fallen behind the other riders and was half way across the intersection in the center of the right lane twenty feet in front of me. I figured I’d pass her on the left as soon as the car passing me at the time was far enough ahead. I slowed down to let it clear. And then she turned!
From the right lane, without looking, without signaling, without any warning at all, she turned left to go down Market Street, directly into the path of the car on my left who was going straight across Market on 14th. He swerved and fortunately missed hitting her, but she smashed into the side of his car and went over in a heap, crumbling and rolling along the pavement, while her bike did an ungainly pirouette and came to a stop ten feet away.
We pulled over and ran to her as did a half dozen others. “I’m alright, I’m alright”, she tried to reassure herself and those around her as she was helped to the sidewalk where she lay on her back and someone put something soft under her head. “My arm hurts”, she said quietly and we could see the blood.
“Call 911”, shouted my wife and as I did, the young woman pleaded, “Don’t call an ambulance. I don’t have any money”! I stopped for a split second hit by the irony of her worrying more about the cost of care than the use of her arm, but I called anyway.
The driver had stopped and come over. An immigrant, with an accent, he was shaken. “She just came in front”, he sputtered, and I nodded. “I know, I saw, you did nothing wrong”. I picked up her water bottle and put it next to her backpack. A number of people were tending her and I could hear a siren in the distance, so we gave the driver a business card in case he needed a witness, and, since my wife still had to get down to Embarcadero in time for the ferry, we drove off.
The rest of the ride was emotional as we processed what we had just experienced. Innocence, ignorance, action, reaction, impact, inertia, pain, hurt, confusion, concern, the suddenness of change, the uncertainty of the future, the kindness of strangers, the good, the bad, and the ugly. We handled it well, those of us on 14th and Market at 8:15AM on the morning of August 19th, 2009. I hope it ends up okay… that she has no permanent injury and doesn’t lose her job and isn’t afraid to get back on her bike and doesn’t end up with thousands of dollars of charges for a seven minute ride to General. And I hope the driver, whose name I never got, doesn’t have to call me, because he doesn’t get charged with anything. There is hope for the future. It can start with me.
Passing by on my return home, the intersection was back to normal, save for a lone policeman taking notes and measuring distances with one of those little wheely things. I stopped and went over. “If you’re here about the cyclist/car accident, I was a witness”, and I told him what I had seen. “I just don’t want the driver to get charged with anything. He didn’t do anything wrong”. “I know”, said the cop, “that’s what everyone says”. “And can you believe it”, he added, “it was the first day she was riding her bike to work”.
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