The motorcycle is scarcely warm between my legs approaching the signal, rolls through green, into the intersection and out of the San Diego night an old Caddy accelerates along University Drive trying to make the light. It broadsides the sidecar hack and the attached Honda 450 tumbles over twice while I hover above it having jumped on the toe pegs to avoid the brunt of the 30mph blow. I bounce once on the street in the middle of circulation, see oncoming lights and leap just in time to take a glancing blow from another car that doesn´t stop either.
In a two second window I am the victim of two hit and runs!!
Minutes early I had downed a hot chocolate at 7-11 to brace for the cold night, nodded to two policemen on the way out, heard a dog bark, hopped on the bike and pulled into the intersection.
On hearing brakes squeal the cops rush out and one helps me to my elbows while the other sprints for the patrol car. ´I´m fine,´ I assure him, though I´m not but don’t want the trauma and bill of the Paramedics. He jumps in the police car that lays a patch. ´Justice will be done.´ quips a bearded homeless man and trundles a shopping cart by watching the high speed chase.
Unable to get to my feet on the road shoulder, I roll to a speed limit sign and scratch up the post to stand and think through a daze. The dispatcher has been radioed for about a five minutes response to leave the premise or face a third assault by big hearted bureaucrats. Unable to walk ahead because of the crush of the left leg between cycle and hack, I begin a backward shuffle for one minute to flush the adrenalin along the system, and to appraise myself medically. Possible internal abdominal injury, lungs okay, mild shock with a shallow rapid pulse, and a few abrasions. Now I can walk forward with a gimp and respiratory pain against the right ribs from the glancing blow.
The bike and sidecar have miraculously somersaulted upright, and except for broken windshields, a bent fork and flooded engine that won´t turn over, I can push it. Shaking in pain, I shove the crippled bike to my Hillcrest basement home and feel the better for having walked off murderous cramps. Doubtless the Paramedics and sheriff are surveying the broken glass and blood wondering what became of the ghost biker.
I shudder into unconsciousness on the cellar bed, and unable to get up on the second day the upstairs tenant comes knocking with food. On the third day I walk with the help of a 2×4 crutch to a corner payphone, and skid through an insurance claim despite California no-fault if I obtain a police report. I hang up, dial, and the SDPD voice on the other end intones there is no police report which makes sense because the victim escaped after the drivers. Recalling the helpful policeman’s chest nametag ended in ´…ski´, the voice replies, ´That could be any number of our officers.´ I describe him to no avail, and since there is no record of anything the sympathetic Sergeant loses patience and mumbles hoax warning of a trace on the line. Then I recall a peculiar muffled dog bark and guess it might be a Canine Unit. ´Bingo!´ the detective shouts. ´That´s officer ´Z…ski´ and hold on… he just verified and is writing a tardy police report, and despite not being to apprehend the two hit and runners, Officer Z wishes you well.´ An hour later I pick up the report, receive an insurance check, and no I didn’t get post-traumatic stress on this or any of the other survivals.
I refuse to capitalize it. It is an empty coin by psychologists to keep themselves in work. You walk in the path of death daily, doesn’t matter if you´re a jet pilot or an Avon lady, and if you crash, miscarriage, get robbed, chased by a bull, or hit by a car a couple times, just deal with it and get back on your feet, shake hands and come out fighting.