I guess you could say I fell off my bike, but more accurately: I flew off my bike. And I remember the pavement closing in, my Superman arms, the way I fell in that softball game in ninth grade when I tripped going from third to home because HOME was so impossible, so deliciously deleriously un-me, and I’d been riding my bike the same way — with delicious delerium, thinking how fast I was going, how I was dodging these potholes in this construction zone, and I was a machine just as sure as my bike, just as sure as sunrise over a new lake on a new day with a new love with a birthday cake and then — FLLRLLOOM! — I am on the pavement. My bike is on me. We are spooning. Bike, why you gotta consumate our love right now? I was GOING PLACES. No one is stopping. A car-window yeller yells, “Are you ok?” I do not answer, and he takes my silence for okay-ness. A passerby walks over and lifts the bike off of me. “There, I did my good deed for the day,” he says and walks off. I am left to be bloody, and mad, and dizzy. But okay. Okay okay. Bloody on one arm and on my knees and hands, but sound of mind and sound of bone, and when I get into the cab to the E.R. (tetanus, sprains, who knows…) I am so grateful for the ability to move myself from point A to point B, still, somehow.