In the New York City transportation system, bike accidents are considered especially unimportant. The dedicated walkers who roam the streets and nearly get killed by cyclists have not responded to my ad on Craigslist, so this is my story.
Dun. Dun.
(I know I just changed around some of the opening lines of Law and Order: SVU, please don’t sue me.)
I’m a professional walker – not to toot my own horn (I don’t have one, I walk, remember?). I have been walking for twenty-three years. Momma got this down (cue the montage of me tripping over my own feet). I also follow the laws very well. I stop at the corner, I look both ways before crossing the street and, most importantly, I only walk when I’m instructed to. I am a good girl, ask Santa! I’ve been on the good list every year of my life with the exception for my pre-teen years. I like to call those the dark ages.
You know who has been on the naughty list a lot? Bikers! I’m not talking about motorcyclists. Nope. They are on the naughty list, but like, in a cool way. Santa totally hangs with them during his vacation. Santa doesn’t hang with Citi Bikers! Nope. He doesn’t hang out with murderers! Do you know how many bugs those bikers ride over every day? More than one!
God, I’m getting riled up. Those poor, innocent insects. They are nearly as helpless as me!
Here’s what is wrong with cyclists. They aren’t human! At least, they can’t be considered human when they decide to be in the car lane and follow car laws. But then, when they want to switch lanes – and the car laws they rightfully claim as their own prohibit them – they shift into human mode and demand (now envision me aggressively air quoting) “right of way,” which is designed for pedestrians, a.k.a. walkers, a.k.a. people who use their legs to get around. A.k.a. your girl, me!
Picture it: Vanessa Hudgens walking in New York City. Not literally, but this is my story, and in my story I look like Vanessa Hudgens circa 2012. Right before she breaks up with Zac Efron and makes Austin Butler fall in love with her. God, I look good! Wind in my hair. Some lettuce in my hair from the Chipotle burrito I ate earlier that day. The birds were chirping, One Direction was playing on my Spotify. Life was good.
I was right on the corner of Who Cares Street and I Am Always Right Avenue attempting to hold my body back from twerking to my high school boyfriends’ voices. The neon orange hand at the crosswalk was about to become a man (and me without a Bar Mitzvah gift!). The traffic light was about to turn from yellow to red. I stood there waiting patiently. Stationary. So stationary, that someone walked by and dropped money at my feet thinking I was one of those statue street performers. My broke booty leaned down to pick up the dime (I know my worth). And as Zayn Malik hit his high note in “Story of My Life” –
THE BIKER NATION ATTACKED. Dun. Dun.
A biker who rode through the yellow light, now possibly red, rammed into me. This is not how I wanted my first time to be. Like yeah, I pictured all of One Direction there and a lot of screaming but this is not what I asked for!
Oh the pain!
Oh the horror!
Oh the poor dime I lost and never found again!
I turned into a Sandshrew (a ground Pokémon that’s best move is to turn into a ball that speeds at their enemies and knocks them down like fallen duck pins) and rolled away from my attacker. I popped back onto my feet like a Russian dancer doing the Prisyadka. My imaginary fans clapped. My attacker groaned behind me (he didn’t know good entertainment even when he smashed right into it).
A concerned crowd formed around us.
“Are you alright?”
“That was some crash!”
“Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
I stood up. Wobbly at first. I looked like I did two weeks before, stumbling out of a bar at three in the morning: messy hair, raccoon eyes, one single tear running down my face.
“I’m okay civilians. This evil biker can push me down, bang into me without consent, but I will rise again!”
I rose dramatically.
They ignored me, dramatically.
I coughed.
They continued to ignore me.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Bruised and battered woman being forgotten over here.”
A random lady turned to me. “Excuse me, but you really hurt this biker over here. They can barely stand up.” Did I mention this lady smells like poop?
I peered over at the biker. Their bike looked like an octopus trying to do yoga. One wheel in the air, the other deflated. The bike must have been one of those that can easily fold up. My body couldn’t have done that! I can barely hurt a fly (they are just so quick everytime I try to kill them, they always leave my grasp!). My archenemy, the biker, groaned again, making me turn my head. Their helmet was nowhere to be found. Must not have been wearing one! I can’t be blamed for his head hurting, life’s tough, get a helmet!
The crowd continued to tend to the biker’s needs. “Don’t worry, the cops are on their way,” one person said.
“Thank you. Thank you everyone,” the biker whimpered. God, bikers are the most dramatic people, ever.
“Yes, thank you to whomever called the cops,” I said. “I want this to go on record. Your high school permanent record is about to get tarnished–”
“I’m 29,” the cyclist said.
“With that bone structure, you can’t be a day over 21!”
“Why, thank you.”
“You are not welcome.”
The cops arrived, and I told my story. The same way I am I telling you. With passion. With pain. With a wink at the cute cop.
Before they could come to a decision on who was in the right (they did come to a decision on who was the most annoying), they asked one final question to the biker: “Since the color of the light was yellow as you were going under it, did you increase speed or slow down?”
“Well…uhh…because the light was…you know…yellow.” He was sweating.
“Yes…”
“If I was going to make it..the only thing I could do was…you know.” Atta boy, tell them how you hurt mommy!
“Did you or did you not speed up?” the cops asked.
Dramatic silence. The fart I had been holding in since the crash escaped me.
“Sorry!” I said, embarrassed.
“No! I’m sorry!” yelled the biker.“I did. I did speed up! A little too fast. I saw you bending over to pick up a Chiclet-”
“Wait, that wasn’t a dime?”
“Of course not, I could see that and I was going about 25 miles per hour!”
The crowd gasped. That was hurting-people speed!
“I know, I’m awful,” the cyclist said. “I represent the whole biking community and you should totally hold my actions against all other bikers in the whole wide world. I didn’t wear a helmet. I pick and choose when I want to follow the law. I make bad judgement calls, look at my outfit for proof! You should write a blog about it to tell the world how awful we truly are!”
His voice was drowned out by little old ladies attacking him with their canes. Their leader was the wonderful woman who smelled like poop. I meant potpourri! (Poop and potpourri always confuse me.)
As I was vindicated by my new fellow peers of the Golden Girls Fan Club, New York City branch, I looked away. The cyclist didn’t deserve my attention anymore.
I took my phone out of my pocket. It was in perfect condition. Glad that I saved the family jewels, I tapped on Spotify and clicked on Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” and walked home.
Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived. I am the Girl Who Survived.
The moral of this story – all stories have them, ask any Full House episode – is don’t mess with me when I’m listening to One Direction. Oh, and bikers need to stay in their lane.
Thank you for coming to my Alina talk!
If you don’t agree with anything I have said, that’s cool. Childish Gambino sang it best: “This Is America.” But if you hold any ill-will towards me and my beliefs, let’s take this outside to the nearest Pokémon battle. If you think my real life Sandshrew move was impressive, wait until you see what my virtual Pokémon can do!