The days following my diagnosis I felt out of sorts and depleted. I seemed to drift about, desultory, fatigued. As I said, I’m nearly always out of sorts, but not always depleted. This was probably a result of being sick, but I also attributed the malaise to metaphysical woes, that’s more my style. It seemed my body was giving up on me, it still seems that way sometimes. It can’t keep on like it used to.
I had a training to go to in the midst of all this, Coffee 101. I took my bike and made it to downtown. Then on 2nd Ave something hit me from behind. Suddenly I was on the pavement, watching my bike get dragged up the street by a Jeep. I felt deflated, just as the back tire was deflated, to be sure. I stood up and quickly felt that I wasn’t hurt. Except metaphysically, metaphysically I was wounded.
An argument with the driver ensued. He took an inordinate amount of time to get out of his car or even roll down the window, even while a young man in the back seat apologized. In retrospect I was not as hard on him as I should have been, might have been, would have liked to have been. I’m the not the assertive, masculine type—though neither am I dainty, don’t give it a second thought. The thought even crossed my mind that I may have been partially to blame, although I couldn’t see how. My conscious felt guilty, and surely I was guilty of something, in the grand scheme of my life. Ultimately we didn’t really get into it. A cruiser arrived and spoke to us individually. That is the cop who came out of the cruiser. He seemed to take my side, and mentioned that the driver, in addition to being cited for driving without insurance, was receiving a number of other citations. A menace to the road, in short.
Abe picked me up and took me to a bike store, where they confirmed that my bike was totaled. When I finally got home I lay down in bed. I had had intentions of running errands and going to the gym, but I didn’t have it in me. Lying down in the middle of the day always seems like an admission of defeat, but I was defeated.