That day
Taking my bike had become a routine since the beginning of my second year of high school at Jean-Pierre Timbaud in the Parisian suburbs. Routine means every day is the same. Things become automatic. Habits are so ingrained that you don't even pay attention to them anymore. Like all those identical mornings, I left for high school, just a few minutes from home. My new mountain bike gliding on the roads at daybreak.
We don't pay attention to our habits when we're in a routine, especially the bad ones. Until the day life itself calls them into question. And for me, it was a rideshare that called everything into question.
After a busy day learning everything about quadratic equations, text commentary, and mitosis, I got back on my bike, which was patiently waiting for me under the high school shelter. I said goodbye to my friends and hopped on my Btwin, hair in the wind. I love these autumnal late afternoons. The day is fading, night is peeking out, the air is getting colder, a guaranteed breath of fresh air.
I often finish at 6 p.m., right at the time when people are leaving their offices. Traffic is a bit heavy, but I'm careful, and besides, I'm often on the bike path, so I'm relatively safe. Or so I thought.
Bad habits die hard
As always, I have to take the last exit from the roundabout and therefore have to go all the way around. To follow traffic rules, I position myself inside the roundabout, arm outstretched to the left to signal my direction. And then my exit appears. Arm to the right to take it. I barely have time to reach it before I'm thrown over my handlebars. Over a car. And then I find myself on the ground, a little disoriented, not quite understanding what's happening to me.
Accidents happen every day
The guy who just hit me with his black sedan gets out of the car, talks to me, but I'm still stunned. He gives me a card and leaves.
And that's it.
I still try to clear the road, move away from the roundabout, try to collect my thoughts.
Try to chase away those stars and shooting lights in front of my eyes.
To get out of this mess I seem to have been thrown into.
Cotton. Everything seems to be wrapped in cotton.
I can't get back on my bike, I think it's badly damaged, so I finish the journey on foot.
As best I can.
When I got home, my parents were a bit panicked. On one hand, I was later than usual, and on the other hand, they noticed something I hadn't: the blood on my forehead.
When I fell, my head hit the road, and I must have scraped myself. My mother took me to the emergency room to check for a concussion. My father tried to reach the driver who hit me.
If the person is dishonest, they will have left me a fake number, and I'll have nothing but my eyes to cry with. The bike is in such bad shape that I'll have to buy another one. Not to mention my own condition.
What if I had worn my helmet?
What if I had worn my helmet
In the end, no concussion, I was very lucky considering I went over the guy's windshield. The guy, by the way, was pretty honest since his card was real. A taxi in too much of a hurry who didn't see me and knocked me down in mid-flight. He took responsibility for the bike repairs.
It just goes to show, sometimes life breaks our routines, and if we respect it enough, we learn some lessons. I decided I would never go out without a helmet again.
I thought I was invulnerable, safe, what could happen to me on a 2km journey? Me, who is always careful.
What I was neglecting was that the main danger often came from elsewhere, and often struck when you least expected it.
Zero risk doesn't exist, but if we can increase our safety, why do without it?
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