The fall is coming. Not the Fall. Or even The Fall.* Just the fall. My fall.
Here it comes.
If one rides a bicycle quickly and aggressively through city center traffic every day of the week, to a total of about 500 kilometers a month, one will only last so long before the inevitable crash. And it has been so long.
We all remember my high speed altercation with a delivery van back in the late summer of 2010. Since then? I've gotten caught in the clips once at traffic lights (that'll learn me, never fucking stop at lights) and last week I went down on one of those wooden bridges by the IFSC. Wheels just disappeared from under me. Low speed. The wrist took it, classically. It remains a little ouchie in a long arm plank but I can still comfortably, furiously masturbate. Outside of that? Nothing. Spill free. Beheading bereft.
So it's coming.
And when it comes, I very much hope that it is my fault. For while I still holler abuse at the many, many morons who fail to indicate, who pass too close, this is increasingly little but a reflex. I no longer consider cars to be people piloted. To me they are now merely moving obstacles which can and will do all kinds of crazy shit, but all kinds of crazy shit that I have seen many times before. Nincompoopery holds no novelty for me now. I count on cuntishness. I assume that I am unseen. I can ride these mean streets with speed and determination while always giving myself the space to make the save, to ride the wave of traffic without being submerged. A little lapse, a forgotten glance, these things may take me down. And it would be a deserved downfall and one that I would accept. I accept and suspect it would not be fatal. Because of the space, because of my smarts. But there are incidents that defy prediction. The oncoming drunk driver crossing the median line, the light broken beyond the now somehow acceptable five second limit, the fresh pothole as I draft a bus. These and all those other happenings of which I have not dreamt, these are the moments that I fear. I embrace Darwinism. I am happy to be slaughtered by my own idiocy. But not by chance. Chance can go fuck itself.
Soon now. I want to live. So I hope that it is me that fucks it up.
*Two Americanism right there that have totally, thankfully, failed to take hold in our new Hiberno Americano. First, "Fall" as Autumn. Really, I have no problem with this. It's a far better word than the Narnian "Autumn". It just doesn't belong here. Keep Irish English Irish English. No Surrender. Second, the singularisation (no z there fuckers, red squiggle at me all you want spellcheck) of both bands and sporting teams. Of groups essentially. Coldplay is not a collection of joy numbing soul manglers. They are a bunch of cunts. Bradford City is not my new favourite football team. They are, despite my knowing precisely none of their names, my sporting idols. In summary, I'm fine with your Fall, Yanks, but please get it the fuck together with the group thing.