We were ambling along approaching an intersection near our condo when a lady on a bicycle passed and tried to make the corner. She was somewhat senior-ish (this means about my age and yes, smarty pants, you make a remark about the use of “ish” at your peril).
Suddenly, the lady yelled and swerved and fell over! She took quite a tumble off her bike and landed awkwardly in front of oncoming traffic while her bike skittered out into the intersection. Holy smokes!
What to do as the Malt stared at the proceedings with that calm resolve that means “Hey, any chance of getting cookies?”
So I stuffed his leash under my belt and darted out to help the lady whilst pulling along a small animal who had apparently shot anchors from each paw into the pavement to make sure I looked like a discombobulated idiot as I tried to rescue the not-so-fair damsel whose overly tight pants had crept down to reveal a crack any plumber would have been proud to claim. But I digress.
Dragging the Malt, I reached the lady, ascertained she had not hit her head, had not broken anything (despite the crack in her butt) and was not otherwise severely injured. I helped her to her feet whilst another kind soul ran up and snatched her bike out of the traffic lanes to the cheers and fist bumps of unsympathetic motorists.
I assisted the lady to some nearby stairs and suggested she sit a moment to gather her wits. I checked her eyes for signs of any concussion or (medical term coming) the spacey look and seeing none engaged her in conversation as she inspected a collection of road rashes on her elbows and knees.
As she got ready to move on I asked what happened. Was there an oil patch? Were the cars at the intersection threatening her progress? What caused her to simply fall off her bike?
“I really don’t know”, she said, “But if I had to guess I think it was either the gears sticking or maybe that medical marijuana I took might have affected my balance.”
Then she asked me my name. I said “Tom, what’s yours”?
She looked me in the eye and said I could call her “Whiskey.”
Max and I continued our walk in the K Streets without further comment.
Categories: Max's Stories