My helmet saved me

“Good thing you were wearing your helmet,” one cyclist said. The one wearing a beret and had traveled from San Jose.

Ironically, earlier I had suggested not wearing a helmet. Which would be a rare moment for me. It’s even rarer than not having bike lights at night.

The following are the times that I didn’t wear a helmet:

  • In San Francisco: when I had left my helmet at home when I had left my bike overnight at work and was riding back
  • Touring the rice fields in Vietnam. I only realized that I didn’t have a helmet until we had ridden already 3 miles.
  • That is it. I am the most paranoid person I know. I am the most cautious regular cyclist. Considering how accident prone I can be. I pause at stop signs while other cyclists ride around me. I avoid going down 17th street because I want to avoid all the snaking muni rails. I drive at night because I don’t want to ride at night. I go slow around cars, especially when they double park. I always take the lane and try to avoid lane splitting if ever possible.

    I would like to say that my helmet saved me when I fell and landed hard on my right side of my head. But some people think differently. Would I have ridden safer (like football players without helmets) if I wasn’t wearing one? Would I have avoided in between the muni tracks if I wasn’t wearing one? I don’t know.

    That night, I didn’t notice any damage to my helmet until the following morning. The lower right side was cracked in multiple places like a jagged knife running upward through the styrofoam. What is certain is that I didn’t get any surface scrapes on my head unlike my forearm (which is now fully purple and hating handshakes). Did it compress? I don’t know. At the very least, I am sad for my fancy Giro black bike racing helmet.

    Then suddenly it felt like a whole day passed by

    The first thing I did was get up and retrieve the rolling water bottle that fell off my bike. I had to get my things. I had to get my things.

    Then I felt this bright dizzy feeling overcome me. I knew that I hit my head and my right forearm and hip were in pain. I tried to remember what I had happened but I couldn’t. Someone was saying in front of me, “I have gotten caught like that. Are you ok?”

    I took deep breaths and said, “Yes…I think so.”

    Another cyclist stopped and said, “That was quite a wipeout. What day is it?”

    I reached back in my memory remembering that I had checked the date indicator on my computer several hours before. “April 5,” I said.

    “What time is it?”

    I reached for my phone, he interrupted, “Don’t check your watch.”

    “Um…9 pm.” (And it was actually 9 pm.)

    “Do you recognize these two guys? Do you trust them?”

    I gestured toward the one who was wearing a brown beret, “I recognize him. San Jose. But I don’t know him. Should I trust them?”

    “Are you with anybody?”

    “Yeah, but he was way in front…leading everyone. He was the one wearing the blue helmet. I think that I am going to walk.”

    With that, I started walking and called Chris, noting his latest text message where r u? “I think that I got caught in the muni rails. I don’t feel good.”

    “Walk over to Illinois and 24th. I am directing traffic.”

    I found him as he directed cyclists to turn left, waving his arms left. “I feel weird like a whole day has passed. I don’t remember the moments before and after I fell. I don’t know if my bike is ok.”

    Then suddenly I remembered how the group was moving fast and I thought that I should speed up. After all, I can ride fast. A car was blocking the way. I hated going near the muni rails, but I saw other cyclists ride smoothly through the middle and it’s not the first time I crossed the tracks. I’ll do it. Then I fell.

    RIP, Roger Ebert

    Growing up, I wanted to be a film critic. Sitting at the foot of my parents’ bed, I marveled at the magic that appeared on screen. I was frightened, thrilled, and relished all the stories that were told. So easily and simply.

    Despite being a movie lover (which may imply video lover), I never watched Ebert and Siskel. Instead, I devoured written movie reviews. Yet with Roger Ebert, his reviews read like poetry—taking me on a journey of his life and perspective. This is what movies…stories…are to me.

    We will never understand the complete life of the storyteller. Yet in the middle of the story, we get a glimpse of their personal perspective. For a moment, we understand their pains, their fears, their disgust, their loves.

    “What is your goal of your writing?” sometimes I am asked.

    I always answer, “I write because I need to write. I write because I want to understand myself. I write because I want people to pause for a moment and think, “You know, I never thought about it that way.”

    Writing in its truest form requires the writer to be honest. In writing, the reader must trust me that I will bring them to a safe place, while revealing moments of beauty, clarity, pain along the way.

    In Roger Ebert’s reviews, which I read ferociously once the Internet boomed, helped me understand life. After watching a poignant film, I would read his review, wondering about his take. But most importantly, I was curious about how it related to his life. Even when I heavily disagreed, I could see clearly his point of view. That is the power of a great writer.

    I was trying to search for the reviews that I would read over and over again, after experiencing a movie that tugged at my heartstrings or frightened my soul. I can’t pinpoint a single one. Was it the one on Before Sunset? Twin Falls Idaho? I don’t remember, but with his writing and his introspective blog posts and twitter commentary, I felt safe.

    I will miss you, Roger.

    I am never busy

    I only choose not to have time for you. That time is a choice as WSJ says.

    It might be somewhat pompous to say that, but I bristle when someone tells me that they’re too busy. Too busy to have lunch. Too busy to talk for a moment. Too busy to attend, to participate in an activity, to change jobs, to consider their energies.

    When I entered college, I started measuring the amount of time spent on things I hated doing. For example, washing dishes. It seemed to take an amount of effort to put my hands under the water, add soap, scrub, rinse and dry. Then I realized the amount of time I spent on doing my small amount of dishes was less than 10 minutes. Sometimes 5 minutes.

    Growing up, my mom enacted a rule that we would practice piano for at least 30 minutes a day. So my sister and I used the oven timer, setting it for 30 minutes. I remember pulling out my books, playing through them. But really counting the minutes until I could retire to do other things. My mom could hear the silence and would stomp out, trying to figure out what was going on. Then I would continue, whether playing actual notes or pieces. But at some point, when the timer beeped, I would run out and stop the timer and declare that I was done.

    So busy? I never think that I am. I know that I waste a lot of time browsing the Internet—whether it’s out of boredom, soothing a sad part of me, and fulfilling a thirst of knowledge. I know that I neglect a lot usual duties—cleaning up my room, doing my taxes, checking my bills thoroughly, and generally organizing my life. But the thing is…it’s not important to me.

    People say that I spend an inordinate time planning. Planning for myself and others. Events, activities, anything to keep me away from mundane tasks. I spend a lot of time reading movie and tv reviews. I also spend a lot of time writing (not always writing my ice cream travel guide for that fact). But I pride myself that I am completely self-aware of these things. Yes, there’s sometimes guilt that comes with it. I know that I can be more diligent and that I can be more reliable. Whatever the case, my own principles of life (e.g. I always return emails, texts and calls to people that I deem important within 24 hours.) help me filter through the noise.

    Am I busy? Never. Honestly, there are only two things that keep me from doing things:
    1. I don’t care
    2. I am afraid

    But I am never too busy otherwise.

    Nine years ago, she wrote something sweet

    “We’ll grow old together,” she wrote. “And complain about our husbands.”

    I remember feeling touched and hopeful that life was going to be different. A friend for life.

    Then in the decade, through words exchanged, cars rides given, moves across the country, meals shared, failed attempts, carried hopes, bikes, gifts, houses purchased, places rented…distance grew despite living in the same city. I moved in my circle and she in hers.

    Then today, I smiled faintly as digital photos of happiness scroll across my screen. It’s better this way, I think. No words exchanged, plausible deniability expected.