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Why you should wear a helmet

,y bike allowed me to get more things
done in a day. I was always weaving
through campus at high speeds to
get from one commitment to the next, feeling
privileged over the earthbound masses.
I hiked between classes and errands and
jobs. I biked with my ankle wrapped from a
bad sprain. I biked with my backpack loaded
and extra bags swinging near the gears. I
biked with and without a helmet.
As a concession to parental wisdom, I wore
my helmet at night. It was a good idea, and
when it was dark I didn't have to think about
making a fashion statement. Also, I always
locked up my bike. Save for a couple of mis-
steps (a box of bike lights sat unopened on my
desk), I followed cycling's golden rules.
", Then one wet night, at the intersection
of State Street and East Washington near
Buffalo Wild Wings, I glanced at the green
traffic light and rode toward the curb. A car
saw the same green light turn to yellow. He
hesitated to make a late left-hand turn, but
he went ahead after another car waved him
through.
I called out as he turned toward me, angry
that he was getting so close.
But he had just picked up his phone.
Seconds later I landed on my back on the
opposite side of the street. My bike ended up

where he stopped his car, about 20 feet away.
His phone stayed on, his girlfriend frantic on
the other end, having heard only "shit" and
a lot of noise.
Before I sat up I thought about the clunk
my head had made on the pavement. Two
young men who had seen the accident were
helping me sit up.
"We're med students," one said dashingly.
"Follow my finger with your eyes. No not
your head, just your eyes." I unbuckled my
helmet and took it off. "You should probably
call an ambulance," they said. "Just in case."
I locked my bike up like usual, noticing
that this time the back wheel sat 5 inches to
the left of the front wheel.
We drove to the hospital. The almost calm-
ing routine I'd been going through for a
month, having my ankle ceremoniously
wrapped and pinned by a nurse, was replaces:
with a different kind of medical care. A gur-
ney, a neck brace, x-rays. She instructed me to
stand with my left shoulder against the wall.
I did. "Your other left," she said, and I began
to worry if the helmet had done its job.
I learned about Andrew, the 20-year-
old transfer student who initially thought
he had maimed me for life, as he drove us
to the police station. His girlfriend was sit-
ting in Rendez-Vous Cafe, almost hysterical

because instead of meeting her and their
buddies for hookah, he had hit someone with
his car. She'd been in a coma for a month a
year ago when a man high on cocaine hit her
car going 90 mph on the highway, ending a
police chase.
A few hours later, after filing police
reports, Andrew and I kicked back in the
hookah bar. Pale and unguarded now, he slid
the car keys across the table to his girlfriend.
He said he thought he'd stay away from driv-
ing for a while.
In what must have looked like an unre-
markable and convivial meeting of old
friends, I smoked and tried to figure out
what to tell him. My anger kept coming back
at him picking up his cell phone. It was so
predictable.
Walking to class a few weeks later, I
watched a young man (helmetless) stall
and weave between cars in the inscrutable
intersection at State Street and South Uni-
versity Avenue. He had a quiet victory over
a car, swerving lightly around it. I suddenly
thought, yeah, you could miss that car - or.
you could not. And if you don't, the car will
still be fine.
But he clearly felt invincible as he dodged
in and out of the congested traffic, and I
thought about how a crash was a powerful,

lesson in vulnerability. It wasn't the first
time I encountered it: I have three car acci-
dents under my belt (always the passenger).
It was, though, the most bruising.
Without my bike, I was forced to see cam-
pus differently - again. I met a lot more
people as I walked. I was earth-bound and
humbled, to say the least.
I felt old, and sort of jaded. I wanted tc
run after my fellow bikers with a helmet and
a reproach. Maybe I'd show them bruises tc
try to convince them, but my physical scars
weren't exactly harrowing, and I looked bet-
ter than I felt.
Being thrown over the hood of a car
- it threw me in different way "Whoa," my
friends had said when I told them, standing
healthily on two feet. And that seemed to be
all there was to say.
Wheels are showing up again with the
warm air. I haven't gotten back on a bike
since the accident, but I'm looking to try it
again, to find a ride of my own with wheel
that are straight. I'm afraid I'll be reduced
to a wobbly, fearful novice again. But after
all, they tell me nothing's easier than riding
a bike.
- Abby Colodner is an LSA junior anc
fine arts editor at The Michigan Daily

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