Obviously, she’s talking with a different group of cyclists than I tend to communicate with. Most of the ones I know, following a crash, initially say something like “Could you hand me a beer, please?” Or “Don’t let that fucker drive away; I want to get his license number.”
And most eventually get back on the bike, some even before their broken bones heal, especially if they have a friend who can hook them up with a one-handed braking and shifting mechanism.
I’ve wrecked my share (I hope) of times on (or, I guess that’s off) two wheels; it sucks, especially the six to eight weeks it takes your fucking wrist to start feeling better, but so far, all I’ve wanted to do afterwards is get back on the bike as soon as possible. I’ve never broken a collarbone (knock wood) but if I did and couldn’t balance or pull up on the handlebars, I think I’d try a gimp-cycle until I healed up. But I guess that would be getting on a trike, not a bike.
Of course talking about this is probably going to jinx me; my next posting will be about how I got right-hooked by some lady in an SUV talking on her phone while drinking a latte and then maybe I’ll eat my words and become a fulltime bus-rider. One never knows.
If I gave up on all the things I fucked up or hurt myself on, I wonder what, if anything, I’d do. I wouldn’t cook; I’d never be a parent; no way I’d teach, and this would be the last 327-word essay I ever wrote.