At 3:23A Saturday morning a drunk driver crashed into a red Camaro and white Jeep parked in front of our house. The Red Camaro belongs to our neighbor, the Jeep is mine. Marion jolted awake when he heard the crash, not exactly sure what it was, he followed our dog Blueberry to our backyard, and then returned to bed a few minutes later with shrugged shoulders and no news. I drifted back to sleep blissfully unconcerned.
When I reached for my phone a few minutes after 5A to read text from an unfamiliar number, my neighbor from across the street, who wrote that his friend’s Camaro had been hit around 3:30A, and my “keep” did, too. I felt terrible for his friend, her car is beautiful, and I texted him back my condolences while making my special Saturday morning French Press coffee. While my coffee steeped I reread the text, registered his mistake, walked outside in the predawn darkness and noticed a dent in my Jeep’s back right bumper. Meanwhile, the Camaro was wrecked.
I still needed to journal, read, post my blog, and leave by 6:45A to meet my friends in Malibu for our ride.
I walked back inside, told Marion what happened, not too worried that the Jeep had extensive damage. It was just a dent. Next, I wrote, read, posted the blog, got dressed, loaded my bike in the back of the Jeep, turned over the ignition, click, click, click, thump. My heart dropped.
She took a real hit.
And couldn’t move.
That's not right.
Our Jeep is not the most precious vehicle we own. In fact, if any of our cars were going to be plowed into, that was the optimal choice. It’s disgusting. Basically a dirty locker room on wheels. Also, it is as bare-bones as it could possibly be. Manual everything. Roll-up windows, stick shift, zero Bluetooth options, dial-up radio, and a charmingly placed CD player, exactly what I dreamed a Jeep should be; it's perfect. I had a five hour bike ride ahead of me, and although it’s hurt made me hurt, I couldn’t wallow in the WTF’s, and insurance Riga-ma-roll, so I unloaded my bike, walked back inside, swapped keys, loaded up my bike into our miraculously still miraculous Sprinter van, and drove to Malibu.
My gut told me this ride would feel good, and it did. It was much better than last Saturday. I felt fortunate to be riding with friends for the first couple of hours, and grateful that I was humbled by a subtle and speedy blonde fifty-something on a Trek Speed Concept who made courteous conversation as she pulled up next me, and then blew right by me with a kind, “maybe you’ll be this fast someday” smile.
Then I bonded with a new friend over foam.
While climbing that last mini-hill on PCH, I sensed a lad in a Postal Service kit on my wheel, “Are we close to Pepperdine?
“Yeah, it’s about three miles away.” I replied.
“My back tire is low, but I think I can make it.”
“Do you want to try my foam?” I offered him my foam sealant, a clutch back-up for flats I bring on every ride, along with a pump.
“I think I can make it.”
CUT TO: SIDE OF MALIBU ROAD
“How do you use it?”
After a few squirts of foam and pressurized air, my new bud Marshall was pedaling steadily again.
Post awesome ride feels.
Naturally, my drive home was soaked in traffic, and my Jeep is still hurt and lumped against the curb, but I'm happy that I didn’t let some drunken dipshits ruin my Saturday, because the ride was awesome.
The song and video choice today is a lively tune from the film Lion, Sia's, Never Give Up.