When I lived in Whittier, CA, I drove a 1995 Honda Civic; the model shaped like your granddad's nice sedan, but left in the dryer too long so it shrunk.
I was very careful with this car; I had inherited it from my brother, who had seen it through several minimum-wage jobs, three buddy road trips fueled by cheap gas and Cheetos, one-and-a-half pet dogs, and a flash flood in the middle of the Mojave. One could always find the remnants of an order of fries in the seats (if you were very hungry and not too particular); it ran best on a half-empty tank, it only smoked when it was cold, and although it smelled of burnt plastic, it was only when the heater was on high. It was named Bernard The Brown, and it was a very fine vehicle for the cost.
One afternoon, I sat in the driveway of Norm's Family restaurant, right-hand blinker on, enjoying the faint odor of petroleum byproducts as I waited to slip into southbound traffic on my way to my job as a piano teacher. Without warning, the car lurched to the right and I realized with horror that I had hit someone. Which was quite a feat, considering the car wasn't moving at the time.
I had just enough time to watch in my rear view mirror as the pedestrian catapulted head over heels across the trunk. When I opened my driver side door and looked out, a young man about 15 years of age rose from his crouched position at the right rear of my car, stood up and said with pride, "I landed on my feet!"
To which the only other observer of this phenomenon besides myself -- Steve -- said, "Oh good grief, Carl - a-GAIN?"
Carl replied, somewhat petulantly, "Well, I did at least land on my feet this time!"
It was then that I noticed the ten speed bike with the horribly mangled front wheel, laying at the side of my car.
Carl apologized to me, "Lady, I'm really sorry. Please don't tell my dad!"
It took several minutes for me to unravel the mystery. Apparently, Carl and Steve, good friends, had decided to take their bikes out for a ride on the west side of Whittier Boulevard, on the sidewalk, and Carl, as was his custom, was taking a long time to decide what gear to put his bike in. It was also apparent that his custom was to continue moving rapidly in a forward direction as he did this, which is why he was unaware of my presence in his immediate path until he left his bike seat to fling his body across the rear of my vehicle as he t-boned his front tire.
The dent he left in the rear side of my car was not huge; in fact, if you didn't know where to look, it might be considered part of the design of the chassis.
What I found interesting is that Carl, unlike many other riders, was a creature of habit for whom accidents did not serve to sway his habitual caution regarding the appropriate use of gear ratio for ultimate speed. This was incident number three.
We agreed to let the matter rest; even though I could have asked for insurance from Carl's father, the dent was hardly worth it, and it was very clear that Carl had enough on his mind already with expensive bike repairs in his future.
Steve was a good friend; he walked alongside Carl as Carl picked up his poor bike, slung the front half over his shoulder and began the walk home. I was bemused, and, to be honest, touched.
Later that week, I saw Steve's affection for Carl once again; for there they were, Carl and Steve as before, on Whittier Boulevard's westbound sidewalk. I watched from my place at the red light as Steve gently pedaled his ten-speed along at a pace comfortable for Carl to jog alongside.
As the light turned green, I had one last look in the rearview mirror, just in time to see Carl looking down at his feet and --
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