Journals

The morning after saying goodbye to Greg and Isabel, I took one last swim in the ocean and then geared up for the three-hour trip north to Vilankoulos.  I headed west from Tofu Beach to link back up with the EN1 highway outside of Maxixe, and then made a cautious right turn onto the tarmac.  Within minutes, I came across a small commotion by the side of the road.  As I approached, a grave-looking local turned at the sound of my bike and motioned for me to slow down.  At his feet were the crumpled, bloody body of an injured man, and the smashed-up frame of a bicycle.  There were no ambulances around, and the closest functioning emergency room was miles, if not hours, away.  The man was lifted off the pavement and into the back of a small pickup truck just as a light rain began to fall.  I rode past with a heavy heart, wanting to help, but knowing I could offer nothing to match even the meager aid he was getting.   It took me almost no time to pass through Maxixe, and before long, I was back out on the open road, foolishly riding at full speed.  Moments later, as if reading the script of a slow-motion nightmare, two teenage boys on a bike swerved suddenly into my lane without looking.  They were less than firty meters away, so my only option was to slam on the brakes; as I did, my back wheel began to fishtail on the slick road.  I struggled to keep the bike under control, and reached my legs down to balance.  But as my left foot grazed the asphalt and kicked back, I realized how futile this instinctive effort would be at such high speeds.  There was no choice but to face disaster and just ride it out.  I remember understanding--not just thinking--at this point there was a real chance I could be killed.  However, I felt no panic; only a calm, almost ridiculous sense of acceptance for whatever might come.  My worst fears were materializing in front of me, but even then I could not shake the gratitude I felt, as if some part of me knew  that everything would be alright.  The very next instant, when things looked to be at their bleakest, my rear wheel stopped sliding, allowing me to gain control of the bike and gently lay it down on its side.   I was now sliding along the pavement at about forty miles an hour, but because the roads were wet and smooth, there was almost no friction.  I felt a slight burning on my right hip and shifted more weight onto the seat of my pants, where I slid for what seemed like hours.  When I finally stopped, there was a small chunk of skin missing from my right hand, and my jacket sleeve was torn, but other than that I was unscathed.  The bike had come through in similar fashion: one of the mirrors was cracked, but the engine never stopped running.  As I started reattaching my loosened gear to the bike, I noticed several residents of the nearby village--into which the two boys had run after seeing me crash--staring at me as if I were a ghost.  But they didn't know the half of it.  For the second time now, my luck had held out in incredible fashion, right when I needed it most.