One day, early in the fall of 2010, I was on Addison road racing along the cars as I often did. I had peddled hard through the uphill of the bridge just east of California avenue and was excited to enjoy the rush and speed of rolling down the other side.

A white utility van in front of me entered the turning lane and as I watched, slowly began his turn. I was wearing shorts and at some point in the thrilling race to pass the flow of automobile traffic had had felt my leg touch the chain of my one-speed road bike.

I saw the van turning and I knew I was in my proper position, between the forward-going lane and the righthand turning lane. I took a split moment in the downhill freefall to look down at the grease stain on my calf. Maybe I even wondered how my legs looked in these shorts while I raced the drivers on the road.

I looked back up and a white van entered my view. The van had not completed the turn. Perhaps a pedestrian had stepped out to cross just as he had begun to turn. The white van was further into my lane than I had noticed from further away. I pulled on my breaks with all my strength. I pulled my body up and back from my low-swung handlebars.

But it was too late. I slid toward the van with almost as much force as I had been speeding by in the seconds before. The front wheel of my slender, lightweight bicycle crashed into the bumper. As the impact produced a kind of bounce for the bicycle, my body flung forward by the force of momentum into the back door of the van. My helmet slammed against the glass window. And I collapsed onto my bike, my ribs hitting the handlebars, and down we went together.

I recall lifting my head from the ground and part of my bike and one on my arms was underneath the van. I pushed myself up and I found myself tangled at the legs, one laying on top and the under beneath my bicycle. I looked over at the cars driving past me just feet away and for a brief moment, I felt utterly alone.

To be continued…