Surviving a Motorcycle Accident Like a Boss

I just had a motorcycle accident. What a surprise. Rather unpleasant, but totally exciting. Well that broke the safety streak of my home-to-school trips that were beginning tofeel humdrum anyway.

It happened while I was on my way to school to give a choral workshop. The sky was cloudy and a rain was foreboding. As I was starting the engine of my trusty old scooter, my mom told me to wear a kapote (raincoat). I deemed it too bothersome, however, so I decided to just go on my way. Halfway through the trip, it started to drizzle. I cursed under my breath. Moms and their foresight—I still wonder why they’re creepily spot-on.

Because I didn't have my raincoat on, I reflexively hit the gas to avoid being bedraggled by the impending downpour. Unfortunately, the road was already wet and slippery due to the drizzle. As I lost control of the handlebars, the scooter lost balance and before I knew it, I tilted and eventually fell to my right side. I felt my skin brush the dusty pavement as I slid across the road. Following the impact, I laid there for a few seconds in what must have been the most awkward position I have ever assumed in my entire life. I saw a trailing truck behind me hit the brakes just in time. Traffic in our lane stopped. People on the opposite side of the road craned their necks out of their car windows to witness the cause of the commotion. Not expecting any aid, I helped myself get up along with the fallen scooter. Then something fell off: the rightside-mirror. “Great… just great,” I told myself in my unforgiving, sardonic tone. “My dad would be so thrilled to see that.”

Imagine my relief when I finally set foot on my destination. With my fresh abrasions still bleeding and dusty from the recentness of the accident, I went on to teach my choir class for two-and-a-half hours as if nothing serious just happened. I tried my best to ignore the excruciating pain. I tried my best to hide my discomfort albeit each movement sent a shooting pang to my limbs. Nevertheless, I dismissed the class 30 minutes earlier. I knew I had already reached my physical limits. It was time for me to submit myself to the penalties.

When I arrived home I told no one of my mishap. They didn’t notice anyway, though my brother saw the bleeding scrape on my dorsal pedal—an observation he eventually dismissed. I mustered courage to tell my dad about the broken side-mirror, which he went on to check out immediately. What followed was an underwhelming pity party, having had my fair-share of jesting head spanks and affectionate cuss-cum-insults. I guess that’s just the way it is with families; they unintentionally mitigate the vehemence of your misfortune by passing it off as a deserved punishment for your carelessness.

Now despite the piercing soreness that unremittingly shrouds me, I manage to break into a smile. My life just got spared yet again. Tomorrow’s going to be a special day, I know it. Then again, each day in the life does seem to be worth revelling about—now more than ever. Thank God I’m alive.

P.S. Life, that’s enough excitement for a week, thank you very much.

Bloody token. Hella looks like a stigmata. It is painful as it is creepy.