ROSE QUITSLUND
I’m not embarrassed.
I fell off my bike last Saturday morning. I was on my way up Hillhouse, the cool remnants of night air pushing my hair back from my forehead as I sped up the street. The deserted one-way lane felt like a boulevard, empty of the parked cars that usually line both sides. I was weaving back and forth, enjoying the rare space and solitude of the normally busy street. And then my bag, dangling from the handlebar, got trapped in the spokes of my front wheel and I tumbled: arms and legs all tangled in the pedals and handlebars that still carried all the momentum of my pumping legs from a moment before.
September 5, 2024
