I felt a little better about myself this morning when Emma left me a message about her own key escapades while she lived in France: "when i lived in france i was flying back there i was sitting on the plane, just as it was landing i went to find my house keys and suddenly remembered that they were hanging in my coat pocket, on the stairs, back in liverpool!! duh!!! i had to get my mum to courier them over to me, and luckily i was heading to the south on holiday with my friend!"
And then I got hit by a car. No, really. I did.
After my embarrassing bike ride with Chris on New Year's Eve, I decided to put in some "secret" training while he works during the day. Today, I rode up North Head four times. After that, pretending to be Lance Armstrong re-riding Hautacam until he "understood" the mountain got a bit tired and after my final descent, I headed into Devonport.
On the main road, a guy in a silver Honda Jazz (registration ETA500, for those Devo-based who want a car to egg) pulled off the central median strip - without warning, or indicating - in front of me and into a park on the side of the road. Unfortunately, in doing so, he ran into me and Othello. "What the FUUUUCK?" I screamed. It was a primal scream. I actually thought I might die as I steadied myself on the car next to me. I unclipped both pedals and walked around the front of his car, scowling and swearing under my breath (although, after my "under my breath" attack on a patron of the cafe at Christchuch airport yesterday came out louder than expected, I do wonder if I actually yelled at the guy). I took off, along the front of the Devonport harbour, increasingly shaky and out of breath. When I reached the Navy Museum carpark, I had to sit down. The whole thing kind of freaked me out. While I'm pretty sure that I had a much higher chance of dying when I rode blindly into the centre of Fanshawe Street - into the path of a speeding car - actually getting hit today may have knocked some of my cycling arrogance out of me. I'm actually a little dubious about going out again by myself - as if the "safety in numbers" rule applies. It so doesn't.
"Back already?" Sam mused when I wondered back in the door at 2/70. "I just got hit by a car." I said, kind of numbly. I then went on to explain the incident, while he listened, somewhat bewildered. We sat down, had a laugh. The phone rang.
I have no job anymore.
Yep, the phone call was my boss, telling me not to come back to work. Awesome.