On my way home on my bike at night, I'm often nervous around cars. Here in Cambridge cyclists have it easy, with designated lanes and enough of a population to keep drivers wary, but having been in one accident last year, I too am always wary of cars. I suppose it's a healthy fear, and it makes me look twice or three times if I'm not sure. I maintain a certain level of tension somewhere in my gut as I coast down Beacon St in Sommerville and I start to tighten my grip on the brake ever so slightly as cars go by only slightly faster than I'm going. I am effectually bracing myself for impact.
Sometimes, though, I brace myself mentally. I can picture the car pulling out and not seeing me or turning to the right when I'm in its blind spot--it's not a still, it's a moving picture. My bike crashes into the wheel as I begin to flip forwards over the hood or it catches me from the right side and my head jerks as the bike flies out from under me or my head smashes through the window as the bike crumbles under the big SUV wheels. I see it happening, and I brace myself for something else. I'm preparing for what it seems to me is some sort of relief or release: it's not as if I love death or anything, because I don't think such a crash would kill me right away, but it seems that from such an accident I expect my life to be put into someone else's hands. It's as if I expect suddenly to be taken care of, and I won't need to worry about details anymore.
This of course is not true: upon surviving I would need to worry about getting out of the road, stopping blood loss, immobilizing broken limbs, telling the ambulance crew the right things, calling the right people, keeping track of pending responsibilities and appointments, not to mention the eventual payment for treatment and dealing with whoever caused the accident.
Then again, if I did die, I would not have any of those worries (someone else would). I would be at rest in the fathers arms--or wherever it is, specifically, that you go first in heaven. I would no longer have to care about my work schedule, making any sort of payments, meeting deadlines or expectations; it's all said and done. I'm definitely joyful that I have that sort of confidence, that I'm so sure of my salvation, but it definitely sounds freaky.
I suppose there's a lot of tension right now that I've been avoiding or biking away from, and in stead of dealing with it right away, I'm half heartedly (or half mindedly) expecting some sort of Deus ex machina to relieve me of it all. I really need to just face it.
