I had a rough ride to work today. Along with facing a rough and painful dust storm around windy Queensplaza (what is it about that area in when it's windy?), I managed to scare an old lady on the bridge and hit the side-view mirror of a pick-up truck.
I felt worse about the lady, even though only the mirror was my fault. Biking down into Manhattan on the narrow part I see an bike coming up on the left and an old lady walking up on the right. I wasn't even going full speed. The bike, who had seen me, veers to the center. I quickly veer away, toward the lady. I wasn't going to hit her, but I did turn in her direction, scare the shit out of her, and made her jump about a foot in the air. I stopped, turned around, and said, "sorry." What else could I do?
Before that I'm on 35th Ave and there's a pick-up truck stopped at light, a little too far to the right. But there's enough room for me to sneak through, so I do. I hear something on me hit the mirror. I'm still not sure how I hit it. Something on my bag. And it didn't sound good. Every muscle in my body is telling me to keep going and not turn back.
But that wouldn't be the right thing. So I stop. I turn around. And I come back sheepishly. The driver, a latino guy, is completely calm. I expect the mirror to be in pieces and me out some horrible amount of money.
The mirror is bent out of position but looks OK. I say I'm sorry and the guy just waves me away. So I bend the mirror back toward the right direction. Then I notice part of the mirror, a very small part, is broken off (nothing is cracked). I point out the broken bit. The guy just nods and gives me a don't worry about it look. Thank you, sir.
Let's hope I get home uneventfully.