Mortality

One minute: we are pedaling up the street, literally - there is a slight incline, and then it turns into a full-blown hill, and Beth and I, being novice cyclists, she with the single-speed cruiser, me towing the trailer with the kids, decide that we need to turn around and seek a flatter route. The next minute I am a bleeding heap lying in the middle of the street. "FUCK!!!" I scream. Fuck, I think. The kids. Are they OK? Yeah, there they are, this is why we got the trailer so that if, so that when one of us went down the kids would not go down with us, Zoe was napping and now she's awake and yelling as is Lucas, who is more than a little freaked out at his swearing dad, swearing in pain, stabbing pain, it's actually been a while since I've really fucked myself up, let's see, must have been that rugby practice three years ago? Yes, three years ago, I went one way, my right knee went the other, and down I went and I've never been the same since, it always hurts, some days less than others. Spots. Should I be seeing spots? Did I hit my head? Would I know if I had? Spots. The last time I saw spots...Mount Whitney, Mike and I had left San Diego mid-day, the idea was to get there in the evening and crash the trail, reach the midpoint of the mountain by 9 or so, sleep, get up before dawn and reach the summit by mid-morning, only we forgot about the whole sea-level-to-14,505-feet in the span of several hours thing. We also forgot about eating, except for a few handfuls of dried apricots that morning. I started seeing those spots when we reached the Trail Crest - 13,600 Feet sign, then the spots became a kaleidoscope and then I began puking and didn't stop, we turned around and staggered back down the trail, apricot-flavored dry heaves, a light snow falling, and when we got to the base of the mountain I sat there for what seemed like hours, breathing, breathing, breathing, like there could never be enough air in the world. Sitting. Sit up. I should sit up. The kids are still crying. Beth is asking me if I'm OK. Everyone sounds like they are underwater. I am sitting in the middle of the street, and it occurs to me that when the car runs us over as one surely will if we stay here it will hit them first and I will get to watch them die. Moving out of the street seems prudent. I stand up. My left knee is a bloody mess, as is my right ankle. I push the bike over to the curb, out of harm's way. I am sweating but I'm cold. Odd. The cold comes from the realization that everything is tenuous, that everything in this life is earned but, really, that doesn't matter. One misstep and it's gone. All of it. "Are you OK?", Beth asks again, and it's a while before I can answer.