San Francisco takes on a new life, a new persona, when the first ray of sun breaks through the winter fog. The energetic swing that comes with the change of seasons, vibrancy once coddled by dark days and cold nights, isn’t necessarily unique to the Bay Area. I reminisce of a summer spent in Prospect Park in Brooklyn or Manhattan’s Washington Square Park, sitting on a bench watching a city turn wild, bursting with liveliness renewed, under the weight of blistering heat radiating from the concrete. People seem happier, children play in fountains. 

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Spring equinox in San Francisco, in a way you might expect at least, is not always guaranteed. Seasons blur together as mist and cool winds reign in a low bank over the city; spring is not always represented by April, and August is not always a marker of summer. The cold is promised to return without notice after a short respite. Warm days, then, are all the more precious. 

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Every second spent at my apartment wrapping up the work day is a moment that should have been spent outside. My windows are finally open. I watch pedestrians outside my window climb Hayes Street’s steep incline, congregating to Alamo Square Park just up the block like water buffalo. I pump my bike tires simultaneously while reading the final emails of the day, puttering around my apartment packing my beach bag while crafting the responses in my head. Towel, please see the updated press release below my signature, sunscreen, we’re aiming to share the approved draft with the team by Friday, bike lock, water. 5:03pm, I slam my laptop shut and I’m out the door, my bike chain ticking as I close the door behind me. 

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I’m surprised by the static warm air, thicker than what I was expecting, so I stuff my sweatshirt immediately into my backpack. Clasping my helmet on tight, I decide to ride in just my bikini top and athletic shorts, mischievous to even imagine such an outfit in late March. As I peddle past Alamo Square Park, I see women wearing only their bikinis laying on the grass. Not an inch of skin to be wasted. 

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“Campus” by Vampire Weekend plays on my AirPods, my sunny day anthem, nostalgic for spare time in between classes at a university I didn't attend. I peddle quickly, trying to catch up with my friends who are already at the beach. John F. Kennedy Drive, cutting through the length of Golden Gate Park, is packed with fellow bikers and runners and walkers and roller bladers and skateboarders and so on, all moving in all different directions and varying speeds. We all had the same idea. I weave through them, gliding on pavement. To think, some fuckers wanted to allow cars on the road, desecrating palaces for the people, unimaginable on a day like today. 

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I reach the coast, the end of Golden Gate Park, turning left on a narrow bike and pedestrian protected road heading south, parallel to the Great Highway. I’m greeted by traffic’s honks and aggressions. This portion of the highway is still open to cars – the blocked off section is just a bit further down the beach, and I’m eager to get to it. 

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The exit to a parking lot is just ahead, and a black SUV is stalled at its stop sign. I’m only a few yards from the car when the driver looks away and speeds forward. There’s no time for me to brake. I’m literally about to hit this car, I think to myself. My bike slams into the front right bumper. I roll onto the hood, then my lower back hits the ground. I find myself standing almost immediately, vision blurry. I’m not sure how I got here.  

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“Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck. Are you alright?” the driver rushes to me, voice cracking.

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“Yeah I think so, yeah, nothing hurts,” I stare at the bumper. I see a couple scratches.

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“I don’t care about the car, I care about you. Are you sure you’re alright? Do you want my information?”

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“Um.. I … I don’t think so,” I stutter, trying to find myself out of this situation, searching for my breath. “I don’t think I’m hurt. I think I’m fine.”

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“Seriously, are you sure? I’ll give you whatever information you want,” the driver insists. 

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“No, no I think I’m good.” I grab my bike from the road, luckily nothing looks dented, slowly walking down the sidewalk. 

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“Hey, are you sure you’re alright?” a man trails behind me. “I saw the whole thing. Are you in shock?”

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My whole body suddenly begins to shake, my hands unsteady and tears streaming down my cheek. I nod my head. 

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“You won’t know if you’re actually hurt if you’re in shock. You’ll definitely want to get the driver’s information, just in case. You stay here. You have a friend or someone you can call? I’m going to go get her information for you.” 

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I nod my head in response and call one of my friends who’s already tanning at the beach. My phone is still connected to my AirPods and I struggle to try and switch the audio to speaker. I was hit by a car and still have to navigate bluetooth settings, Jesus. She’s on her way with her car to pick me up. The man returns, I see the car that hit me pull onto the Great Highway. 

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“Okay I got her name and cell. Also called her and had her pick up in front of me to make sure she gave me the right number. I also took pictures of her license plate and where you hit her. Man, you did a number on that car. That was intense.”

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I think he notices the tears well up in my eyes. 

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“Okay, hey, just come sit down for a second. My car is right over here. You have a friend coming yeah? I’ll wait with you.” He picks up my bike and walks towards his car. 

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Sitting in an unknown man’s passenger seat, especially when I’m at my most vulnerable, does not sound like a good idea, but I hesitantly follow. Is this feeling trust or submission? 

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He opens the passenger seat door, and I sit keeping my legs outside the car and feet planted on pavement. He squats next to me on the curb. He’s broad along his shoulders with spiked hair and I can see his gold canine tooth when he smiles.

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“How are you feeling? What hurts?” We find bruises on my leg and road rash on my back. 

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“Yeah, there’s a little blood, not too bad. This is gonna be a gnarly bruise for sure," he says stroking his thumb over my knee. A gesture tender and sweet, it’s hard to distinguish between flirtation and concern. Neither are off the table. I’m still in just my shorts and bikini. 

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“So nothing else hurts right now? You didn’t hit your head?” I shake my head no, suddenly grateful I was wearing a helmet. “Well, just keep an eye on everything. You’ll probably at least be pretty sore tomorrow, but from what it seems like right now, it could have been so much worse.”

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“Yeah I feel really lucky.” I’m still trying to slow my breath, my body still vibrating. 

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“I was actually the victim of a hit and run a couple years ago. Honestly, I’m really glad I was here to help you.”

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“Oh my god. Are you fully recovered?” I ask.

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“Well, no. I’m technically still in recovery. I had to get brain surgery. That’s also how I got my gold tooth.” He smiles again.

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“That’s awful, I’m so sorry. So you don't know who did it?”

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“Like I said, it was a hit and run. No idea who did it, and I got nothing from it. Check this out.” He grabs his backpack from the back seat and pulls out an iPad. Almost instantly – he knew exactly where it was on his camera roll – he shows me security footage he obtained from the parking garage across the street from where he was hit. The silent blurry video shows him walking across the street, a white sedan speeding past, then suddenly his body is on the road a few yards ahead. 

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I gasp.

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“So yeah, welcome to the club,” his gold tooth shimmers. 

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My friend’s car pulls into the parking lot and she comes rushing out. The man gives her a full report, filling in my emergency contact with all vital information. Clearly, he knew what he was doing. 

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He helps load my bike into her car. We exchange numbers so he can text me the driver’s information and the pictures he took. 

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“I really can’t thank you enough for your help,” I say, shaking his hand.

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“It’s my pleasure. I’m so glad I was able to help. Seriously please, let me know how you’re doing in a couple days. I’ll be anxious to hear.”

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I text him a week later.

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