We know D.C. Get our free newsletter to stay in the know.
I just got hit by a car. I was biking across Euclid at 16th Street NW, and everything seemed to be in order: I was in the crosswalk, Euclid had a red light, I had a walk signal. Prime crossing time, I thought, dutifully looking both ways. Nevertheless, a bouncy old Cadillac, which was stopped at the intersection long before I started crossing, still managed to lurch forward just as I rolled in front of it, thereby hitting me.
It’s not a huge deal. I didn’t fall over; I didn’t lose consciousness; I simply extricated myself from his grill and made my way to the corner.
What surprised me most was my own reaction to the incident. I’ve never been hit by a car before, but had you posited the scenario to me in the hypothetical, I would have certainly imagined myself enraged and vengeful. This morning, however, once the hypothetical became a gruesome reality, I found myself timid and awkward. As I waited at the corner for the light to change, I could not bring myself to make eye contact with the driver who had just hit me. Even though I was in the right of way, I still hung my head in a backwards kind of shame. It felt like the moment after a drunken hookup at a bar that both parties regret and neither wants to talk about.
So, in order to take my mind off a mildly throbbing right hamstring, I wonder: was I wrong? Should I have put this irresponsible motorist in his place? Pounded his hood? Kicked his windshield? Twisted his tailpipe?
And the question that is truly pestering me: if I, the hapless victim, was catapulted into such a moral quandary after this encounter, what is going through the driver’s head? Anything? Anything at all?
This isn't a paywall.
We don't have one. Readers like you keep our work free for everyone to read. If you think that it's important to have high quality local reporting we hope you'll support our work with a monthly contribution.