Crash Like You Meant It

I've fallen off my bicycle three times in the last week. The first time, I was attempting to avert a collision with a car that appeared to be most comfortable when swerving all over the road. I jumped up on the narrow sidewalk, but my back wheel caught on the curb and I crashed. My audience of elderly Koreans stared with fascination as I untangled myself from my bicycle and stood up. Then they all smiled and nodded at each other, as if to say, "See? I knew she wasn't hurt. No need for assistance." The second time, I barreled off the edge of the road into some gravel. The truck that had run me off the road honked, loud and long, and sped by.
This last time, I fell simply because I wasn't paying attention to where I was going.
I pedaled to my apartment building after school, hot and tired. Three 2nd grade boys were playing cops and robbers (or the Korean equivalent) with toy guns. They saw me and started waving and yelling, "Hayna! Hayna!" I waved back and, with their expectations fulfilled, they began shooting at each other again. I smiled at their childish antics, promptly hit the curb, and fell off my bicycle.
I remained on the small patch of weeds I had (thankfully) fallen into, listening to the shouts of alarm around me. The three boys ran over to me, expressing various levels of concern. I stared at them for a moment, and then inspiration struck.
"I've been shot!" I clutched my side. "I've been shot!"
They looked at me in confusion so I pointed at their guns.
"Owwie!" I groaned. "Owwwwieee!"
One of the boys examined his neon-orange, plastic gun.
"Yes," I said, nodding. "The gun."
He furrowed his brow and pointed the gun at my face.
"No!" I said, suddenly panicked.  "Andae!"
I didn't know what kind of toy gun they had. Some of them have actual foam pellets or, worse, bullet-shaped plastic shells.
He pulled the trigger and a stream of water hit my forehead and ran down my nose.
"Sonsangnim?" he questioned.
"No, no, I'm fine," I sputtered. "Teacher is fine. Sonsangnim gwenchanayo."
He nodded, beckoned to his friends, and they took off.
I wiped my face on my sleeve and limped away, musing that I probably deserved what I got.

Exercise Equipment Can Save Your Life

An old stair master machine saved my life today.
As I lay sprawled across the hood of Mom's car - legs tangled in my bicycle frame, right hand clutching the stair master's handle, head inches away from the concrete - I realized I hadn't put the stair master up for sale yet and idly wondered if anyone would buy it if advertised as a life-saving device.
Probably not.
Because I work exactly one and a half blocks away from where I live, I ride my bicycle. The fact that only two out of our three cars are working at any given time has nothing to do with my healthy, earth-saving decision. Well, almost nothing. On the way to work, I pedal up a 5% incline, across a fairly flat road, and then through a field. Meaning, of course, that on the way home, I pedal through a field, across the flat road, and then coast down the small, small hill to our driveway.
I've gotten into the habit of pedaling as fast as I can down that hill and coasting up our driveway until I come to rest just in front of the shed door. In fact, I am so comfortable with this routine that I even lift my right foot off the pedal and rest it on the crossbar. I don't need to expend any energy at all to arrive home. The only requirement is a judicious application of the hand brakes.
On several occasions, I have awed and inspired the neighborhood children with my bicycle prowess. It is (more than) slightly gratifying to watch their mouths drop open and hear exclamations of "Wow!", "Cool!", and, once, "Be careful!".
Lately, I have developed a certain amount of confidence on my bicycle. I do not have the arrogance to say that I would win a bicycle race, but I can ride and talk on the cell phone at the same time. I can ride and text at the same time. This pride has developed so much so that I sometimes wonder if I could ride my bicycle, talk on the cell phone, type a paper on the laptop, and whip up some brownies simultaneously.
Fortunately, I literally knocked this pride out of me before it evolved into a fatal hubris.
After extensive analysis (that took approximately 3 minutes), I determined that the cause of my crash was a direct result from braking too early. I wobbled, over-corrected, and landed upside-down on the hood of Mom's car. As I slid toward the cement floor, I saw the stair master out of the corner of my eye, grabbed it, and thus was saved from having my brain soaking up the oil stains. Incoherent gurgling and screams forced themselves from my throat. Positioned in such a way that prevented me from gracefully exiting the pose, I waited in vain for help to arrive. Eventually, I kicked myself free from the bicycle and slid to the ground.
I put the bicycle into the shed, shut the door, and turned to see Lil' Sis standing at the back door with Poochie.
"Hi, Hannah," she said. "You okay?"
I don't know if I glared or not, but I felt like it. "Yeah."
"Didja crash?" she asked as she opened the screen for me.
I nodded. "Yes."
"Huh. Dinner's ready," she replied and walked into the kitchen.
I repositioned the stair master in its original position, just in case I should need it again.
Maybe, to thank the stair master for going above and beyond the call of duty, I should wash it down and place it in the living room. On a coffee table. It would make an interesting conversation piece.