Less than a kilometer from my apartment, I saw a young man sitting hunched-over on the curb. His bike lay beside him. Blood spurted from his left leg.
I stopped and propped my bike against a wall. Fortunately for him, two other women had already stopped to help him. One called for an ambulance; the other gave him a bottle of water and tissues she’d been carrying in her purse. I asked what, I now realize, one or both of those women probably had already asked: How did it happen? Can you move your leg? Did you hit your head?
Fortunately for him, he answered the last question “no:” He hadn’t worn a helmet. But, he said, after his leg hit something that protruded from a parked construction trailer—and he couldn’t avoid because drivers drove so close—he fell on his side, shoulder-first. He didn’t, however, feel any pain there, and I saw no bruises or scrapes: just strands of muscle and bone. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he lifts weights.
The woman who called the ambulance was on her way to a meeting and the one with the water and tissues had to pick up her kid. So I stayed with the young man until the ambulance arrived, and after: I offered words of encouragement as the paramedics checked his legs, took his blood pressure and pulse and did all of those things paramedics do in the situation. I asked him whether he wanted or needed anything else: Can I contact someone for him? Could I bring his bike to his place? He said no, and thanked me. So did the paramedics. But he gave me his number, and I texted him.
