I’m still suffering spinal pain from my biking accident in January. I’d been riding from my house in La Mesa to San Diego State for two years, and because I survived a few close calls, I equipped myself with a sturdy helmet, headlight and taillight for safety. Yes, I was the dorkiest person gliding sidesaddle down Campanile Drive, but at least I was protected.

Back in January, I’d just finished teaching my very first class at SDSU and decided to get some work done in my office.

At dusk, I secured my helmet’s chin straps, fired up my lights and began to weave my way right into rush-hour traffic. My route required me to travel up Lake Murray Boulevard, a long and grueling climb that leaves most breathless. I’d gotten into the habit of bombing down 70th street, hoping the traffic light would turn green just as I hit the intersection, giving me some speed for the hill.

That night, however, a long queue of cars sat waiting to merge onto Interstate 8. There’s no bike lane on 70th Street.

You have to put yourself into compromising positions to ensure you are seen and generally, it’s best to keep up with the speed

of traffic. I did just that. At the bottom of the hill, a woman in

a black SUV decided she wanted to be in the right lane, effectively cutting off my narrow path between traffic halfway in two lanes. She crawled into the right lane without any confidence, leaving me with few options as

I rode at 35 mph. I could run right into the back of her car and risk smashing through her rear-windshield; I could hope

to expertly hop onto the curb and possibly take out a few pedestrians; or I could try to squeeze the narrow gap between her rearend and the line of cars waiting to go straight through the intersection.

I chose the latter, bearing down hard on both my mountain bike’s brake handles, skidding terribly on the asphalt as though my tires were made of butter. The residual oil buildup covering San Diego’s streets didn’t help, but luckily years of riding experience pulled me through. I made the gap, barely missing her car. I congratulated myself.

“Self, you, you’re pretty all right,” I thought while still skidding through traffic at the same speed as before, but with none of the traction. Just when

I thought, I’d survived, my cow horn handlebars clipped another person’s side mirror, and found myself weightless, floating through a black, empty space, backpack and all, as though I was suffering through a field trip with Ms. Valerie Frizzle and the rest of “The Magic School Bus” gang through the depths of my unconscious. “See, kids this is what too much time on the Internet gives you,” Ms. Frizzle would say presenting a vast, empty void.

From what I remember, hitting the ground felt similar to skidding across the water after being whipped from an inner tube as your buddy’s driving

the boat. In my mind, I woke

seconds later to a small group of concerned onlookers, saying, “I’m cool, I’m all right. What happened to Liz? Liz! Ms. Frizzle’s iguana, man!”

According to the woman I ran into—whose side mirror cost me a couple hundred dollars— when I made contact, I flew into the air, almost landed a full front flip while still on the bike and slammed my head against the curb. What felt like a few seconds of lost consciousness was in fact a few minutes.

I remember waking up in my bed the next morning, sorer than ever, probably from my body tensing during the impact. Luckily, I didn’t suffer much road rash, but I walked around with a new lease on life for

the next few weeks. The sun felt motherly, the wind more calming. That accident gave me the justification to judge those who don’t appreciate their lives.

I continued riding my bike throughout the semester, judging. I became especially angry with the crowds of students (you know who you are) who didn’t respect the bike lane along Campanile walkway. Look, I realize Thursday’s farmers market is alluring, but look both ways before crossing the bike lane. There’s a bright red line running for a half-mile down the largest walkway on campus and you cross into it as though you’re protected by an impenetrable force field. I know it’s not cool to check both ways, just like it’s not cool to wear a helmet. But when you’re on the ground with a few broken ribs, with no dreamy paramedics hovering over you, you’ll see.