Devestation

He missed the sidewalk, but proceeded anyway, maybe thinking he could best the curb. He couldn't. His front tire bit into the yellow paint and slowly pushed him forward.

The entire crash was in slow motion. I had the time to stop walking and stare; wondering if he was going to recover before the moment of judgment.

His hands remained, gripped, on the handlebars. The only indication of resistance to Gravity was the expression on his face, as if he could battle the powers of the universe by furrowing the brow and gritting his teeth. Fight it he could not. He tipped 90 degrees forward. Would he fall on his face, the victim of a Gravity curb stomp?

No, a sudden determination to save his face. One leg struck out to the left, pulling his motion and momentum in a new direction. Gravity, tiring of its cyclist plaything, chose this moment to crush the remaining willpower of the victim. Suddenly hands and shins were smashed, gripping on curb and bark. It was over.

A young man ran across the street, smiling but concerned. I also removed myself from my position of observation and inquired as to his injuries. But what I really wanted was to ask him how long this had been going on. For how long had he battled the force of Gravity? How did this bloody feud begin? Of course his shin was now dented, just another amongst a score of battle wounds. A long begrudging history must lie beneath the surface of Gravity's smug, invisible mask.

The sojourner picked himself up, ignoring the pellets of worry and amusement fired at him, bitter about this fresh defeat, served by his life-long foe. I walk on towards my duties with the conflict remaining frozen in my mind. Later, as I continued on my way, the valiant warrior zipped across my path, a fresh conquest at his pedals.