At approximately 1:18 this afternoon, I hit a Canadian Goose with my bike. Moments before the accident, I stood inside Boston University's rec center, assessing the ride home. I impatiently set out into the gray, persistent rain having decided this little squall was no match for me and my bike—aka soon-to-be-weapon-of-mini-destruction. Within seconds I was soaked. Streets morphed into tidal waterways and rising water obscured large potholes. Slogging along the warped bikepath by the Charles, I decided to pass a painfully slow fellow commuter. Congregating geese parted to form a perfectly clear passing lane and I took it. I stepped on my pedals just as the unsuspecting victim waddled out. The goose squealed and I cleared the handlebars.
I stood up and stared as the squawking mob surrounded my bike and the goose untangled its long neck from my spokes. Cars sprayed hosefuls of water on us as they passed. The geese glared and I glared back. The New Yorker in me couldn't help but think,"Stupid goose! Who the hell steps in front of a bike?!" I watched my victim limp off, wincing when its webbed foot touched the broken asphalt. Frustration instantly melted into "Stupid human!"
On the way home, I soothed my soggy ego with Dunkin' Donuts—New England's claim to fried sugar fame. But the doughy innertubes didn't make me feel better about anything, except Boston's recent trans-fat ban, which has actually resulted in less tasty fare. By the time I got home to examine my bent, feathered bike, the rain had stopped. I guess timing really is everything.