Yesterday I picked up my bike with the girls and we rode to the Town Center where they have live music on Thursday nights. Then we rode by the beach as the sun was setting and took the way we travel home from school and it was good. Very, very good.
So tonight, we helmeted up and headed down to Park Street. We stopped at a store I've always admired and cruised over to lock up at the new bike racks the city just installed next to the movie theatre. A jazz band was playing outside the restaurant across the street, some teamsters were protesting the fact that the theatre doesn't hire union workers and I glanced up just in time to witness a mini-van roll over the front tire of Lula's bike.
Wailing and scratching of paint.
The hardest part of the ordeal was trying to remove the bike from under the car. In all of the commotion I didn't think to demand that the woman pay to fix her bike. I was too busy being thankful that the worst part was a bent wheel. I carried the sad cycle two blocks to the shop and it should be as good as gold on Sunday.
I hate it when things like this happen. Mostly because I'm not really sure WHAT happened. Did Lula give the woman the appearance that she was stopping? Did the woman not see Lula? I was right there, why don't I know how it all went down? I'm just glad we were all able to walk away.