Out the back door of my flat. I walk down the creaky wooden stairs to the basement. My bicycle awaits. It is hanging on the wall mounted rack amongst the other tenants' bikes. Everyone in San Francisco has at least one bike and the basement of my building is proof of that!

I roll up my right pant leg (to ride without interference of the bike chain), put my helmet on and clip the chin strap.

Pedaling through town on my vintage Japanese road bike circa 1970. I admire the city as I spin through her busy streets.
Cars and bikes glide in unison. The bike culture here is prominent, with a bike coalition membership of over 12,000 people (myself included)! I am a true San Francisco dweller, using my bike as a main form of transportation.

I propel myself forward, eyes closed for just a moment to really feel the sun on my skin and cool breeze on my face. I back pedal to hear the whirring sound that takes me back to childhood memories. The nostalgia brings a smile to my face.

Approaching my route to downtown I gently clutch the brakes to slow and cross an intersection. Ahead lies a cluster of light rail tracks carved into the asphalt. A maze of multiple rail tracks overlap and intertwine. Fellow bikers have proclaimed warning of this area known for accidents. "Be sure to cross the tracks perpendicular with your tires, and very carefully!" they said. I had brushed off the cautions not having fully understood the significance of this advice.

Sure enough as I turned to look over my shoulder and slowly cross the street, the voice in my head replayed that advice. It was too late. I felt the thump of my bike tire as it slide directly into the narrow rail track crevice. My bike jolted and catapulted me forward. Bucking me off instantly in what felt like slow motion at the same time. I came colliding down and my body met the pavement. Skin scraping across the rough surface, I slid until the forces ceased and my bike came crashing down on me, pedals still spinning, my bike lock went flying. Laying there disoriented, I heard the light rail approaching. The train's breaks screeched loudly and the conductor honked at me. I was directly in front of the train and in the way.

A passer by came to my aid and picked up the lock, peeled the bike off me, and helped me to my feet. I sat on the side walk assessing the damage. A cracked helmet, scraped chin, hands, palms, wrist, knee, foot, and elbow. Bright red blood gushing from various places, and bruises surely to come. The worst of the battle wounds was the hockey puck size scrape above my elbow. Blood dripped down my arm. In the city people say there are two types of bikers: ones that have fallen, and ones that will fall.

I wear the scar of San Francisco, forever on my arm, like a tattoo.