That's 7 lives left

On almost the last day of Slinky's life, Slinky packed some books in her backpack, cycled down the road, waited at the crossing for the lights to change, and got hit by a Mercedes.

The lights were both in our favor. But at a pedestrian crossing, the golden rule is to let pedestrians go. I guess Mr. Mercedes had better things to do than to give ay to a fragile cyclist, like rush home to club baby seals to death with a tire iron.

Everything does not go into slow-motion, like the books say. Bu you do get moments of amazing clarity, and you do seem to have a little bit more time to think, "Oh fuck, my sister's bike is going to get totaled", you have time to regret that, and you have just about enough time to stretch out your arms and drop your legs from the pedals before you're slicing through air and you see perfectly, the surprised, annoyed expression of the guy driving the car, who gestures angrily at you in a clear "what the fuck are you doing?" sort of way. There's a moment before the shock hits and then the adrenalin bodyslams you like a falling piano and you scream incomprehensibly, hitting his window, "It was GREEN, you fucker!" before he speeds off without seeing if you're okay and you realize that aside from cuts and a mysterious, insistent pain somewhere near your right foot, you're alive.

Then after you drag yourself to the side of the road, you realize your hands and legs are shaking so bad that you can't continue cycling and you need to sit down and call a friend to prove you’re alive.

And I never thought to get his licence plate number. Bah. Some lawyer.