A gap opened up between two slower moving motos ahead of me, and I darted for it.
Bicycles have surprising advantages on city streets. Heavy traffic favors the cyclist. Buses and trucks slide by one another; masses shift and channels open. A cyclist can slip quite nimbly through this clutter. City streets have a rumble and flow that can be exhilirating.
This is especially true in Saigon, where swarms of motos eddy, disperse, and pass through one another fluidly. When I’m charging hard in a high gear, I can easily outpace the little Honda Dreams and Suzuki Loves. And I’m more agile.
But this time I miscalculated. The driver on the left drifted toward me as I was passing. Our handlebars locked, and my wheel jack-knifed. I skidded on my belly a short distance until my chest bumped up against the curb.
I pulled my bike to the sidewalk and gazed stupidly at the scene on the street. A knot of motos had formed around the woman I collided with, whose ankle was trapped between the brake and foot peg of her scooter. Her sandal had flown off in the fall, and her bare foot looked ghastly among the metal levers. But I didn’t see any injury.
Onlookers frantically tried to disentangle her. I wanted desperately to help, but my inability to speak Vietnamese and the blood that was trickling down my arm and leg made me worse than useless. And there was also the matter of my culpability. I was at fault. I had acted stupidly, and now I could only watch, guessing at the woman’s injuries, and guessing at the repercussions.
There were no repercussions. A man near me waved me away. I stared, and he waved more insistently. “Go away! Go away!” shouted another.
I picked up my bike, slipped back into the traffic, and pedaled off in a daze. Circling the block, I returned to a point 50 feet from the accident, where I could watch without being seen.
It was already over. There was no trace of the collision. Traffic once again buzzed past, unimpeded. As the shock wore off, my face tightened into a grimace. I slowly biked back to my hotel.
