Girl on bike

It happened Monday, April 14th. There’s no good excuse. I ran my bike straight into the base of a light pole. “Oh. That was dumb,” I thought as I tumbled headlong over my handlebars. I heard the smack of my helmet against the sidewalk. I landed on my butt and lay back, trying to take it easy. A motorist stopped his car, called 911 and waited with me while responders came.
In the course of the next three and a half hours I had eight X-rays and a CAT scan. With half a dozen bandaids I was back at work the next day. I didn’t break anything but my bike, which will probably never ride again. But what was unusual was being immobilized. For those hours I experienced the world primarily through my sense of hearing, laying in a neck brace and waiting for care.

There was another man parallel parked in the emergency room who came in just after me. (Neither of us had a room.) From what I could gather he was a homeless man who had been drinking and took a fall. He was saying he didn’t have anyone to call; he said his family wouldn’t have anything to do with him. None of his Facebook friends would come. One of the overseeing doctors named Emily talked patiently with him. I heard him say, “I’m tired of living like this. I’m tired of hurting all the time.” At one point she must’ve asked his religion because I heard him say, “Well, Christian, for lack of a better word. I don’t really like the word Christian because I don’t like labels.” His voice revealed more and more desperation as he talked. “God doesn’t want to have nothing to do with me,” he said at one point. “I’m a waste of space.” My heart sank. I wanted to try to comfort him, but I couldn’t make eye contact, couldn’t move.

Later, I was transported on my bed to the left of two little stalls separated by a curtain. I heard a neighbor breathe and shift on his bed. Again I struggled to figure out how to make conversation.

“Mr. Perez?” Another attendant appeared, asking me. “No,” I responded.
“No?”
“No. I’m Sirico.”
The attendant made a quick, confused grunt, found the man next to me and wheeled him down the hall to my right. Another patient soon took his place.

“Yeah, this is the ninth time I’ve been transported today,” I heard him tell his transporter. He sounded enthusiastic and lively. This was my shot at redemption.

“Hey neighbor, I’m Chris,” I launched in, “I ran my bike into a light pole today…” “Oh hey. I’m Nick,” he replied. “I’m real young. I’m only 18. I have testicular cancer.” The words marched matter-of-factly through the tent, collapsing on me phrase by phrase. “I just had my right testicle cut out,” he continued. “But that was the one that was swollen, so at least it doesn’t hurt so bad now.”

“Well that’s good, I guess…” I said, grasping for a means to ease the tension. He wins, I thought, feeling a little stupid. I lay there with my stupid little injuries and stupid sob story. “It’s in my liver and my lungs,” he continued, “but they say it’s the kind of cancer that responds real well to chemo so they expect a full recovery,” he summed up.

“Wow, that’s a lot to handle,” I said at last. Nick told me he was bummed to be missing spring break. He said his friends would be taking trips overseas. He said all this in the same energetic, matter-of-fact manner he used to announce his cancer. He recounted a trip to London the year before. Trying to steer him to brighter thoughts, I asked if he’d gone out drinking or gotten into any mischief there. He didn’t drink. Instead he told me he dressed up like a ghost while staying at a spooky church. He scared his roommates, who ran and lock themselves in their room. Nick just sounded like a simple, salt-of-the-earth kid. “I’m really young,” he repeated.

Another transporter was wheeling me down the hall before I had the presence to shout back a goodbye to my new friend. I watched machinery spin around my head, got moved, tipped over, X-rayed and moved back to my original parking spot. I heard the homeless man from earlier. He asked a nurse for something in a desperate but restrainedly polite tone. I nurse tried to calm him, listening empathetically, but his voice grew louder. “I don’t trust that asshole doctor!” He said. His frustrated shouts moved down the hall, echoed from a room and faded behind a door.

My gaze was still fixed upward by a neck brace. I examined the bottoms of an exit sign, an acoustic ceiling panel and a security camera dome. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself, but I knew my circumstance was temporary. I lay considering the ways I have been fortunate. And then I decided it was time to start looking for a new job.

My Lyft Experience

I’ve been seeing more and more pink mustachioed cars while on delivery uptown. They belong to ride sharing drivers with the company Lyft. I decided to do some research.

A few weeks ago, I checked out the Lyft website and decided to download the app. I learned there was a promotion that gave me 2 weeks of free rides (the “Pioneer Program”), but it still took me a week and a half to get up the nerve to take my first.

Samanatha

Samantha was my driver. She looked to be in her thirties and described herself as “bubbly.” (Her description was apt. She even said one user complained of her being too talkative.) From Samantha’s rear view hung a tiny dream catcher, a female anime figurine and a power crystal.

Once Samantha knew it was my first Lyft, she launched into her well-rehearsed Lyft introduction. She got involved with Lyft first as a customer, going out on weekends, but then became a part-time driver to supplement her income from her job at a law office.

Samantha told me about the Drivers’ Lounge, a private Facebook group with all the Lyft drivers in Charlotte. Most drive part-time. They often discuss issues like how to respond when a drunken couple starts making out and asks for loud music and no peeking.

Two days later I had another opportunity to use the service. I had my roommate drop me and my bike off at work. I summoned a Lyft afterwards and Michael was my driver. We talked on the phone to make sure he could handle the bike.

Michael

Michael pulled up in an off-white Kia SUV. I stood there a moment as he wrapped up a phone negotiation about a meeting time, or maybe it was the terms of a sales deal – it sounded business-y. Michael was a big man and looked surprisingly normal. A pair of wraparound sunglasses sat atop his head. He wore a fleece pullover, generic jeans and new outdoor shoes. Outside the car, I reached out to shake, but Michael countered with the Lyft ceremonial fist-bump. “Of course,” I said, honoring the prescribed Lyft greeting. Michael helped load my disassembled bike in the back of the SUV and we headed off.

When I asked if he works another job, Michael said he just does Lyft and other odd jobs. Our conversation unwound calmly, moving from Michael’s family to the weather to other Lyft drivers. Michael seemed unimpressed with the conversations in the Lounge.

I found myself comparing him to my dad, but I got the sense that he was a little more left leaning. I read between the lines of a couple comments about traffic laws and his daughter’s school. I asked him about a Buddha figuring bouncing atop a spring stuck to his dashboard. “You’ve gotta stay mellow out here,” he said. I never had to spend any of my own money on Lyft, but I would definitely keep it in mind if I ever got in a pickle.

The Lyft app tracks the driver’s approach.

Lyft Logistics

Lyft’s app and marketing are slick and simple. Their instructions amount to a 3-screen slideshow. Lyft is so simple, in fact, that I couldn’t figure out how pricing and payments worked. The app and main website don’t say anything about the topic explicitly. Pricing is different in each city. I finally managed to dig out the pricing page in the site’s help section.

Lyft Charlotte rates from Lyft.com

Charlotte Taxi Rates

My first ride was $16, though I didn’t yet know how to leave a tip. The same ride would have been about $21 in a conventional cab. My second ride came to $21 including a couple distracted turns, and I left $4 for Michael, reaching my $25 limit for free rides under the “Pioneer Program.” A traditional cab fare would’ve been comparable.

The Pioneer program is Lyft’s promotion to get new users on Lyft. They offer 2 weeks of free rides in a new or expanded area. Charlotte is under the Pioneer program now, though neither of my drivers could say when it would end.

My ride with Samantha took place early on a Saturday evening. Samantha said she was just working a 2-hour shift before she went out with friends for the night. Part of the attraction for drivers to join Lyft is the flexible schedule. Michael’s wife works full time. He supplements their income during the day while his 13-year-old daughter is in school.

Lyft is not the only ride sharing service of its kind. Uber is Lyft’s high-brow competition. Michael recounted looking into the company only to find that, at the time, the company required drivers have black vehicles. “I knew that wasn’t for me,” he said. He much prefers Lyft’s friendly, chilled-out culture.

Both Uber and Lyft vary pricing based on demand, although Lyft’s adjustments are smaller. A report on Uber cited a 9x surge price in New York City during a snowstorm this winter. Lyft warned me that I’d pay an extra 25% to my driver on a weekend evening, all of which would go to her. Lyft also recently introduced “happy hour” pricing, reducing rates during slow periods like mid-afternoon and late night. Both companies send 80% of fares to drivers during regular hours, but Lyft gives all of its prime time increases to drivers. Uber always keeps 20%.

I got the sense talking to Michael that he earns a couple dollars an hour more than me and works about as much in a week. Lyft seems like a good part-time job for those with some free time, ambition, charisma and a newish car (2000 or newer).

All this innovation would seem to be a win to both drivers and riders, but conventional taxi companies are likely the sorest players. Ride sharing companies have fought regional legal battles to remain exempt from citywide taxi rates. Lyft gets around this by calling fares “donations” in certain cities. The legal question is still up for debate. Only time will tell how regulators and consumers will shape the future of urban transportation in the years to come.

Most of you reading this have already seen me or heard about my accident, but here’s the score: my bike’s fine, no worker’s comp, the guy drove off, small fracture in my wrist but I plan to start back work tomorrow.

I came to the store early and had a sandwich before my shift Friday. I noticed a parking attendant eyeing my car near the store, so I told Nikki I’d move it and ride back for my shift in half an hour.

Traffic was crazy with all the CIAA activity uptown. I wove through dead stopped lanes of cars heading up 7th St.

The light at 7th and Tryon turned yellow as I crossed into the intersection. I heard a long honk behind me. An engine roared and a silver Prius raced up on my left in the wrong lane. We exchanged indignant glances, and I took a swing at the car. I found myself leaning against its side as it sped up and left me careening. I flopped on my left and tumbled forward. “This isn’t good,” I thought vaguely as my left eye socket slid against the pavement. My helmet had the foresight to slide up on my head, coming through the fall unscathed. I felt stupid. A touch to my head produced a piece of detached skin with a few eyebrow hairs protruding. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” a man in a suit had stopped and was examining me with concern. “Yeah, that f—er’s license plate,” I yelled as the car shrank towards the far intersection and made a left.

I stood collecting my wits and humoring the pedestrian for a moment. “I shouldn’t have done that,” I confessed. “I lost my cool.” “It was his fault,” he reassured me. “That’s gonna need stitches,” the pedestrian noted as he stared at my forehead. A moment later I announced my intention to chase the driver down. “He’s gone now, man,” said the pedestrian as I mounted the bicycle, which my body had spared from any real damage.

I made it as far as the next light, where I found a police officer parked on the side of the road. “There was a silver Prius that just passed through two cycles ago…” I explained in my best calm, reasoned tone. “You need attention,” the officer looked up, more impressed with the blood beginning to stream down my face than with my speech. “Nah, I don’t need an ambulance,” I protested. “You need to get checked out. Just let them come and clean you up.”

“I can’t afford this,” I thought as I called in to work. I grew frustrated at the driver, the work I was missing, the officer’s disinterest in investigating my report.

A fire truck produced three helpless gawkers in boots and jackets. I heard the ambulance miss its turn a street over. It came around the block and the police flagged the medics toward me. “Yeah, the guy with blood all over his face,” I joked to the driver, whose window was down.

I was surprised to hear my heart rate recorded at only 80 beats per minute. Two medics cleaned my cuts while making arguments for an ambulance ride. “You’ll need sutures. How do you plan to get to the hospital?” demanded the senior medic. “You could have a brain hemorrhage. You could start driving to the hospital, black out and get yourself killed.” “If you don’t get that looked at you’ll end up with an infection. You’ll be one of those guys talking to himself on the side of the road. You could end up with something that’ll rot your dick off.” I almost laughed as the tactics became more desperate.

“I’m not trying to scare you…” he started. “Sure you are, but that’s part of your job. I get it.” I said. I signed their waver and collected my things. The officer grimaced at my contorted bike as I straightened the handles with the front wheel between my knees.

I rode my bike to the hospital, one arm raised to my chest and my face bloody but swaddled in gauss. I rode awkwardly through crowds of staring pedestrians. “Oh God,” I heard a nurse on her smoke break exclaim. I struggled one-handed up the hill to the emergency room. The check-in nurses at the hospital looked startled when I walked up and greeted them, “Hey, how are you?” “Uh, would you like to see a physician?” “Yes please.” I waited only 5 minutes in the triage room before going back for a few X-rays and a CAT scan.

I spent an hour and a half mostly waiting to be seen for each step of my treatment. I found myself antsy, pacing my room, repositioning the examination lamp arms and fiddling with my phone. I learned I had a small fracture in my wrist, but the doctor said I could still ride. He stitched up my eyebrow in silence while my earbuds played a design podcast. Bright light filtered through the green paper mask draped over my head. My mind wandered from the earlier events of the day to their consequences in the weeks to come. How much would I have to pay? Would I really be ready for work?Later, a nurse forgot that I needed a splint before being discharged. The splint was hardening before I realized it wrapped almost to the tip of my fingers. It left no articulation to hold a bike handle, let alone operate the brake lever. Two nurses goaded me to the doctor’s desk. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said impatiently of the splint, momentarily lifting his eyes from a monitor. The overall experience was like being pushed through a system that didn’t have quite enough time for me.

I rode my bike to my car and drove home to an empty house. I felt sorry for myself. I wanted to be coddled, wanted someone to feed me. I found a nice takeout dinner and two chocolate chip walnut cookies my roommate Andrew had left me. I ate the cookies, lay down and knew I’d be okay.