It wasn’t until I had walked away, after talking to the police, that I began to look over my shoulder to see if anyone was following me. Nobody was – though the mild sense of paranoia stuck with me for a few more blocks until I reached my destination, a sun-drenched bar in the Mission where I sometimes go on sun-drenched days. Yesterday, Sunday, was a sun-drenched day.
A half-hour earlier, I was about to cross Van Ness when a group of 20 or so riders on dirt bikes came ripping down Market Street turning left on to Van Ness. Hearing the bikers approach, the pedestrians waited until the coast seemed clear. As we started to cross, a gentlemen from the other side of the street was hit by one last biker who had been lagging behind. That’s why I was talking to the police. I was one of the people who called 911 as the other pedestrians huddled around the down and unconscious man.
I’ve been pretty distracted since then. I went to bed early on Sunday and didn’t sleep well. On and off throughout the day today, I’ve been replaying what happened, trying to jog my memory for additional details, thinking about what I could have done better or differently in the moment. I’ve also been scanning the news to see if it was reported anywhere and wondering if the man is alright. No news.
In my memory, the moment feels chaotic. Both slow and fast at the same time. I remember the collision. I remember the biker being knocked down, somewhat stunned, getting up and pausing as though he might stay, then hopping on his bike and speeding away. I think I tried to look for a license plate, but didn’t see one (they usually don’t have them). I remember walking towards the man and then away and then back again. I’m wondering why I didn’t think to take a picture of the biker. When I first dialed 911, my phone didn’t seem to connect. It had been paired with my ear buds and I couldn’t hear anything. I tried again, pulled the bud from my right ear, unpaired the device… all the while 911 played a recording in several languages. I was getting frustrated with not having a live person to talk to. TV had taught me to expect immediacy – “911, what’s you’re emergency.” This wasn’t TV. The man, flat on his back wasn’t moving. His eyes were shut, his left shoe and sock had been knocked off. A small pool of blood was forming on the street beneath the back of his head. I initially gave the wrong intersection – I thought I was a block further on Ven Ness. They asked me a lot of questions over the phone. Was it just one rider on the bike? Was it a dirt bike? Only two wheels? Was the rider wearing a helmet? What type of clothing was he wearing? Just one rider. Two wheels. Maybe a helmet or a mask, not sure. There were too many things going on for me to remember much. They asked if I would stick around to talk to officers when they arrived. I said I would.
People stood in the intersection to block traffic. Five or ten minutes passed. I made eye contact with a woman who was on the phone with 911. She was both repeating the question and asking how many bikers were there? They asked me that question too. She said she wasn’t sure, maybe fifty. I had said twenty. She couldn’t remember any details either – the bike was blue. That’s what I had said too.
The man woke up. A homeless man in a wheelchair was telling the other people that had surrounded the downed man that he knows what to do (urging people to prop his head up) – he’s seen things happen on the street. People were asking the man his name. Very dazed, he gave them his name. A woman said it was nice to meet him and help is on the way. An off-duty bus driver said the busses all have cameras – they can probably pull footage from the bus idling across the street. People gathered on the sidewalk. I was still standing in the street. I looked up at the intersection, sun blazing, clear blue sky, there were cameras on the street lights. A firetruck showed up and blocked the intersection. Another emergency vehicle/ambulance showed up. Paramedics moved the people back. They cut away his shirt. A heavyset man, pasty white. One of the people who had been moved back picked up his shoe and sock to give to the paramedics. The police showed up.
I spoke with officer Hung. He took my license, scanned it, took a photo of it, asked me if it was my current address, took down my phone number. A man walked up and said he had taken pictures of the bikers as they passed by. Officer Hung asked if he could see the photos. The man said it’s analog – he’d have to get the film developed. The officer asked for his license – he fumbled around, he didn’t have it on him. He gave officer Hung his phone number. I was wondering why officer Hung didn’t ask for the camera – take the camera. The other woman who had called 911 hung back, didn’t give a statement. They strapped the man to a hard yellow board and carried him to the ambulance. Or maybe they wheeled him. A paramedic scanned the ground. I think they tried to clean up some of the blood. Near where he had been sprawled out, a purplish workbook – maybe chemistry or math. As I walked away, Officer Hung called out. “Was he walking with you or towards you?” I turned back and shouted, “towards me.”
On the shady side of Van Ness, I continued south towards Mission. That’s when it occurred to me that any one of the bikers could have circled back – either on their bike or on foot. There were at least twenty of them. “Shit!” I must have been talking to officer Hung for fifteen minutes. It felt longer. Out in the open – the only one talking to the police. I checked my surroundings a few more times before putting my hoodie on and turning a corner. I checked around every time I turned on to a new street. Nobody following me.
At the bar, I sat outside at one of the dozen or so picnic tables lined up under a large canopy. My shoes dug into the gravel beneath me. The couple next to me played cards. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wanted to tell someone about it, but also didn’t – and wasn’t sure who I would tell. My phone buzzed – unlisted number. Figuring it was the police, I answered. Officer Hung had one more question. “Was the man crossing with the walk signal on?” “Yes.” I explained that we had the walk signal, and everyone was waiting because the bikes were speeding through. I don’t know if they were running a red or not. The one that hit him was the last bike. We had all started to cross because we still had the walk signal and it seemed like the bikes were done. Officer Hung thanked me.
When I left the bar, misty gray clouds had swallowed the city. I went to put my ear buds back in – the right one, the one that I had removed to so I could call the police, was missing it’s rubber ear piece. I felt my pockets. It must have gotten pulled off when I was fumbling around at the scene. I took a different way home.
On sunny weekends, bikers in groups of ten or fifteen or twenty ride their dirt-bikes through the city. They often blow red lights. They make a lot of noise, and perform stunts – usually wheelies. When stopped at intersections, they’ll peel out and do donuts. It was a sunny weekend. I had been on one of my long city walks and had already seen the group two other times: once by Fisherman’s Wharf where they road up and down the street doing wheelies, and later on the Embarcadero – doing similar things. Riding with them were a few low-riders, one of them metallic copper colored with hydraulics.
Up until yesterday, I had mild hatred mixed with bouts of tolerance towards the bikers. Yes, they do lots of illegal shit. Yes, they cause a lot of havoc and play dangerously. They’re noisy and disruptive – but it’s usually temporary and they’re on their way. As I walked around Fisherman’s Wharf where they were putting on a show, I tried to pay attention to how the pedestrians and tourists responded. I tried to read faces to see if they were afraid, disgusted, or intrigued. A lot of them stopped to watch, some took videos of the stunts. Little kids seemed to be impressed by the wheelies. If I’ve found kernels of tolerance, it’s because I’ve forced myself to consider the alternatives. I’ve read about motorcycle, and and low-rider, and dirt-bike culture out here. Some consider cruising around to be an outlet. Some consider it to be a safer alternative to gangs and guns. In some ways, I see it as an extension or urban interpretation of the muscle car culture that’s been popular in America ever since there were muscle cars (James Dean, Grease Lightening, racing for pinks, Fast and Furious). If I’ve reluctantly tolerated it, it’s been because I don’t know what a viable solution looks like. High-speed police chases through the city are even more dangerous, and I think the police are doing the best that they can given the circumstances.
The homeless man in the wheelchair isn’t as tolerant. As he made his way over to the curb by the bus stop on Van Ness, he cursed the bikers. Said they need to be rounded up, jailed, and never let out. They need to have their bikes confiscated. Need to lose their licenses permanently. I suspect some of those things happen when the police are able to identify riders. With helmets and masks, and no license plates, it can’t be easy to identify them. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a task force working on the issue.
I keep wishing the kid that hit the guy had stuck around. I keep thinking about his brief pause and the moment when he looked over at the guy – maybe he felt bad, maybe he considered doing the right thing. And of course, I think about the guy who got hit. Resident? Tourist? Seemed like a resident. His wallet was long and worn and light brown. Someone had handed it to officer Hung. Who did they call when they got him to the hospital? Who was waiting for him when he didn’t get to where he was going? The homeless man said his skull had been cracked open. I keep hoping his injuries aren’t too bad, thinking there would have been more blood if they were bad. That’s not how brain injuries work. I keep wondering how long his recovery will be.
He was the furthest one in the intersection. The rest of us had held back an extra step. Did we hear the bike coming? I can’t remember if he stopped, or tried to dodge. Did he hear it? See it? For a brief moment, both of them, along with the bike seemed tangled and suspended, as if they might be able to avoid falling. He fell hard, or maybe crumpled. Why weren’t more of us further in the street? I hope someone is looking after him.