November 8, 2025
It was moving day again, which means we pack up, drive an hour or so, and settle down again somewhere new. This time: Flagstaff, Arizona—a town I can actually imagine relocating to.
Flagstaff has seasons, which is rare in Arizona. There are pine trees everywhere, the air smells like Christmas, and the bike trails are amazing. The weather is perfectly engineered: when it gets too cold and snowy, you simply drive a few hours south to Sedona or Phoenix and thaw yourself like a frozen Trader Joe’s burrito. And the best part? No baking yourself alive in the Arizona heat because Flagstaff has temperate summers.
Of course, we hopped on a paved trail and cruised along, then veered onto a dirt path through a pine forest, then somehow wound up biking across Northern Arizona University's campus like two middle-aged impostors trying to blend in with undergrads. Then we rolled right into town, where I very abruptly ended my ride several miles early by getting hit by a Suburban.
Yes. Hit by a Suburban.
Before you worry: I’m fine! No broken bones, no head injury, just some spectacular bruises and a wounded ego that may never fully recover. The bike, however, did not survive the emotional or physical trauma and is currently retired from active duty.
Naturally, George and I got into a fight afterward. Not because I got hit by a car—that part we handled fine. We fought because we couldn’t agree whose fault it was, which was really just the stress of the moment exhibiting itself. I blamed myself. George blamed the driver. So, for your entertainment, here’s the breakdown so you can play “Judge Judy: Cycling Edition.”
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Two lanes each way.
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Big median in the middle.
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Crosswalk with a pedestrian signal I definitely did not use.
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A Suburban stopped at a red light.
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I thought I had time (a poor decision in retrospect).
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I made eye contact with the first car.
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I thought I made eye contact with the Suburban. Spoiler: I did not.
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Light turned green while I was in front of said Suburban.
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Screeching brakes.
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Me and my bike arranged on the pavement like a modern art piece titled Gravity Wins.
George’s take: You were in the crosswalk. Driver has to look. Period.
My take: I was a rogue pedestrian ignoring the signal and vibing in the middle of the road when the light turned green.
Honestly, it feels like a group project where everyone deserves at least a C–.
To add to the drama, the driver turned out to be an off-duty police officer. He strongly recommended I file a police report—probably the first time anyone’s ever been encouraged to call the cops by the person who hit them. Then he gave me and my sad, bent bike a ride back to my car. George had to bike back solo, and honestly, I was a little jealous—he still got to pedal while I was stuck riding shotgun with my accidental bumper buddy.
But all’s well that ends well. I walked away. The driver walked away. The bike… well, the bike limped away. And Flagstaff? Still my favorite Arizona town—though next time I’d prefer my tour of the city not include being launched off a bumper.
Every story has a soundtrack. This one highlights my accident:
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