Victor Davis Hanson
From 2003 to 2023 I used to ride road bikes, sometimes in Fresno, sometimes around my farm, usually three to four times a week, variously 20–23 miles long. In those twenty-three years, our bike group of four probably experienced 4–5 accidents, mostly from wet pavement, other bicyclists, avoidance of pedestrians and pets on the bike-paths, or unforeseen potholes, etc.
As a general, rule, the older one gets (I was 50–70 in this period), the more dangerous it becomes, given impaired sight and hearing—especially on a 20 mph, thin-tired road bike.
Prior to the “big” accident, I had had two close-call experiences. The first was in north Fresno, when an oncoming car simply crossed two lanes and made a sudden left turn into my pathway. On a bike path in the far right lane, I slammed on the brakes and flew onto his hood.
Amazingly, I had just scrapes and no major injury.
The police came and claimed the driver was not at fault. In fact, one warned me that I was “riding too fast” (15 mph).
But I was temporarily knocked out for a few seconds. A nearby insurance investigator saw the whole thing and reprimanded the police and the reckless driver.
The driver was what I would call a “low-rider,” with a customized 1960s Chevy something. He did pull over and stop (I was on his hood). His wife then yelled at me for the scratches on their customized paint job. Neither apologized and told the police “F–k this sh-t, we’re going,” and they did, just like that. The police said not a word.
I could go on but since I was not hurt (the bike was nearly destroyed), I let it pass, but did tell the Fresno patrolmen that a bicyclist riding on a four-lane thoroughfare in a far right-lane bike path with no stop signs has the right of way over an oncoming car in a left-turn lane that simply T-boned the bicyclist. He nodded, “Maybe.”
The next accident was stranger and more catastrophic. About three years later in 2010, I was riding from Santa Rosa to Sebastopol, California. The bike path was a little rugged with pits and holes, with a long line of blackberry bushes on one side.
As I went around a curb, a homeless person stepped from the hedge and was standing right in my way, now picking berries in the middle of the lane. I assumed the berries, thorns and all, would provide a cushion, so in a split-second swerved rightward to avoid hitting him—but ended up riding right into the brush. Unfortunately, the hedge of berries was masking a gulley, and I went right through them and flipped over into the ditch.
Fifteen hours later I would be diagnosed with a slight concussion and a separated shoulder, staged as an AC ligament tear, Type III-IV. But at the time of the crash, I was 15 miles away from where I was staying, it was getting dark, and my bicycle tires were both flat and bent, and not a soul in sight.
My cell phone was cracked and not working, and for some reason had suddenly run out of power. So, I took off my T-shirt, bound my head, soaked up the blood, and then straightened the wheels a bit, rode on the flat tires for an hour to my car, and drove back to my room. From there a friend drove me to the ER.
I never chose the AC operation and today regret that my separated right shoulder is still painful and not working well. A few years later (see below) another crash, and the other left shoulder AC joint was torn apart.
But otherwise, the first eleven years of biking were accident-free, aside from minor tumbles.
Once I was riding in rural Fresno County from my farm when a pack of dogs attacked me (no licenses, no collars) and bit my legs. I stopped and went to the owners, who fled inside the house, locked the door, and talked to me through the screen window (at least 10 people were inside). They spoke little English. While I was talking, one of their dogs bit me again!
I called the Sheriff; he told me to call the pound. The pound told me to call the county. The county said call the city. The city said call the SPCA.
I finally called my great country doctor who said the chances of a rabid dog in Fresno are near nil, but if the owners were from Mexico and their dogs too, the slim odds of rabies went from nonexistent to highly unlikely. And he suggested not to take even a very small chance of sure death.
He added, “You won’t like the rabies shots,” so get the dogs quarantined.
I finally called my congressman and said I was writing about the wildlands and illegal immigration in his district.
The Sheriff called back, picked me up, drove me over, called them out of their locked house, and I watched as they put the four dogs in a wire cage next to the owners’ house and sealed the cage door with a wire tag. I have no idea whether the owners freed the dogs, but 21 days later, they had no rabies.