I crashed my bike. Excellent.

Yesterday morning I decided I was going to ride my bike around Manhattan. The whole way. I've been riding the Central Park bike path, but I wanted to explore the city a little, check out the Greenway that rings the island. The riding has been a part of me quitting smoking and needing to replace my bad habits with something else.

I hit the bike shop, put some more air in my tires and rolled down to the riverside where the Greenway runs. I was immediately in love. The view of the river and the relative quiet was a beautiful break from the urban-ness of Manhattan. I headed south, not speeding, but pushing myself a little bit. I have some biking experience, but I'm not an experienced biker.

When I saw the first sign for the Brooklyn Bridge bike path, I thought, "Yes. I want to ride to Brooklyn." I changed my initial plan and headed for the Brooklyn Bridge. Through city streets, around some cars, but I was still moving. Made it to the bridge and found that I was extremely grateful for the bike lane separate from what can only be called the tourist lane. Too many people! But as I pushed myself up the slope toward the middle of the bridge, I began to enjoy pushing myself. I considered turning around halfway rather than riding down and then back uphill from the other side, but I thought that'd be punking out.

Instead, I rode on toward Brooklyn, too thrilled by my playlist coming to Empire State of Mind, "Yo I'm up at Brooklyn" just as I began the downhill off the bridge. I was rocking, feeling myself. I decided to ride off the bridge instead of turning around and take the Manhattan Bridge back to Manhattan to continue my Greenway ring around the island.

The Manhattan Bridge was awesome. Relatively empty of people. No tourists at all. A few bikers passed me as I moved steadily across the bridge. And then Boom Boom Pow came on my iPod and I was grooving. And my earphone started to slip out of my ear and I reached up with my right hand to push it back in.

And then it happened. The front wheel turned and I couldn't straighten it in time. I felt myself becoming tangled in the bike as I fell. I knew, as I was falling, that I should try to protect my head, but all I could do was try pulling my chin toward my chest to reduce the impact. I felt it anyway. I lay still for a minute before untangling my limbs from the bicycle. I reached my left hand up to the back of my head to see whether there was a bump there, but instead I felt stickiness. I looked down at my hand to find it covered in blood.

And that was when the tears started. Not because I was in pain. Not because of how stupid this crash was. Because if I was bleeding, I couldn't just climb back on my bike and continue my beautiful ride. Frustrated because I actually had to deal with it.

I walked my bike off the bridge with my right hand, left hand pressed against the sticky matted hair covering the gash on my head. When I came across a construction worker standing at the end of the bike path, I asked for his help. I didn't know what kind of help I needed. I didn't know what to do. He told me to sit, handed me some tissues to wipe my face. After a few minutes I decided I'd call my sister. She, of course, said she was on her way. Another biker passed and offered to go to the drug store if I needed something. I thanked him but declined.

The construction worker watched my bike while I went across the street to beg for some ice to put on my head while I waited. The first woman I asked, behind the counter of a small restaurant, responded to my request for ice with, "I don't speak English." I snapped at her, "I asked for ice.I fell. I'm bleeding. You work in a restaurant. You know what ice is. Terrible." I walked out and into the next restaurant. Luckily, the man I spoke to there was much kinder and got me a bunch of ice in a plastic bag. I thanked him profusely and immediately applied it to my bleeding head.

I went back to my bike and the construction worker and sat down to wait for my sister. We talked while we waited, me learning that he had been a CO and then retired and traveled and was doing construction work for some extra cash. When my sister arrived, so did the construction worker's supervisor who happened to be a long time friend who we haven't seen for years. He offered us a ride to the ER after my sister decided I needed stitches. The bike didn't fit into his car so he walked us the ten blocks to the hospital ER.

ER: waited and then got staples, 5 or 6, to close the gash in my scalp. I was surprised that there was no lecture about me not wearing my helmet.

When I left the ER, to my dismay, it was raining. But I was not done with my ride, so I hopped on my bike and headed back toward the Greenway and back uptown. It was a beautiful, easy, calm ride and I realized I love riding.

Me. The non-athletic sibling. The one who has struggled with being overweight. The creative, book-smart sister. The singer. But never the athlete.

What hit me today was important. All I have to do is believe that I am capable and work hard. I am a biker. Also, I'm athletic. Also, I'm brave and confident and strong. Also, I'm not a smoker. Also, I'm fly as hell and getting fly-er every day.

Why didn't I know this before? Why did I accept other people's labels for me?

My next job is to make a list of every negative thing I have ever said about myself and change it. Be who I want to be. Be who I now know I can be.

So yes, I crashed my bike. And it was still an excellent day. Alhamdulillah.

Ya Sudan M3alesh

It's the week of the referendum which will decide whether Sudan will remain one nation or split into two. Secession seems to be the way things will go. I remain undecided about what should happen. I feel like - for the people of southern Sudan - it didn't make any difference. Is it better that they be screwed by the NCP or by their own "independent" government? And I put independent in quotes because there is nothing in place that will allow the likely new nation of South Sudan to run independently. I read somewhere that it will likely be the first NGO-run state.

This week I am sad for Sudan. Sad for the southerners who will proclaim their independence only to find that it is an uneasy, impoverished pseudo-independence. Like emancipated slaves who became sharecroppers, tied to the land, forever in debt, unable to gain real freedom because they needed to eat and sharecropping was the only way.

And I am sad for the northerners who remain in a state of apathy or fear, not speaking up, not fighting for their own freedoms. Curfews, dress codes, harassment, torture, censorship, all in the name of Islam. A twisted version of justice and democracy that we all know is an illusion.