I am waiting for the pain to rise up from the mix of hormones that pulses through my body. A young couple approaches me with deep concern on their faces. They ask if they can right my bike. The young man picks up my bike and notices the derailed chain, now impotently loose, and he professes his ignorance of how to solve this particular problem.

All the while, I sit on the curb and breathe.

“Are you OK,” the girls asks.

“I just,” I utter, “need a minute.” Between breaths.

My right hips hurts, a bruise for sure. I inspect my palms. Mild gravel rash. No blood. I finally move my hand in a circle, testing the wrist. No pain. It held.

A dad rushes in to fix the chain. His daughters hover nearby, eyes large with concern.

The dad fixes the chain expertly. He test the brakes, rolls the bike back and forth.

“Looks like your bike is OK,” he says. It’s far easier to tend to a simple machine than a human being. I know, though, that they really do care about me. We can't touch each other right now, so instead my bike receives the attention.

I slowly rise, testing each joint like a fawn just emerged from the womb.

With shaking hands, I pull my keys from my bag and lock my bike to the post.

I study the lip of curb, slightly taller than I’d expected, and I review the slickness of my new tires, the rubber not yet broken into grippy softness. I review my angle of approach: too shallow. A light rain falling, reducing the available friction. I’ve done this a hundred times before, was I just lucky every single other time?

I walk away, into the grocery store, and slowly fill my basket as my body returns to stasis.

In these moments, where people in my neighbourhood are quick to help, I feel fully and deeply loved.