As I write this, I am adorned with natural wonders. My body is scattered with miniature sunsets happening in reverse; my fingers studded with glittering gemstones. On my hip and knee, stormy patches of purple, blue and black are giving way to streaks of orange, pink and yellow. On my left knee a blazing dying sun, deep red, angry and scaly. On my right middle finger there is a glistening red ruby next to the knuckle; it was hidden under skin which got torn off to reveal scarlet sparkling fluid held still in a little pool. As the pool dries the ruby will turn to pink quartz and finally moonstone before disappearing altogether. My thumb is decorated with a cluster of small dark, hard amethysts around another ruby sitting on the crest of the knuckle where it gets frequently knocked. Then there are minor jolts hums of pain.
A fortnight ago I was cycling through Islington when my tyre got caught on a small water-filled pit in the road at a junction. My bike slipped and skidded across the road on its side, scattering me and my pannier along the way. In the hours that followed, I was bloody, bruised, sore and in shock, but most of all, magically, I was never alone. A close friend came to rescue me followed swiftly by my brother, but until his arrival a steady stream of strangers came to my assistance. It was incredibly reaffirming and as I look back and re-live the terrible moment the bike skidded and I knew I was hitting the ground it is counter-balanced by the support and comfort I received from people I didn’t know and who owed me nothing.
I have no other way to thank the people who stopped to help me except here. I asked each of them their names but can only recollect one or two. Thank you to the man who helped me get up and rescued my bike and pannier from the road; to the man who jumped out of his van to give me water and tissues to mop up the blood on my lip, chin and hands (and also asked to see my teeth to check they weren’t broken, which I did not have the presence of mind to do - and thankfully they are fine); to the woman who ran across the road from the cafe where she was working to help me and called 999 after she saw me fall like a sack of bricks on the pavement (which I have no recollection of but it does explain why I was leaning against a wall one minute and then opened my eyes to find myself supine staring at the sky); to the woman who was on her way home from the gym and offered me gentle, soothing words of comfort, got me a drink of water and helped me hobble across the road to sit on a chair outside a cafe; to the other passers-by who pulled over or stopped to ask if I was OK; to Jackie who worked in the cafe and brought me inside, let me clean up my cuts and announced what I was still too shaken to realise: ‘Alhumdulillah you’re OK. It could have been much worse.’
And of course to the blessing of good friends who come to get you and rustle up a hearty meal - involving fries which are one of the Ultimate Foods that Heal - which steadies with its comforting, filling weight, and my brother, who perhaps unbeknownst to him is my Emergency Services. It is a blessing to be carried when you need it.
By God’s Grace I am largely unharmed: I returned home looking like I had been in a solid scrap, clothes covered in mud and blood, body bruised and sore, but everything is mending in a kaleidoscope of moving colours and textures, although I cannot write longform as my grip is impaired and it hurts to hold the pen. I share this episode not to speak of my bruises, which are unremarkable for a sharp tumble and could have been far worse, but to wonder at the gift of being cared for, which is a supreme act of creation. When you are looked after, whether it be words of comfort or acts which soothe and assist, your existence is being acknowledged and valued; in so doing the carer is creating you. So in those hours of confusion and shock I was also being created multiple times, for which I am very thankful.
After the accident I am experiencing a mental separation from cycling, which has had more of an impact on my wellbeing than I realised. I didn’t anticipate how much a nasty fall would not only shake my confidence but turn me in on myself. I am nervous about getting back on a bike, and for a while didn’t go out at all. Inverted, this highlights how important cycling is to me in so many ways: it is my wings, my flight and freedom. But in the ‘after Horror’ my world has shrunk; instead of a universe I could fly across, London has become a postcode. Everything feels far away and I feel disconnected from not only destinations which are full of life but the way of getting there which is also life to me. It has been quite grey.
In an effort to rebuild my courage, I decided to go for a ride on my electric bike (from my bike pool don’t you know), my (preferred) pedal bike currently languishing in solitary confinement in a friend’s basement until I decide to collect it. For the sake of having a destination I decided to go to east London, with the incentive of picking up some bread along the way.
East London is the bread centre of the city, with bakeries as common as Costa Coffee in nooks and crannies across the area. I remain bemused how good bread has not managed to sow roots and find a home in north-west London, west London i.e., anywhere nearer me, but that’s a perpetual moan of mine.
My first stop was Papos Bagels, a tiny bagel spot which would remain hidden in a tiny alley off Shacklewell Lane in Hackney if it were not for the queue of beanie-wearing rolled-up-trouser-donning, dog-leash-holding east Londoners queuing outside the door. Set up by a couple originally from the US, their goal is to make authentic New York bagels in London. From the number of Americans I could hear in the queue, they seem to be succeeding, and this was my second visit here because I was pretty impressed with the bagels too. Once again the cinnamon and raisin were sold out but I picked up some plain and everything bagels. These are indeed firmly in the category of bougie bagels, being £1.50 a pop for a plain one.
I stopped a little further on to pick up some more, fresh-out-of-the-oven bagels (at a more reasonable 70p each) from old school spot The Bagel Shop in Stoke Newington. These were so warm and fragrant I had to carefully peel off the paper bag they were wrapped in when I got home because the steam had glued them together. A different kind of bagel but easily loved and enjoyed. I promptly made a grilled cheese bagelwich with mine when I got home.
Next stop was Bake Street which does one of the most original takes on brunch I have seen. It’s more well-made fast food classics with an uplift and Sub-continental twist - think chicken makhani burgers, smash burgers, birrio tacos, tater tots, and a borderline-cult following for their baked goods made by Chloe-Rose Crabtree. It’s not everyday that I spend £4 on a cookie but the iconic Creme Brûlée cookie was worth a second shot as I didn’t enjoy it first time round. It was definitely worth the second attempt because it fully redeemed itself by being truly delicious and quite magical - how do you get a vanilla custard into a cookie and a creme brûlée topping? I also picked up a slice of very well-made, flavour-packed croissant butter pudding which I split with Mum later that evening warmed with a dollop of ice cream.
Final stop was Dusty Knuckle, an homage because I can’t go to east London and not stop there. One of the most loved bakeries in London and makers of great potato sourdough and the best focaccia I’ve ever had, Dusty has managed to stay true to its roots as a community and social enterprise bakery as well as scale up and run a successful business, whilst remaining beloved by many Londoners who have any interest in sourdough. As I stood in the quickly-moving queue for my potato sourdough, I looked at how prices had increased. Many businesses are being open about the rising costs with their customers, Dusty included, where a loaf of sourdough now costs £4.80. My mind turned to an article I read recently about tipping in New York, and I mused how if I were in New York now, were I to follow the advised etiquette I would probably be expected to tip the assistant who popped a loaf of pricey sourdough into a paper bag and punched a number into the payment system for a card transaction. Which is a confusing prospect.
I returned home with a basketful of bread, which had served its purpose as mediator between me and cycling. Coming home with an armful of good things helps.