Back in 2002 I was on my motorcycle, sitting here in traffic, feeling sweaty and frustrated. It was a hot summer day and I was wearing jeans, a shirt, a leather jacket, gloves, and a full-face helmet while sitting a few inches above a 195 degree engine.

So, yeah, very sweaty.

In the rare moments the car in front of me inched forward, it would take a few seconds to lift my foot off the ground, put the bike in gear, let out the clutch, twist the throttle a bit, and move forward as well. After doing this for (what seemed like) the millionth time, I decided there was no reason to keep up, so I hung back a while until there was a decent amount of ground to cover … which was a good decision because otherwise I would’ve been hit by a truck.

Driving towards me in the opposite lane, a truck nonchalantly drifted into the gap ten feet in front of me. I froze as it crossed my lane and, maintaining its speed, slammed into the convenience store to my right with enough force to lift the rear wheels into the air.

After I shook the what just happened feeling, I looked over my right shoulder and saw a few people trying to pry the driver’s door open. I wish I could tell you that I tried to help, but I didn’t, and sitting here now I’m not sure why; I was less mature? Less empathetic? A jerk?

All of the above.