I will never forget flying through the air in Nicaragua at 45 miles per hour wearing a T-shirt and board shorts and a helmet that was so loose it was being blown back by the wind. It ended as well as it could have. I hit an unannounced speed bump after hitting the brakes and the dusty road caused the motor scooter to slip out from under me and land on its side. I landed on my side too, and then my other side, and on my knee, and somewhere in there, on my jaw too. I did a quick inventory check on my body and my presumedly full functioning brain assessed my body to be more or less in one piece. Someone ran over to me to bring me my wallet, which was shredded. I have never cared so little about money in my life.
My friend and I were driving around Ometepe, an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua and I guess I was driving too fast because I definitely fell too fast. When I explained what happened to the locals, about all the speed bumps being preceded by speed bump signs—except for this one, they said, “Oh yeah, that one.”
You can’t rely on the signs. You have to rely on yourself. The map is not the territory. The territory might be pokier. It might be prickly. It might be worth—it IS worth—slowing down and thinking about what might go horribly wrong in whatever it is you’re doing right now.
Recovery involved cutting my trip short, flying home immediately and having my jaw wired shut, and eating fried chicken—blended and through a straw.
What about you? What is the closest you’ve been to death?