This is the story of my second moto crash. I didn’t get any pictures of the first because I had to get the hell outta there faster (I was holding up a bus and I hit a taxi with a passenger – they needed to bounce). Nobody got hurt in any case.

Anyway, I’m chilling on a beautiful sunny day in Medellin. Lane splitting is the norm here. In many places including the US, it is illegal, but in Colombia it is one of the primary benefits of having a moto. You can skip traffic. But with so many people having the same idea, moto traffic tends to build up between the cars. You have multiple streams of vehicles flowing.

It was in one of those streams that it happened. I was sitting in line, stopped at a light, minding my business, I believe on Avenida Las Vegas between Poblado and Envigado. Traffic was aplenty but it wasn’t holding me up. We were flowing.

Then this ass-hat fucking rams me. I flew backwards off the bike but barely fell. He kinda stumbled. It was really anticlimactic. Next thing you know, we’re standing around hitting eachother with that mutual bro wtf look.

How do I know homie was a male nurse? Well, he told me. Said he was rushing to work. And he was wearing the scrubs to prove it, head-to-toe nurse uniform, as you can see in the pic I snapped. I thought my dude here was going to call in the fuzz. Bring the hammer down on me. Being a foreigner, there was always the fear of every situation being a scam or a run in with the law.

Nobody got hurt, but my bike took the hit. He mumbled an apology, clearly late for his shift, then vanished into the swarm of motos before I could even process what had just happened. We were both okay, so I didn’t care. But as soon as I got a few meters down the road my shit started grinding.

Something was amiss.

I don’t know what the part was called, but the little piece that holds the kickstand in place was bent, and was scraping against my wheel. I had to get to a repair shop, and fast. Otherwise, my peaceful afternoon would be ruined.

I limped it through traffic, every rotation of the wheel sounding like metal chewing metal. The whole ride I was waiting for the wheel to lock up and send me flying. Medellín traffic isn’t forgiving, so I hugged the side, inching toward the next cluster of moto talleres.

Finally, I spotted one of those open-front garages. Two guys smoking, a lineup of bikes in various states of undress. I rolled in slow, the grinding noise announcing me before I even said a word. One of the mechanics just shook his head like, “what did you do this time, gringo?”

Ten minutes, a hammer, and about ten bucks later, the piece was straightened and the wheel spun clean again. The whole “crash aftermath” fixed for the price of two beers.

Before long, I was back to my afternoon plans: enjoying some beer and empanadas while overlooking the city. Crisis averted.