He'd probably driven that same bus route 10,000 times. There wasn't much to it. Just follow the two-lane road running along the beach in the relaxed, fishing town of Negombo, Sri Lanka.
Traffic – light.
Weather – perfect.
Thump!
The pale, pained expression on the driver's face shrieks what has just happened without him having to utter a word.
As the driver leaps out of the bus, high-pitched, canine whining envelops the passengers, but the urgency with which the driver leaves indicates something far worse lying on the pavement.
I dare not look, but, of course, I can't resist – a mangled bicycle, the body of a lifeless man, his skull inches from being crushed by the real wheels. The cyclist had also probably taken that same route 10,000 times.
Conflicting thoughts racing through my head – horror at the man's demise; guilt at the number of times I've joked, "Don't worry. I'll be there unless I'm hit by a bus"; a flood of inspiration to live each moment to the fullest.
The elderly man stirs. With the assistance of two passersby, he struggles to his feet. The only evidence of his ordeal is the blood flowing from his left, bare foot.
The driver slips something into the man's hand. The still excited passengers climb back onto the bus. The day moves on.
It can all be just that random, and yet we act as if we control the ending of the script. I'll get to it tomorrow. I'll spend time with my family during the holidays. I'll travel and enjoy life more when I retire.
But sometimes people really do get hit by buses, and sometimes they don't get back up.
