Picture a sunny spring morning in Vienna.

Crisp air. Blossoms. That dangerous feeling that life is being very generous.

I cycled everywhere back then. All year.
The underground was a daily sh#t show — packed bodies, sour moods, morning breath and quiet despair. Cycling felt sane. Free. Good for me. Until it wasn’t.

I leave one client, hop on my mountain bike, and head for the next.
Suspension front and back. Crossing the Ringstraße by the Rathaus, drunk on speed, warmth, and spring.

A man waves. I wave back. He waves harder. Starts jumping.

Then I hear it. Clang. Clang-a-lang-clang. A red tram. Right in front of me.

Brakes. Lock. Wheels lift. I wobble and teeter and see the underside of
the tram beckoning me. I throw out an arm and carve one clean line
down the tram’s side.

Everything freezes. Even the birds stop chirping. Faces in windows.
The driver shouting.
The waving man checking if I’m alive. I nod. Smile. “I’m alright.”

I am. My bike isn’t. Front wheel folded into a perfect figure eight.
Handlebars no longer agreeing on direction. Paperwork. Traffic. Shaky legs.

I reach my next client late. He takes one look and offers a whiskey at ten a.m. Naturally, I accept.

Pay attention, precious people.