At the whistle, the cyclists all clipped in. One rider took off, and the field followed, We took the first lap and all the racers stood up through the straightaway. A few fans were out ringing cowbells. A drunk guy wavered at the edge of the crosswalk, the rider flicked her elbow, and I came around, took my pull. Then, I flicked, and one of my teammates came around. We took a few more laps. The crowds were building and downtown Springdale went by in a blur. I decided to launch an attack. I stood up and accelerated. We took the turn by Shirley's bar and headed down the hill. Suddenly, I saw the drunk guy rush into the road. "STOP, STOP!" I yelled. I swerved in front of him, but he kept running. I hit him at 25 mph. My bike an dI skimmed across the metal barrier, over the creek, like a rail slide on a skateboard. I landed 50ft from the impact, still clipped in. I couldn't breathe, but when I tried to sit up, everything was spinning, and the lead moto was yelling at me to stay still. "I can't breathe," I said. He let me lean on him and my blood splattered his sleeves. My partner Isaac came running and he helped me unclip from the bike. The bike was unscathed. The EMT wrapped my head mummy-style. Isaac tried to talk me into a trip to the ER but I resisted until I couldn't remember what I had for breakfast. "Toast?" I did not have toast for breakfast. "We are going to the ER" Isaac said. Two years later, I have the slightest scar and no desire to race another crit.