The Motorcyclist Who Almost Killed Me During a Police Chase in Budapest in 2004
by Alex Littlefield
I still had one foot on the curb, which is probably what saved me. That and my then-girlfriend, who yanked the back of my t-shirt, suspending me mid-stride, and keeping me about half a foot from the first bike when it ripped through the narrow crosswalk.
Budapest is a city of long, stately promenades that give way to winding pedestrian malls sprinkled 
with furtive, back-alley brandy bars. We had been walking all day with our eyes and ears turned upward to take in the colonnades and intricate moldings of the buildings along our route, and it was this touristic obliviousness to our immediate surroundings that almost landed me squarely under the biker’s front tire.
He was a young guy, judging by his racing-striped bomber jacket and the untrimmed sprigs of hair that snaked out from beneath his helmet. The rush of air from his bike was still fluttering the collar of my shirt when two police motorcycles tore through the crosswalk and veered around the corner after him, the officers’ knees almost skidding against the asphalt as they leaned into the turn.
I had just enough time to wonder what he had done before the three bikes had disappeared, leaving behind only a receding whine and a gap in the crowd that quickly filled itself in, like tree bark healing over a wire. When I remembered the hand on my back I turned and, looking at Justine, saw the glimmerings of love in her shock-widened eyes.
