I DON'T REMEMBER THE HIT-AND-RUN THAT NEARLY KILLED ME.BUT I'LL NEVER FORGET THE FIRST TIME I SAW MY SHATTERED BIKE.

BACK WHEN I WAS AN EDITOR AT BICYCLING MAGAZINE, IN the 2010s, I covered the walls of my office with bike jerseys: one each from the many teams I'd raced for, a bunch from different events, and a few collectible ones from bygone races that I'd been gifted or I had thrifted.

- ANDREW J. BERNSTEIN

At the time, I thought my stab at decorating was an effort to distinguish my featureless office from my colleagues' featureless offices. One coworker quipped that my space was "laundry themed."

More than just an attempt to personalize my space, I wanted to keep the memories attached to those jerseys close. I wanted to be able to look up from editing a review of a new road bike, and allow my gaze to fall on my Brooklyn Velo Force kit from 2005. I'd remember the thick, sticky salt breeze rolling off Jamaica Bay and how it felt on a Tuesday evening after the training race at Floyd Bennett Field. Then I could imagine what it would feel like to take that bike on the cannonball run home through the stream of traffic on Flatbush Avenue, with that air cutting through the fabric.

At some point, I moved to an office in a different part of the building and re-hung my jerseys. Then I moved again and decided not to bother with the jerseys. Work had changed and I didn't have as much time for daydreams.

My current office, at my home in Colorado, lets me keep memories close in a slightly more conventional way: A bookcase sits next to my desk and holds photos from family vacations and good times with friends, and there are framed posters on the walls. I've got some bikes around, too, sitting behind me on my many video calls. They help me dip out of work like those jerseys used to.

Also in my office, in the closet, are two halves of a once-sleek carbon frame that triggers a different kind of memory: an overcast day in July 2019 when I rode that bike to the Boulder Valley Velodrome, did some intervals on the track, headed home in a light drizzle, and was nearly murdered.

I ONLY VAGUELY REMEMBER THE EARLY DAYS IN THE ICU AS I WAS EMERGING from a weeklong coma. At some point, between surgeries, hallucinations, and nightmares, my loved ones explained the basics of what had happened: I'd survived a hit-and-run. It had been really bad.