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We met at the Westside Tavern last December, a stool between us and Ferris Bueller's Day Off on the TV. Pointing to the screen he sighed, "The downturn of society…" I, however, considered John Travolta a sign of the Apocalypse, underscored by his contribution to Hairspray. Two beers and all of Francisco's money later, now seated side by side, we both agreed that the tipping point of America was Ronald Reagan.

Francisco Christich: the name of a friar or cult leader. Or an artist, nine-ball guru, father and friend. Francisco, the most modest human being I met in my nine months in Central Oregon. A song; the antidote to gloating galleries and braggart collectors, trust-fund artist managers - We both knew we'd spend much time together after that night at the Westside. Yet neither could have guessed how rotten it would end.
His entry to Bend was apt. It was a choice between here or Sante Fe;
"When the car broke down that kind of made the solution clear." That
was 30 years ago. Francisco will be 62 in September and shows every
second on this Earth. A scar under his gray hay hair from a car crash
20 years since (of windshields he offers, "They're hard - they win, you
lose."), ashy marks like cuffs around his wrists ("Some pigmentosis…"
he explains, then jokes, "Actually I got those storming the cliffs of
Normandy.") and a silky white beard Santa would wear if evicted from
the North Pole. An American mutt, Francisco's father was Mexican and
Slavic while his mother was Native American and French, "As far as I
know." Raised in East LA, it was his mother who sat him down at an
easel when he was four and told him to paint.

The scars on Kate Dunning's knees run about six inches from her kneecap to the top of her shin. She is neither shy nor self-conscious about the marks, which are indicative of 17 days in the hospital, three months in a wheelchair, six months of missed work, and four surgeries.

The scars are most precisely a reminder of July 2, 2002 - the day Dunning was hit by a car while riding her road bicycle through Tumalo on Highway 20. The Ford sports utility vehicle crossed the highway, its teenage driver never seeing Dunning until it was too late to stop. Both of her legs were broken (including her left femur) and to this day she still can't run, which was once a passion of hers.

Whether it's on the front page of the Oregonian or in the form of
impassioned blog posts on the Source website, the discussion of
"sharing the road" between cyclists and motorists has been nearly
ubiquitous in recent months. And if Dunning's experience proves
anything, it's the seriousness of what can happen when bicycles and
cars fail to coexist on Central Oregon roads.
"This was kind of a
freak accident, the guy was looking to cross a busy highway and just
didn't see me," said Dunning, an accountant who's lived in Bend for 12
years. She continues, however, to say that although she's returned to
her bike, she still is continually baffled by cyclists who ignore even
the most basic riding etiquette. She is equally miffed by the faction
of motorists who seem to have it out for cyclists, including the
youngsters who once tossed a Coke with ice at her as they drove past.