*I've always had the classic farmer's tan on the arms. I've come to expect the bike shorts tan line and the glow-in-the-dark white feet. I've got a number of lines on my hands. But the worst is the line that runs along my neck, following the path of my helmet strap. Most of the rest of the tan lines are concealable. This frames my now-burnt face perfectly. I need a killer name for this phenomenon. Get on it in the comments.
**I did see a few kids on bikes, but this is my rule of thumb: If you're not going more than a block-and-a-half, and you're not smart enough to wear a helmet in the street, then you're probably not a cyclist.
As I was cruising into Lafayette on Friday, I was confronted by someone. Someone was a middle-aged woman driving a great big Ford Expedition. I include a picture here because I want you to see the car and keep it in your mind.
This lady was behind me and she made it clear that she was not happy about it. She laid on the horn, and not in the way that is intended simply to let me know that she was there.* No, I mean, she laid on the thing, yelled at me to get out of the road, and cursed a bit. I suppose I can understand her frustration, except that, at that point, I had little recourse to please her. I was already in the road, and there was no way to get out of it.
*A lot of dudes do the thing where the tap the horn to "let you know they're there." I suppose it's a pleasantry, but here's the thing: I'm exposed, you're driving a truck, and your muffler is clearly broken. You're there. I already got that.
The lady refused to pass me, even though she had all the room in the world to do so. I gestured that she could get into the other lane - actually, she could have gone to the other side of the road if she desired - but she just laid back, festering. Finally, I came to a stoplight, she rolled up next to me and rolled down her window.
Me: Hey.
Her: Don't "hey" me. I'm old enough to be your mother.*
*I did not point out that she had at least a decade of life experience on my mother. Restraint.
What followed next was a diatribe that is unlike any in the annals of the cursers' history. She insulted me, my bicycle, my lineage, and my entire way of life. I can't remember all of what she said; suffice it to say, I couldn't reprint it in this space if I wanted to. It ended succinctly with this comment:
Her: ...you're a no-good, slow moving son-of-a-bitch.
Me: So, what kind of gas mileage does that thing get?
2 comments:
It boggles the mind how people hate cyclists so much. Perhaps a bicycle gang came through these parts years ago and killed the first born child in every household. Or perhaps everyone is just a jerk.
I'm really not sure what it's all about. I got yelled at again by a guy who wanted to know why I wasn't on the sidewalk. When I pointed at the fallen tree that covered the sidewalk, he said, "Oh."
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