Almost ran this bicycler off of the road the other day. He was taking up the entire right side of the street, nowhere near the bike lane. I came right up on his back wheel and slammed the brakes, after trying to pass someone in the left lane. I didn’t see him around the other car. Luckily, for him, the anti-lock mechanisms kicked in like clockwork.
At my first opportunity, I slid into the left passing lane and laid on my horn. I use my horn to express a message I can’t otherwise verbally deliver to the motorist, or CYCLIST, at fault. That message, in this particular case, was this: “If you’re riding a bicycle, don’t take up an entire lane that requires a rate of speed your bird legs aren’t capable of pedaling.”
He exclaimed some profanities into my open right window, as I passed. It was an unseasonably warm March day and I decided to drive with the windows wide open. I remember screaming FahkYouu! but I don’t think I gave him the finger—that borders on the line of wreckless driving when you’re operating a stick shift.
At the inevitable next traffic light, I saw him first in my rightside mirror, pedaling up. Warning: Douche bags are closer than they appear. He then circled round the hood of my car and squared up at the driver’s side window. He angled his horn-shaped handle bars, as if he was setting to charge. His 1984 Schwarzenegger sunglasses from Terminator glistened in the sunlight.
“That’s not a fuckin’ sports car! It’s a fuckin’ Golf! … Don’t ever do that to me again!”
“Do what?” I said.
“Fuckin’ jam me up, you fuckin’ prick!”
To all motorists on the mean Boston streets: this is a forewarning. When you see cyclists pedaling along the road, at a piddly pace, please don’t “jam up” these lower body athletes! Even though they are completely interrupting the flow of otherwise fluid traffic, please, don’t get in THEIR way. The fact that they tread lighter on their carbon footprints than any vehicle guzzling fossil fuel, grant them the higher road always.
THEY are God’s gift to the highways and byways of this hallowed Commonwealth.
Then he pedaled away. To demonstrate an act of no hard feelings, I complimented his wardrobe.
“Nice bright-yellow, Spandex leotard, dude.”