“Yo!” shouts the bicyclist going the wrong way on a one-way.
God am I happy he didn’t ram me with his 10-speed. “Ass-munch,” I mumble.
What is it with you, Bicyclists? I used to ride, too, before my mountain bike was stolen. But I was never as inconsiderate as some of these jerkoffs. You know the type: pedaling right at pedestrians or-criminy!-hopping up onto the sidewalk. (Let’s all say it together now, “Side… walk.”) They weave and they bob. Everyone else, be damned.
It’s like they’re competing with cabbies for Worst of the Road honors.
Which is a shame. I’m one of those guys who believes we could actually use more bicycles on our streets. You know, take a page from other cities around the world that are looking to reduce their carbon footprint. But at the expense of urban amblers like me? I don’t think so.
Ring, ring, calls the mechanical bell of a crunchy-looking woman’s basketed two-wheeler. She’s blowing off a red light to buck the flow of human traffic simply responding to a “walk” traffic signal. I want to kick her rear tire as she rolls by. But I don’t. I’m too much of a wuss.
Once I get to work, I count the number of times bicyclists have nearly run me down-and suddenly, I remember a horrific incident.
It was two years ago. I was strolling to work along Houston as usual. Back then, the ever-present construction was in much fuller swing. Dumptrucks and cement trucks clogged the thoroughfare; orange-vested men and women marched to and fro. Us sidewalkers were always being rerouted.
That day we were, for sure. But not because of anyone taking a jackhammer to the asphalt.
“Sorry, can’t pass here,” a hulking cop said to me. “Gotta go another way.”
Beyond him loomed a single, gigantic dumptruck… and police lights. I noticed more emergency workers converging, as well as clusters of hands-in-their-pocket gawkers at various points.
“Hey, but I work down there,” I told the cop, pointing.
He sort of sagged irritably, then nodded and let me through.
As I made my way alone toward the office, I passed the gigantic dumptruck. Then I spotted a mangled 10-speed propped against a fire hydrant. Its frame was snapped and contorted, the wheels almost artful in their misshapenness.
And beside the enormous tire of the dumptruck lay a human form underneath a white sheet. Not completely white, however: a dull red showed through the fabric from the other side.
I later found out that this dead bicyclist was a recent film-school grad. He’d even gone to college with one of my coworkers.
Scary, yes. But also sad.
But today, I’m thinking only about you, Reckless Bicyclists. And for you I have just two words: Happy Halloween.