[LEMONS] 8.22.2001
I've somehow managed to ride my bike to work for the past five months without having a major spill. Until today. It was my fault. I'm embarrassed, but here's what happened.
First let me set the stage. It's a rainy morning. The sky's grey and the streets are slick. Not too many people are on their bikes this morning, at least not on Market street. I rode alone all the way from 7th down to Beale. That's where I ran into trouble.
I took a right on Beale, going around a car that was also turning. A pedestrian steps in front of me, no big deal, as his movement will carry him past me before I reach him. Still I touch my brakes. He hears it, looks up at me, and freezes like a deer in the highway. Idiot. I hit my brakes hard, and swerve, but still run into him. I hit his backpack, which swung him around, and sent me over my handlebars into the street. I landed on my back.
I got up and looked at the guy. "You alright," I asked, a stupid question since he was standing over me, obviously unhurt, and I was sprawled out in the street.
"I'm fine," he says. "You need to be more careful." I mumble something about it being an accident. He then tells me that accidents happen due to carelessness, and as a cyclist, I've got a responsibility to watch out for him. At first this doesn't really register with me. then all the sudden it hits me, what he's just said. Admittedly the accident was my fault. He was in the crosswalk, but he had also stepped right in front of me without looking. And had he not stopped, well, there would have been no issue. But he was scared, he stopped, he got hit, and I went over the handlebars. I pointed out to him the fallacy of his arguement. He in turn proceeds to explin how it was, indeed, my fault, and he bore no responsibilty. I'm still getting up at this point, and once on my feet, I change tactics.
"Fuck you."
He becomes indignant. Curses back at me. We begin to yell at each other. He offers his opinions on my ancestory and sexual habits, while heading towards the curb. We continue to curse at each other, neither backing down. I continue my litany of "fuck you, asshole." It's all I've really got at this point.
But then, he raises the bar. As it's ending, I'm yelling at him over my shoulder, while riding down the street slowly. He's walking down the sidewalk. Numerous people are looking at us, although they are continuing on their way while doing so. Still, people are watching. This, I think is what inspired him. The tribal fear that if he doesn't posture, he'll lose face. One of the oldest fears. "Come on. You want to fight? Take off your helmet and I'll kick your ass."
This is a business guy. A weenie man. I'm approximately 200 feet away, but I turned around and headed straight back for him at this point. I stop my bike just as the front tire hits the curb and remove my helmet. He continues to berate me. I berate his ass right back. I switch tactics and go from "you watch where you're going," and "you shouldn't have stopped right in front of me," to plain old every day "fuck you." I stick to this phrase. Now that I'm right there, however, it's obvious that he has no interest in fighting. My helmet is still off. I'm posturing like a stupid angry monkey.
I was wrong. I was completely wrong. But I felt like he was too. Not that that makes me right in any way. My leg hurts now, as does my wrist. My back was sheilded by my backpack. A bummer of a morning.
- l i n k -
