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SMIDSY 2/18/2009

Which, in this case, stands for, “Sorry mate, I did see you.”

I’ve been riding the pushbike in to work the last month, almost every day.  Unless I have a meeting later in the day which calls for me to wear the monkey suit, I crumple a pair of Dockers, a pair of boxers and a cotton shirt into my Platypus, and ride to work.  My journeys are getting faster, and 22 kilometers now takes me about 35 to 45 minutes to ride, depending on the traffic lights being in my favour, or not.  My fitness level has improved tremendously, and I usually reach the office after a ride not even breathing hard.  I’ve gotten used to the commute, and actually look forward to it.  Slicing through the traffic, sometimes getting past tight spots that even motorcycles can’t clear, is fun.

What isn’t fun is that I am painfully aware I am the lone bicycle rider in the chaos that is city traffic.  I’ve seen a couple of guys on pushbikes riding in, but haven’t had a chance yet to catch up with anyone to say hello, and perhaps plan a group commute.  Safety in numbers and all that, plus the visibility factor increases many fold. I’ve noticed that drivers do not pay attention to cyclists.  Not much anyway.  They are aware that motorcycles lane split, and give them some allowance, most of the time.  But many of them are surprised at a cyclist lane splitting at close to 45 km/h.  In traffic, I have enough energy to split the lanes at 40 km/h average speed, which is about 10 km/h faster than a motorcycle could do it.  I take advantage of the slim profile of the pushbike, and that the brakes are good enough to bring it to a stop on a dime.  Yeah, I did upgrade the brakes.  The ones that came with the bike were diabolical.

Wait, a slight digression, if I may, before I continue with the main story.  I was riding a carbon framed road racing bicycle the past few months.  Single focus, sharp handling, crouched over racing position.  Very good for shaving tenths of a second in a criterium, but kind of hard to control in stop-start city traffic.  So I walked into Edwin’s place, and spotted a beautiful blue and white Argon 18 Cobalt sitting in a corner.  I asked him to pull it out, and was pleased with what I saw.  A hybrid designed by Gervais Rioux in Canada, and the perfect tool for riding in the city.  It had racing lines in the angles of the frame, but with a more upright seating position, and a much more comfortable ride.  I took it for a test ride, and when I came back, Edwin said I could take it on approval, pending the sale of the carbon racing bike, so I did.

Riding the Cobalt in was a breeze.  Fast enough to deal with traffic, comfortable enough to not make a chore of the commute.  And so it went, with me riding the Cobalt daily, and reserving the Specialized for the weekend off-road rides.

This morning was no different.  Pull on the spandex, jam the helmet on my head, put the disco slippers on my feet, and away we go. I took the normal route in to work, keeping a reasonable pace.  I headed up a small rise, speed dropping to about 20 km/h.  In front of me was a small side road to the left.  There was a Toyota being driven by a guy waiting at the intersection.  We make eye contact.  I kept on riding, when he suddenly decides to move out.  No problem, if he was quick with it, I would pass his behind with space to spare.  He pulls out, and come to a complete stop in front of me when he sees an approaching vehicle behind me in the fast lane on the right.  I looked, and realised that there was no where for me to go except straight into him, because there wasn’t enough time to stop, or unlatch my shoes from the clipless pedals.

I ploughed into the back end of the Toyota, and promptly fell over.  I could see him looking at me in his side view mirror, and I quickly pulled my feet from the pedals and stood up.  I started screaming at him and swearing, in 4 different languages.  Traffic had come to a complete halt.  I walked towards his door, expecting him to get out of his car to examine the damage, apologise, and figure out what to do next.  What he did next didn’t surprise me very much.  He drove off.

I quickly unslung my backpack, and hurled it at his car.  I stooped and picked up a random piece of metal lying on the road, and scored a direct hit on his rear window.  The glass didn’t shatter, but the ‘crack’ the piece made hitting the glass startled him, and I could see his eyes going Bambi-like in the rear view mirror.  And he accelerated away.

I stood in the middle of the intersection a moment.  Cars, motorcycles, everything had come to a stop around me.  I picked up my gear, and the Cobalt.  I stood with the bike in the middle of the intersection, deliberately blocking traffic.  No one moved.  No one honked.  I looked at the blood dripping down the side of my left arm from the road rash.  I examined my left thumb, which was bruising nicely and swelling from a sprain.  I looked around, mounted up, and rode off.  On the remaining 18 kilometers to my office.

When I got to the office, I examined the injuries, and decided the wound needed cleaning out.  I headed off to a nearby clinic and let the doctor examine the wound.  She started cleaning it, and remarked, “so you fell off your motorcycle?”  I replied, “No, some cunt in a car pulled out in front of me and I fell off my bicycle.”  She gave me a double take at this, and started asking questions about how far I rode, and that it was really healthy I did so and so on.  She finished dressing the wound and wrapping my left hand, and had this to say in parting …

“Riding a bicycle in this city is dangerous.”

No shit.

• Posted in : Road rash
• Author : thesnark

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