I spent almost three years riding my bicycle about twenty miles a day in Denver traffic in order to walk the dogs and feed the kitties that it was my job to walk and feed. I was fairly unfamiliar with incarnations of cycling other than commuting, and so I feel an affinity for Bike Snob NYC's new book, The Enlightened Cyclist, or at least the portion I've read. During those three years, I averaged (Mom, look away) an adrenaline boost something like once every two weeks. While only one of these incidents resulted in a minor accident, the fact remains that every other week my autonomic nervous system made a calculation that did not favor my survival, and in order to prepare me to fight for my life, it made my palms sweat. It didn't take long for me to expect drivers to not notice that I was there, and to expect them to turn in front of me or blow through stop signs or not allow me to take my turn, and yet despite all of my defensive riding I was still surprised all the time.
Because we're talking about averages here, there were of course some weeks that were worse than others, and I recall one particular day when I thought I was toast at three different intersections. That kind of thing makes a person forget to drink his coffee for about a week. Also, I would pay a lot of money to have a picture of the oncoming police officer as she nearly flattened me as I was stopped at a stop sign because she was on her cell phone. That kind of thing makes a person want to
Specifics aside, this kind of riding was how I was introduced to cycling, which I liked despite being introduced to it this way, and so the book I'm reading keeps striking me in whichever organ one's nostalgia resides. Is it a kidney or the appendix? In any case, this is the book I'm reading:
So far the Snob is doing a really good job of addressing the disgraceful behaviors of motorists and cyclists alike, but I fear that the people who need to read this book are not reading it because they are too busy either upsizing their vehicles or asking for a trip to the ER. That is the trouble with books, or more accurately, the trouble with people.
As I may have mentioned, I'm on the injured reserve list, so I've been getting rides to and from work this week, which leaves me free to take pictures from the passenger seat. Here's one I took just before the driver of this jeep did a little burnout when the light turned green and then zigged and zagged across the many lanes of Broadway despite the absence of gates for him to slalom, and then made a three-lane right-hand turn.
Here's another I took of a very special Lancer, if that's not a paradox.
The only question is to whom does this belong, Jesus or Neo? It's not black, so...