I approached this one all wrong. Totally got off on the wrong foot. Put the dickhead on the defensive from the get-go. As diplomatic and reasoning and calm as I was with the asshat in the Mustang August 21, I wasn’t with this bald-headed jackass who barreled by me around 40 mph with hardly a foot clearance between my left elbow and his peppy little dark blue Scion hatchback. Way to use all 78 108 horsepower there El Douchey. And was that really Britney Spears blasting on your stereo as you went by? Oddly fitting.
Certainly there are some out there in the Metblogosphere who, either for the sake of argument or simply because of their unwavering “cyclists suck” bias, will find it too easy to hold me entirely at fault in this matter because of the stop sign I didn’t full observe a couple miles back, or maybe… let’s see: because I was illegally traveling slower than the flow of the four-wheeled traffic. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Literally! With such a legit citable offense they will claim the moral high ground and trumpet: “You are none to judge when you yourself are legally no better than the poor motorist who crowded you and your stoopid bike!” Then there are others who will offer paternal counsel, urging me to calm the hell down, quit trying to change things that can’t be (even though I’m not trying to), and instead be even more diligent and cautious (because apparently I am not enough already). But all that rebop is just bucketseat sanctimony and choir preaching.
Like I said at the top. I blew this one right out of the gate. My bad. Instead of rolling up and attempting to respectfully engage the driver in a constructive dialogue as I’d done so well a couple weeks ago, I pulled alongside his ride after catching him at the red he got stuck racing up to at Pico on La Brea and I said over the blaring four-speaker soundtrack to his life “Did you get some kinda thrill passing by me so fast and so close!?”
After he turned down whatever poptastic slice of Britney’s oeuvre he was listening to, he asked me to repeat and I did. His response was textbook ignorant: “Well you were in the middle of the road!”
“Actually I was pretty much split between the curb and the middle of the No. 3 lane, and besides that you had plenty of room on your left to pass me safely but what… you decided it would be cooler to scare the shit out of me and shave some of the hair off my arm?”
“Yeah, well…” he started.
“And I’m guessing you thought I didn’t have a chance in hell of catching up to you and calling bullshit?”
You know I have a right to the road, right?” I asked.
“No, I have a right to the road!” He insisted. And I thought: Yeah, and Mongo like beans, cromag!
But instead I said: “So you own the road to the exclusion of everyone else who isn’t in a car and/or a moron?”
He smirked and then frowned and then made a sound that was something approaching “Pffssnznk.”
“Didn’t your folks teach you to share?” I said as a parting gift because then the light was green which meant it was time for him to punch the gas pedal and give me the finger as he fled further into his world of asphalt entitlement where he obviously has the right to intimidate or risk causing bodily injury upon those of us who are so clearly trespassing.
What a great place he lives, eh?
PS. If you want it, here’s the fuzzywuzzy YouTube version of the timelapse video of this morning’s 15-mile commute: