Ridin' Diiiirty

Cars are bad. Perhaps I should rephrase so I don’t sound like a typical Madisonian biker (I’ve been guilty of this in the past). Cars and I together are bad. Even more specifically, cars and I, in the last 6 months, together are bad. Here is a brief timeline.

August 2007. Vacationing in Los Angeles, I was terrified to walk across the street for fear of all the traffic. Every time the walk sign signaled for me to go, I would run across, not moving my arms and torso, looking like a complete idiot. My friend thought that it was hilarious and would leisurely follow me, only to mock me once we were safe on the other side. Slowly (and foolishly), I acclimated myself to the busy streets. Approaching a crosswalk, I noted the walk sign signaling me to go, looked both ways to see that there were no cars about to run the red light, and stepped off the curb. Taking a couple more strides, I found myself in front of a Dodge minivan. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the car suddenly lurch forward. At first I thought that the driver was just trying to scare me, but, then, realizing that he wasn’t going to stop in time, I thought that he was trying to kill me. Luckily, he wasn’t going very fast and I was able to bend my knees before impact. The bumper hit me mid-leg and I was knocked onto the van’s hood. That’s when he braked. Standing upright, I looked at the driver. All he did was shrug. Whenever I recount this story, people tell me what they would have done had they been in my shoes, but, in reality, you don’t act how you’d expect. For example, I just started to run. I wanted out of the road. Drivers kept yelling instructions at me, but I just wanted to be as far away as possible. My friend didn’t do anything. The only person who took action was a guy walking behind me. He leaned in the driver’s window and yelled at him. That guy is my hero. By the time I got my wits together to call the police, he was speeding off and I missed a digit in his license plate. Luckily, I only had a scrape on my knee and felt a little bit stiff. A couple of minutes later, I saw William H. Macy. Hollywood? More like Holly-weird! Harhar!

October 2007. It was a beautiful sunny day and I was riding in the bike lane of the street that I live on. From behind me, I heard that obnoxious heavy base omitting from a car, making my skeleton vibrate, and soon the car was level with me. Approaching an intersection, I kept peddling along my merry way, anxious to be home. Suddenly, the car cut in front of me. Unable to turn, lest I get run over by rush hour traffic, I slammed on my breaks, all the while thinking “OHGODOHGODOHGOD!” Unable to stop in time, I hit the car’s trunk. While I fought to control my bike and stay upright, the driver sped off. Amazingly, I didn’t fall over, but again I failed to get the license plate number or the make of the car. All I managed to do was make it home before bursting into tears.

Since these last two events transpired, I’ve been seeing phantom cars left and right. Anytime I walk past a driveway, I imagine a car darting out of it or whenever I start to cross the street, I can picture a car blowing through the stop sign. You’d think that these phantom cars would help make me more aware and so did I until…

…Last Saturday. Not wanting to wait for a cab in the negative degree weather, I asked to borrow my step-dad’s car to go to work. Usually I adjust the seat and go, but, ironically, on Saturday, I took a little extra time to adjust the mirrors and make sure that the radio was set to Saturday at the Seventies. Pulling out of the driveway, I looked left and noticed a man parking, looked right and noticed how sunny it was, then pulled out of the driveway. Turning right, facing the sun, I thought, “Man, that’s quite the glare. I should get out my sunglasse—” BAM! I was hit on the driver's side. Looking behind me, I saw the face of the other driver, mouth open in a scream, as her car ricocheted away from mine. Throwing the car into park, I tried to get out, only to realize that the door was dented in. Instead, I scrambled awkwardly over the passenger seat. Luckily, I found the other woman had not been hurt. My parents called the police. Both cars were pulled off of the road. Pulling me to the side, my mom told me what might happen, how I might need to sit in the police car to give the accident report. After she said that, I started crying on the street in front of all my neighbors’ houses. This wasn’t a sympathy cry. Rather it was one of those cries that, no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop and you only make it worse. The cop arrived and didn’t make anyone sit in his car. My mom invited the woman inside to trade insurance information. I was told that I was getting a ticket for failure to yield. I said I understood and waited outside for the cop to give it to me. I should have waited inside, but I thought that I couldn’t leave the scene of the accident. I waited on the cold sidewalk and cried some more. Now I have a little bit of frostbite on my toe…or maybe it’s just a corn. Finally, I was told that I could wait inside and that the other woman could leave since her car was able to run. After a few more minutes, the police officer knocked on our door, ticket in hand. Through my girlish weeping, I managed to choke out, “What’s the damage, Capt’n?”

So there you have it. Cars and I are like oil and vinegar, black and white, or Kanye and 50 Cent. We just don’t mix. It is with that that I have decided to live in an Amish community a lá Harrison Ford in Witness. Be careful whose face you rub ice cream in.