1,001 Nightmares

Written in the fall of 2005 before Tamar and I moved to Denver and published in the Rivendell Reader, this anguished piece asks its readers where a cyclist can live in peace. Here's the original article. I'll post the responses one at a time in the next few weeks.

Recently I wrote about feeling battered from the car wars. I worry, I said, about the anger and mistrust simmering in me from years of callous abuse from drivers. Two sympathetic friends I quoted in the article described ways of coping that’d worked for them.

Alas, nothing worked for me. If we rode five times, three morons in cars would scare me or my sweetie Tamar. One or two would baffle us by showing icy disregard for our safety. I wouldn’t have time to shrug off one incident before the next one happened.

Each scare reminded me I was unwelcome on Tucson streets, even secondary ones marked as bike routes. As a cyclist, I felt I belonged to a despised minority. Even my carefully unobtrusive presence on the road was an invitation for harassment. I hated it.

In early November, about 10 on a sunny weekday morning, I was pedaling alone in a wide bus-and-bike lane on East Broadway. An older SUV passed me and then suddenly, unbelievably, turned across my path, across the entire bike lane.

Up on two wheels, barely missing the center divider, he careened into a strip mall. I have to believe (Here I go making excuses for him; years in Berkeley made me this way.) that he was already upset and acting-out. I was right there in the bike lane, easy to terrorize.

As I panic-braked, the side of the car crossed my vision in slo-mo, huge as a cruise ship. When the SUV’s taillights entered the mall, I’d nearly stopped. Stunned and incredulous, I wanted to know why anyone would do such a homicidal, crazy thing.

There had to be an explanation. Couldn’t have been deliberate. Had he not seen me? Did he misjudge my speed? Would he feel terrible and apologize? I followed him into the mall and across the huge parking lot, past three more entrances that he could have used.

He stopped next to a dental office to let a passenger out. I rode up next to the car on the driver’s side, not close, and waited for him to roll down his window. I wanted to ask him why he would frighten me as he did. Why he would come so close to hurting me.

His door opened and he rose up out of the car, a big guy, screaming: “Bitch! Get outta my muh-f***in’ face, bitch!”

Maybe he yelled that twice or three times. I never said a word. I was frozen in disbelief and humiliation at the contempt he showed me. I thought: He talks like a damn cartoon gangsta. Is he doing that to intimidate me? Or is that how he talks all the time?

Why am I here next to his car? I’m trying to understand. I don’t want to believe he’s the malicious creep he appears to be. But he is a malicious creep. He doesn’t care about me at all. Hit me; miss me; injure me; call me names? I’m a dog dropping on his shoe.

Probably lots of drivers feel that way about us, I thought. They know it’s not okay so they hide it. This guy doesn’t care who knows.

My life changed in that instant. I decided I would never again put myself in harm’s way so willingly. Nor would I willingly be spoken to that way again.

Hey, I wasn’t the bad guy. I didn’t threaten that guy’s life. But I did dare to ride up to him, maybe to question his competence. Soon as he thought I might be bold enough to correct him, I became the villain in his story.

After all, he hadn’t hit me. What was I moaning about? Bitch…

It came to me that at no other time am I treated so cruelly or spoken to so demeaningly - only when I’m on my bike. Enough’s enough. I pedaled home and quit riding.

I hung my blue Rivendell on a rack in our office. I put my Lighthouse and my helmet in our shed. I packed my jerseys and shorts in a box and put my cycling shoes, gloves and riding Oakleys in another box. That was seven weeks ago; I have not pedaled since.

It took me a month to get over my humiliation and anger. I invented revenge fantasies. I wanted, as a friend described it, to “go Rambo.” Anger like that has to be unhealthy, doesn’t it? All that rage with nowhere to go?

These days I walk a lot, often with Tamar. I like walking quiet Tucson back streets and alleys. I like seeing fewer motor vehicles and hearing fewer hostile-sounding engines. I like how I get a good leaving-alone from drivers – not every time, but more of the time.

On foot, I suppose I’m not trespassing so badly. I’m not an intruder in Carland, where I’m not welcome. Where I’m likely to be hit as I pedal by a Bike-Friendly City sign.

I’m calmer, I believe, since I retreated from the trenches and barbed wire - in the war for the rightmost 30 inches of road.

But I would like to ride again, so Tamar and I are looking for a more civilized place to live. We bought a house here in late 2004 so we can’t move just yet. But I’m sure we will. Until then, I’m off the bike.

We’re afraid that other places are no different, that there are no cyclist-friendly areas to be found - or none we can afford. Has motoring America grown ruder, more impatient and more hostile – everywhere? What a heart breaker that would be.

I told Grant (Peterson at Rivendell) I was thinking of writing this piece but figured no one would print it. It’s a cycling magazine piece about not cycling.

“Write it,” he said. “I’ll run it. Our readers will have suggestions about where to move.”

If you do have suggestions or want to offer consolation or condemnation, please write me.

END