My name is Stan, and I’m a ragaholic. I’m far enough this side of puberty that the lingerie section of the Macy’s catalog no longer gives me a cheap thrill, but still close enough that I will mercilessly try to ride anyone off my wheel even if he’s a fatty master with a rear view mirror attached to his styrofoam netted helmet riding a vintage motobecane with toe clips in an MS charity ride.
I’m not exactly a model cyclist when it comes to dealing with the petrol-powered. I’ve been known to yell and scream if buzzed, and I give at least as many fingers in a year as I have (and maybe a few toes too). One time I even got into a shouting match with a gun rack toting F-150 driver who had his 7 year old daughter in the passenger seat.
I’m working on it, though. I gave fewer birdies last year than the year before, and I might just hit a few more on the golf course this year than I give on the roadway (yes, I am a bad golfer). My new strategy is this: I know that on any given long ride, there are liable to be at least 5-10 space cadets (or more insidiously, 1-5 assholes) who are likely to put my life in jeopardy. I also know that I’m no more likely to convince any of these folks to “drive nicely” than I am to convince my father in law to switch political parties. I’ve decided to think of things like this: I know there are dangerous motorists out there…if I choose to ride, I choose to put my life into their hands. Therefore, when the door opens into the bike lane right as I’m speeding by fully aero, it’s not the driver who has placed my life in jeopardy-it’s just the natural result of my choice to ride with these idiots.
My name is Stan, and I’m a rage-aholic…but I’m working on it. Next time you get the urge to give the bird, give the bird the finger.
Stan