Funny story, thank goodness he wasn’t behind the wheel
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So I’m riding home my normal commute in yesterday’s wonderful evening. Just got on Independence towards Lincoln, taking the right lane of the 3 westbound lanes. Long and flat enjoying a 20-25 mph spin to get the blood flowing. Cars actually obeying the 30 mph speed limit, changing lanes around me safely. Tourist families on the sidewalk making the final slog of the day to just one more landmark, with joggers and bikes picking their way through.
Then about 200 feet ahead in the dirt path worn by runners I notice a runner coming at me fast. Looks like he’s making that final kick and heading for a personal best. His arms are above his head. He must have just won the 10,000 meters in London. Good for him! At 100 feet, no wait, those are two middle fingers. He’s not saying woo hoo, he’s screaming f*** you loud enough that they really could hear him in London. Before I could wonder who his lucky friend was, at 50 feet he veers into the gutter of the road heading right for me, screaming at me, “Get out of the road! What are you thinking!” Me? I should get out of the road? And just like that he was past me in the other direction, he never broke stride and I didn’t slacken my cadence. Like the Letters to the Editor page you flip past when you’re looking for the good stuff, he was gone.
My curiosity wasn’t gone though. So I pulled over, hopped over to the sidewalk and doubled back to catch up with him. I caught up quick since he had returned to runners’ comfort zone of head phones and an easy pace. I passed him to see if he’d recognize me, built some distance, and pulled over in front of the tholos memorializing Washington’s World War I soldiers. This is where the tone of the story changes.
As he passed he noticed me as much as a tree, so I hailed him. “Excuse me, what the f*** is wrong with you?” With earbud midway out, recognition registered in his eyes, and a long hard day, or year came pouring out at full volume, “You can’t be in the road like that. Don’t you see the cars. You have to follow the regulations. I’m a lawyer.”
“A lawyer? well hang on, let me get out my regulations. Do you want to double check them?”, I asked. He probably couldn’t hear me over his yelling, but he understood when I held up the typed up pages I always carry with me.
“F*** the regulations. It’s about common sense. Don’t you know the speed limit on that road?”
“Do you know the speed limit on that road?”
“I don’t care what the speed limit is…”–“It’s 30 by the way,” I slipped under his by now full-throttle rant–“…don’t you see the cars.”
“Yes, they were all changing lanes and passing nicely.”
“You’re the 1%! You’re the 1%!!” and something about Vince Foster. I’m not sure. His words were machine gunning out, shredding any kind of coherent conversation.
I finally got my shot during a pause for him to gasp a breath, “What happened to you that you’re so damaged?” The earbuds popped back in and away he ran.
Starting with a long head-shake and a perplexed smile, I got on my way too. Traffic was still light and calm and I built back to my cadence on Independence. It didn’t take long to find a spot for him in my mental catalog of bizarre encounters with people who just can’t compute how cars and bikes can co-exist. Nothing new really, except for the runner part. Never had that happen before. Thank God he wasn’t behind me, behind the wheel with that mental shakiness. The truth is, he’s probably behind me every day.
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