“Watch out!”
I jerked my handlebars back to the right as a racing bike rider in a yellow
spandex jersey flashed by on the left. He turned his head to throw back an added,
“Stupid!”
Given all the bike riding that happens on Marthaʼs Vineyard in the summer, some
parts of it are terrifically unfriendly to bike riders. Just a mile out Wing Rd. from Oak
Bluffs, after Wing Rd. crosses County Rd. at a four-way stop, the sidewalks bikes are
supposed to use disappear I was first in a group of four strung out along a narrow road
with other bikes and a lot of cars. We four needed to turn left onto Alpine Rd. I looked
back, saw a big black SUV, and waited. On a second look, I saw that the driver was
waiting to let us turn. I thrust my left arm out in a sketchy turn signal, turned it into a
thank-you wave at the driver, then pulled it back in at the spandex riderʼs shout.
He rode on. The SUV driver waited. I turned, meditating unspoken retorts.
My brother-in-law caught up with me. “If itʼs any comfort, we all think you were in
the right,” he said.
“I think so, too. But he might have had a point,” I replied, “until he called me
stupid.”
“What!”
I felt like the SUV driver did something wrong by not treating bike riders on the
road as you would treat any other vehicle; there are rules of the road that help everyone
on the road expect certain behavior from everyone else, and those rules keep us all
safe. I did something wrong too, by accepting the SUV driverʼs gesture as an indication
that it was safe to cross. But the spandex-suited rider was the most wrong, because he
was riding too fast under clearly congested conditions, creating a dangerous situation.
And he was rude.
For the next couple days as I rode around Marthaʼs Vineyard, I thought about the
issues raised by the incident. I stood with several other vacationers behind another guy
wearing a yellow spandex jersey, tight biking shorts, and those stupid clacking shoes
while he yelled into his cell phone instead of ordering his coffee. I watched groups of
spandex-suited riders go by on the road, blocking traffic, instead of using the bike path.
I decided that the spandex outfit is a douchebag suit, not an asshole suit.
I saw that in parts of Marthaʼs Vineyard you are supposed to ride your bike on the
sidewalk or a bike path, but in other parts, you have to ride on the road, and in some of
the villages, you arenʼt supposed to ride or even bring a bike. I noticed that families and
teenagers ride in unpredictable ways that violate the rules of the road. And I thought
about how car drivers violate the rules of the road to give the right-of-way to bike riders.
Why? Because there are so many different kinds of bike riders, and bike riding
behaviors, that bike riders are unpredictable and make car drivers nervous. When Iʼm
in a car, I like to give bike riders extra leeway and extra courtesy. It makes sense
because a car can do so much more damage to a bike and rider than the bike and rider
can do to a car. So when Iʼm on a bike Iʼm glad when car drivers give that extra
attention.
I came up with an idea for a shirt that would be the opposite of a douchebag suit.
It would proclaim the wearer as one who follows the rules of the road, who shares the
road and doesnʼt expect to be treated differently from any car. I never actually had a
brainstorm about the design, but I was pretty sure it wouldnʼt be yellow or spandex.
Near the end of the week, I was on a bike path and I got behind a family. The
mother was pulling a trailer with a toddler aboard, and the father towing one of those
trail-a-bikes, with a little girl peddling along behind him. The girl really wasnʼt bike-
ready; her trailer was tilted at a nearly unrideable angle, and the father was battling to
keep them on the path, but they were dragging way off to the left side.
I wanted to pass, so I hollered, “On your left,” and accelerated up close behind
them. I rode there, marveling that the poor guy even kept the bike upright, looking for a
chance to dash by, considering veering out into the exceptionally narrow and busy
street, and probably adding to the poor manʼs stress on what should have been a
relaxing family day. Eventually, I accepted that I had to ride slower behind them for a
while and fell back to give them some room.
As we were lollygagging along, I heard “On your left,” from behind me, and a
couple in spandex outfits came by. As he was passing me, the man said, “On your left,”
again, aimed at the father and daughter ahead.
“Good luck,” I muttered. Based on my earlier experiences I expected the
spandex wearers to do or say something mean or stupid, but they did not; they soon
accepted the situation just as I had, maybe sooner than I did. In a little while, they
stopped to read a map in a place where I stopped to wait for my group. They asked me
a question, and we passed some pleasantries; they seemed like decent people.
That incident made me rethink making conclusions based on appearance. I
began to doubt my shirt-wearing club campaign.
I was composing this essay in my head while riding in my neighborhood when I
came to two different four-way stops within three blocks. At the first one a car, a silver
Volvo, was clearly there ahead of me. I came to a full stop, planted my foot, tilted the
bike to a clearly non-rideable angle, and stared at the driver in the car. The Volvo didnʼt
move. I didnʼt move. I couldnʼt actually see him because of the tinted window and the
angle of the sun. I turned my head and stared at my stop sign, then back at him.
Eventually, the Volvo made a right turn into the street I was making a left turn out of. We
werenʼt in each otherʼs way at all, but the Volvo hadnʼt shown any turn signal.
I rode away thinking that cars like that Volvo are the automotive equivalent of the
douchebag suit. I thought of the joke they tell in places like Marthaʼs Vineyard: what is
the difference between a porcupine and a Volvo? The porcupine has the pricks on the
outside. Then I thought, “I couldnʼt see that guy; maybe he was on the phone, maybe
he was lost, maybe he was trying to find Brighton Medical Center. Maybe he was afraid
Iʼd do something weird, so he went the only way he was sure I wouldnʼt.
In the meantime, I came to the second four-way. This time I got there just barely
before a car. I was on his right and turning left in front of him. As soon as I knew he
was stopping, I blasted across in front of him without ever stopping myself, tossing a
little thank-you wave at him.
After riding all over Marthaʼs Vineyard and all around Portland, before, behind,
and beside all kinds of bike riders, and through all kinds of intersections, encountering
all kinds of car-driving behaviors, I end up where I began: people in cars donʼt trust any
bike riders to behave predictably, because bike riders, even the most thoughtful ones,
behave unpredictably. Putting on a special Iʼm-not-a-douchebag shirt wonʼt cause
drivers to have more faith. People, whether driving cars, riding bikes, walking, or
whatever, are at their best when we are kind and watch out for each other.
I jerked my handlebars back to the right as a racing bike rider in a yellow
spandex jersey flashed by on the left. He turned his head to throw back an added,
“Stupid!”
Given all the bike riding that happens on Marthaʼs Vineyard in the summer, some
parts of it are terrifically unfriendly to bike riders. Just a mile out Wing Rd. from Oak
Bluffs, after Wing Rd. crosses County Rd. at a four-way stop, the sidewalks bikes are
supposed to use disappear I was first in a group of four strung out along a narrow road
with other bikes and a lot of cars. We four needed to turn left onto Alpine Rd. I looked
back, saw a big black SUV, and waited. On a second look, I saw that the driver was
waiting to let us turn. I thrust my left arm out in a sketchy turn signal, turned it into a
thank-you wave at the driver, then pulled it back in at the spandex riderʼs shout.
He rode on. The SUV driver waited. I turned, meditating unspoken retorts.
My brother-in-law caught up with me. “If itʼs any comfort, we all think you were in
the right,” he said.
“I think so, too. But he might have had a point,” I replied, “until he called me
stupid.”
“What!”
I felt like the SUV driver did something wrong by not treating bike riders on the
road as you would treat any other vehicle; there are rules of the road that help everyone
on the road expect certain behavior from everyone else, and those rules keep us all
safe. I did something wrong too, by accepting the SUV driverʼs gesture as an indication
that it was safe to cross. But the spandex-suited rider was the most wrong, because he
was riding too fast under clearly congested conditions, creating a dangerous situation.
And he was rude.
For the next couple days as I rode around Marthaʼs Vineyard, I thought about the
issues raised by the incident. I stood with several other vacationers behind another guy
wearing a yellow spandex jersey, tight biking shorts, and those stupid clacking shoes
while he yelled into his cell phone instead of ordering his coffee. I watched groups of
spandex-suited riders go by on the road, blocking traffic, instead of using the bike path.
I decided that the spandex outfit is a douchebag suit, not an asshole suit.
I saw that in parts of Marthaʼs Vineyard you are supposed to ride your bike on the
sidewalk or a bike path, but in other parts, you have to ride on the road, and in some of
the villages, you arenʼt supposed to ride or even bring a bike. I noticed that families and
teenagers ride in unpredictable ways that violate the rules of the road. And I thought
about how car drivers violate the rules of the road to give the right-of-way to bike riders.
Why? Because there are so many different kinds of bike riders, and bike riding
behaviors, that bike riders are unpredictable and make car drivers nervous. When Iʼm
in a car, I like to give bike riders extra leeway and extra courtesy. It makes sense
because a car can do so much more damage to a bike and rider than the bike and rider
can do to a car. So when Iʼm on a bike Iʼm glad when car drivers give that extra
attention.
I came up with an idea for a shirt that would be the opposite of a douchebag suit.
It would proclaim the wearer as one who follows the rules of the road, who shares the
road and doesnʼt expect to be treated differently from any car. I never actually had a
brainstorm about the design, but I was pretty sure it wouldnʼt be yellow or spandex.
Near the end of the week, I was on a bike path and I got behind a family. The
mother was pulling a trailer with a toddler aboard, and the father towing one of those
trail-a-bikes, with a little girl peddling along behind him. The girl really wasnʼt bike-
ready; her trailer was tilted at a nearly unrideable angle, and the father was battling to
keep them on the path, but they were dragging way off to the left side.
I wanted to pass, so I hollered, “On your left,” and accelerated up close behind
them. I rode there, marveling that the poor guy even kept the bike upright, looking for a
chance to dash by, considering veering out into the exceptionally narrow and busy
street, and probably adding to the poor manʼs stress on what should have been a
relaxing family day. Eventually, I accepted that I had to ride slower behind them for a
while and fell back to give them some room.
As we were lollygagging along, I heard “On your left,” from behind me, and a
couple in spandex outfits came by. As he was passing me, the man said, “On your left,”
again, aimed at the father and daughter ahead.
“Good luck,” I muttered. Based on my earlier experiences I expected the
spandex wearers to do or say something mean or stupid, but they did not; they soon
accepted the situation just as I had, maybe sooner than I did. In a little while, they
stopped to read a map in a place where I stopped to wait for my group. They asked me
a question, and we passed some pleasantries; they seemed like decent people.
That incident made me rethink making conclusions based on appearance. I
began to doubt my shirt-wearing club campaign.
I was composing this essay in my head while riding in my neighborhood when I
came to two different four-way stops within three blocks. At the first one a car, a silver
Volvo, was clearly there ahead of me. I came to a full stop, planted my foot, tilted the
bike to a clearly non-rideable angle, and stared at the driver in the car. The Volvo didnʼt
move. I didnʼt move. I couldnʼt actually see him because of the tinted window and the
angle of the sun. I turned my head and stared at my stop sign, then back at him.
Eventually, the Volvo made a right turn into the street I was making a left turn out of. We
werenʼt in each otherʼs way at all, but the Volvo hadnʼt shown any turn signal.
I rode away thinking that cars like that Volvo are the automotive equivalent of the
douchebag suit. I thought of the joke they tell in places like Marthaʼs Vineyard: what is
the difference between a porcupine and a Volvo? The porcupine has the pricks on the
outside. Then I thought, “I couldnʼt see that guy; maybe he was on the phone, maybe
he was lost, maybe he was trying to find Brighton Medical Center. Maybe he was afraid
Iʼd do something weird, so he went the only way he was sure I wouldnʼt.
In the meantime, I came to the second four-way. This time I got there just barely
before a car. I was on his right and turning left in front of him. As soon as I knew he
was stopping, I blasted across in front of him without ever stopping myself, tossing a
little thank-you wave at him.
After riding all over Marthaʼs Vineyard and all around Portland, before, behind,
and beside all kinds of bike riders, and through all kinds of intersections, encountering
all kinds of car-driving behaviors, I end up where I began: people in cars donʼt trust any
bike riders to behave predictably, because bike riders, even the most thoughtful ones,
behave unpredictably. Putting on a special Iʼm-not-a-douchebag shirt wonʼt cause
drivers to have more faith. People, whether driving cars, riding bikes, walking, or
whatever, are at their best when we are kind and watch out for each other.
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