Road Rash

I saw him as soon as I made my way around the bend. He was in the process of getting on his bike, but looked to be having some trouble sticking the mount. My first thought was that if he was having mechanical issues I would not offer my assistance. Mostly because I barely know anything about bicycles, but also because I’d had a long day and had spent much of the ride up until that point angrily judging all that came across my path, and this possible impediment was no different. But he got going at a low gear, looking down at the chain as he moved forward, and continued on at a good clip. I knew I would pass him shortly, but not immediately, and not while he was in duress, which, really, was all I cared about.

As the path wound I slowed. I couldn’t see around the curve, and even though there weren’t many cyclists or joggers on the sidewalk out and about that day, I didn’t dare blindly risking a pass. Then, when the path curved back in the other direction, and there was no oncoming traffic in sight, I rang my bell to inform the cyclist of my intention to pass.

Immediately I heard grumbling from the bike ahead. I didn’t catch and word in particular, but it was not the sound of a happy camper. Perhaps I was too close when I rang. My bell does emit a fairly high pitched ring, and in all actuality wouldn’t have been my first choice when it came to rings, but it was the bell that came with the bike and I’ve simply dealt with. Or perhaps he questioned why I was ringing it in the first place. He was far enough to the right, and at no time in my following him had he swayed into the middle or other side of the path. Or maybe it was just his own disappointment with being overtaken on the path. I’ll never know. But what I do know is what followed.

Now I will take this moment to point out that which may be obvious to some based on what has been mentioned up until this time. This fellow was not the run-of-the-mill cycling commuter I often encounter on this path. His bike was an old mountain bike, his clothing was casual, his head was unprotected from any type of blunt force trauma, and he often took time to coast in between pedalling. And while I am no Lance Armstrong, my hybrid road bike, somewhat athletic clothes, streamlined helmet, and fortitude to never stop pedalling unless absolutely necessary, put me in a different class of cyclist than my counterpart. And so the stage is set.

I approached on his left, noticing that he had earbuds in his ears, so I figured my bell couldn’t have been that bothersome. Still, he looked at me in a disgruntled fashion and said something I couldn’t decipher. So, not slowing my pace, I said as inoffensively as possible, “Just letting you know I was coming.” To which he said something else, lifted his hand, and pushed my shoulder.

Really, I was more surprised than anything, because the push barely fazed me and I was able to continue on at my same pace. As for him, well, I don’t think whatever it was he envisioned went according to plan because the next thing I heard was a bike falling to the ground. Though I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps my flight instinct was stronger than his fight instinct, deflecting his attack with such force he was thrown off balance. Maybe his core was significantly weaker than mine and he couldn’t handle the quick movement. Or, and as much as I like to think it is one of the first two options, this is probably what it came down to, he jumped off his bike as a means to initiate a fight. It wasn’t a well planned initiation, of course, but I say this because the next thing I heard was, “Come here!” in a very demanding tone.

I turned to look back and saw him stand up.

“Come here,” he said again, already in the process of picking up his bike. “I’m hurt!”

For the briefest moment I thought about going back to ensure he was indeed okay, but the thought was immediately replaced with the knowledge that it was a horrible ploy to try and get into some type of altercation with me. So I said, “I think you’re okay,” not certain if he could hear me or not, and continued on my way, though more speedily than earlier.

I couldn’t help but think that if he did really want to fight me, even on his old mountain bike, he could turn the boosters and catch up. So I looked behind me at the next bend to ensure he wasn’t gaining one me. He was moving forward, but didn’t appear to be in any rush, though that didn’t mean he still couldn’t catch up.

Up ahead was an older cyclist pedalling at a much slower speed, wearing a fluorescent vest, the type I’m more accustomed to seeing on the path. I contemplated not ringing my bell to avoid a second attempt on my person, but I couldn’t allow such fear impede on my willingness to follow the rules, so I rang my bell and passed the cautious rider without incident. Then I emerged from the winding trail unscathed, and up the hill to the main road.

Though I wasn’t free yet. I still had to cross the busy avenue, which, at the peak of rush hour traffic, could take minutes. The assailant cyclist could still catch up.

There were two points where I could safely cross the avenue. One was a standard intersection straight ahead from the mouth of the winding trail with a light that did not favour crossing the avenue. The other was one block further down the busy avenue with a special light just for pedestrians, that, if not utilized for a long enough period of time, could make traffic stop damn near immediately. Though if some other cyclist, pedestrian, or impatient motorist eager to gain access to the avenue had hit the button recently, there would be a lag before the crossing light could be used again. It was a dicey decision.

Many times before the light down the road had rendered a quick crossing, but given the amount of kids getting off of buses and crossing the avenue, the button could have been all used up. But at least the ride down the sidewalk would add to my buffer, and, provided the assailant didn’t catch up enough to see me turn, I would have some cover. The standard light straight ahead left me no cover at all. It was all in the open, clearly visible from the mouth of the path where the assailant could see me, and even if he didn’t necessarily catch up, could track where I was going.

I looked back one more time before I made my decision. There were no cyclists in sight, not even the fluorescent vested rider. I must have been going pretty damn fast. Still, I couldn’t risk it. I decided to go down the avenue to further my buffer.

But just before I was too far down, I turned my head and saw the flashing orange hand at the standard intersection.

I whipped my bike around, got to the light, and safely crossed the avenue to the promise land on the other side. The ordeal was over.

Though I looked back one last time at the trail from whence I’d came. Neither the assailant, nor the fluorescent vested rider were in view, which made me wonder for a moment about the safety of the safety vested rider, but I dashed the thought from my mind. Surely they were fine. However, despite all evidence against it, the assailant still concerned me, and I spent the rest of the ride home looking over my shoulder. For I can only imagine that when someone is willing to start a fight on a bicycle, they won’t stop until it’s finished.