A Wheeled Threat

Today, I rode my bike in Boston for the first time in five years.  Actually, today I rode my bike in Boston proper for the first time ever, given as most of my past experience with cycling in the city involved either the root-riddled trail of the Southwest Corridor (beloved by junkies and children alike, both of whom can jump in front of your wheels at any moment) or riding toward the western suburbs, battling over the road with minivans driven by angry, harassed Boston mothers.

Riding in Boston proper was just like being in a car.  In Boston.  At least, it involved the same amount of anger as driving through the city, only my quads hurt on top of it and most of the people I swore at could actually hear what I was screaming at them.  However, I lost the freedom of being able to whip out my over-developed middle finger and give someone the bird; it's rather difficult to maneuver oneself around a bright purple PT Cruiser making an illegal right turn with only one hand on the bars.

Still, I think I managed to make an impression.  A sample of things I yelled at people today:

"Move, Fucktard." This was deserved.  Like, if there was such a thing as The Fucktard Awards, this guy would win Fucktard of the year.  He would give a teary acceptance speech and put the statuette on his bookcase and bore his grandchildren with the details of how he came to be Fucktard of the year in 2009.  "It was a sunny day.  Fall was in the air, and I was in the mood to commit some grade A contributory negligence, so I went down to the Common and got some fries at McDonalds.  Then I decided to eat them while crossing the street.  So I crossed against the light on Tremont and I was adament (ADAMENT!) about not staying within the crosswalk and meandering all over the road in traffic while concentrating on my fries.  Then, I saw a sixteen year old girl I wanted to ogle, and so I showed her my committment to her ass by stopping in the middle of the street, while traffic had the right of way, without looking behind me to make sure I didn't stop in the direct path of an angry girl on a Fuji hybrid who wasn't that unamenable to running me down, and I stopped!  Imagine my delight when I heard the angry cycle girl yell "MOVE, FUCKTARD!" at me!'

"LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO THE WALKING PATH! This is the fucking bike path." To a girl who was walking her dog/bear on the bike path and who wasn't paying attention to her dog, which tried to commit suicide in front of my bike.  I hate dogs.  I hate dogs who walk on the wrong path even more.

"Stupid asshole fucker."  Who knows.  I lose track.

Anyway, what's the use of totaling your car on the interstate if the next best means of transportation makes you just as angry?  Next time I'm leaving my bike in Andover and taking the T.  The $5 each ride costs is worth it just to make sure my ulcer doesn't come back.

Riding the Southwest Corridor tonight to meet my father in JP for dinner did, I suppose, bring up a nice bit of nostalgia.  It made me think of my long-lost friend, Eli, and riding, half-drunk, from The Parrish after work back to Forrest Hills at 2 a.m. in the pitch black.  We'd ride with our lights off; Eli was worried about getting slugged in the face with a baseball bat and getting mugged and was always jealous about how silent my Road Ace was.  It's the only thing I miss about that summer before I moved to NYC.