I have my morning commute worked out for ultimate efficiency, where I meet the bus en route, by bike, two miles downhill from my house. It's great: most of the way is even on the good old BGT (the only place where bikes are even remotely tolerated)! However, at the end, I must cross the Montlake bridge... during the morning rush. Sometimes I'll take the pedestrian walkway, because the cars are too densely packed and obviously motivated by harried commuters, but navigating around the pedestrians is slow and can cost me my bus.
Today, the way looked relatively clear, so I assertively merged into the stream of southbound cars, stayed to the right of the lane, and put on the "hyperdrive" (pedaled like crazy) to try and be as little of a nuisance as possible. The car immediately behind me went into the left lane to pass me with lots of room. The car behind her began to honk.
She pulled up, alongside me, in the still clear left lane, rolled her window down, and screeched "You've GOT to be KIDDING me!" with the raw, ragged, hysterical voice of a mother whose infant-in-arms has just been struck by a stray bullet. As she pulled in front of me, I smiled at the back of her car with all the teeth I could muster. As I watched her disappear down the 520 entrance ramp, I felt that familiar feeling welling up in my chest. I pedaled the remaining 50 yards to the pedestrian-inhospitable bus island on the bridge, pulled my bike over the curb and began to cry freely.
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| remote bus island in a sea of traffic |
Strangely enough, these experiences serve to reinforce my determination to maintain my bi-wheeled presence on the road. If this defeats me, the assholes win.
(My morning bike route illustrated by Google Maps. Thanks, Google!)
