I recently purchased a bicycle helmet. My old one was stolen from my apartment last year during a party. Why someone took it, I cannot say. I speculate it was used as a puke receptacle. It wasn't until two weeks ago that a new helmet seemed necessary.
I was headed from the Capitol to Union South. I decided to take State Street to Lake Street, and then head west on University Avenue. I was halfway down the first block of State when four pedestrians walked into the street ahead, their backs toward me. I slammed on my rear brakes, skidding slightly to the side before regaining control. Only the caboose in their four-person train of obliviousness noticed the near accident.
\Dude,"" he yelled after me. ""Watch where you're going.""
Closer to campus, the road narrowed as I passed between two trucks parked parallel to one another. A woman on her cell phone stepped out into view in front of the right truck, lost in conversation. I braked and swerved behind her, threading my handlebars between her handbag and the truck's front bumper. She walked on, unaware.
I turned on Lake, rode one block south, and made the right onto University. Many students were driving their mopeds to 9:55 a.m. classes. There are lots of obvious reasons to hate mopeds. The one of most concern when biking, however, is that moped riders obey a traffic code all their own.
They may be in the bike lane. They may be on the sidewalk. They may try to weave their way in between lines of cars. Like pedestrians, moped riders aren't out to get anybody, but they're entirely unpredictable.
As I approached the intersection of Park and University, three mopeds turned into the right lane ahead of a bus. The bus roared up behind them. The moped riders glanced back, finding the bus hadn't turned onto Park as they'd expected and they all decided to merge into the bike lane.
I passed through the intersection. The mopeds were still in the bike lane ahead of me, left blinkers on, unable to merge into the thick traffic of the left lanes.
There were now two buses in the far right lane. The front one was perhaps 20 feet ahead, and I was even with the steadily shrinking space between them. The mopeds seemed to be decelerating, perhaps hoping cars behind would let them in.
I could see a bus was stopped a short distance beyond the next intersection. Apparently, neither bus to my right made stops on University, as both put on their left turn signals. The front bus braked hard and cut left behind the mopeds. He just barely fit between them and me. The second bus slowed and pulled in behind me.
The last thing I saw before the front bus sealed off my view of the road was pedestrians already walking in the crosswalk, though the light had not turned yellow. We all had to stop very suddenly. We stopped.
In front of me, there was a two-foot space between my tire and the bus. I looked behind and saw maybe a foot-and-a-half. People walked by, iPods and CD players in hand, not having heard the squealing brakes.
Whether I was close to death or not, I felt myself to be. It forced me to reflect on what would be important in my final moments. I tried to picture the aftermath of such a wreck. I decided I'd want to remain alive long enough to scream haunting, meaningless curses at people standing over my mangled body. That's why I got a helmet.
Louie may be reached at chunkkicke@yahoo.com.
