Biking in Hartford has been blissful, painful, horrifying, and solitary (in that I've seen two other (dare I say devout?) cyclists in the last sixty-three days). The lack of cyclists in this city (for whatever reason–be it the snow or inherent weakness of New Englanders or what-have-you) means that drivers really have no goddamn clue as to the rules of the road when a bike is present.
This has caused me great consternation.
Especially of late, as the packed snow along the sides of roads considerably compacts the already too-narrow thoroughfares.
To add to the danger, a whole shitstorm of snow was dumped on the roads at the end of last week. Twenty-four hours in, with the many indefatigable snow plowmen and women working in vain to clear Mother Nature’s décor, the roads remained nonetheless caked with a significant layer of chunky snow.
No matter, Jewels and I prepped ourselves for a bike ride.
From the outset, I knew our journey would be much more demanding than originally anticipated. The snow, you see, made biking feel closer to skiing; our tires slalomed left and right, skidding and slipping through the snow so that the trails we left behind resembled a line drawn in the shakiest of hands.
What’s more, many passing cars did not heed our cautious trek, as they cruised by us at the occasional uncomfortable closeness.
This has caused me great consternation.
Especially of late, as the packed snow along the sides of roads considerably compacts the already too-narrow thoroughfares.
To add to the danger, a whole shitstorm of snow was dumped on the roads at the end of last week. Twenty-four hours in, with the many indefatigable snow plowmen and women working in vain to clear Mother Nature’s décor, the roads remained nonetheless caked with a significant layer of chunky snow.
No matter, Jewels and I prepped ourselves for a bike ride.
From the outset, I knew our journey would be much more demanding than originally anticipated. The snow, you see, made biking feel closer to skiing; our tires slalomed left and right, skidding and slipping through the snow so that the trails we left behind resembled a line drawn in the shakiest of hands.
What’s more, many passing cars did not heed our cautious trek, as they cruised by us at the occasional uncomfortable closeness.
At one point, I had, unbeknownst to me, ridden ahead of Jewels by a distance of fifty feet or so.
In the midst of this, I heard the most unwelcome, most agitating sound: a car’s honk. It’s toot-toot shattered the shushed strain of sliding through the snow.
And it was clear that it had come from behind me. About fifty feet behind me.
I jerked my head around to witness the cause of commotion. I saw Jewels, persevering as she was, as close to the side of the road as the snow would permit, and I saw a car, culprit that it was, easily passing by her with plenty of room to spare.
I was instantly livid. Furious.
You see, I have nearly zero tolerance for honking.
Since moving to Hartford, I have witnessed honkers tooting their horn because other cars don’t respond to a green light in the first four-tenths of a second. They’ve honked at me on my bike because I’m trying to turn left. I swear some of them only honk because others are doing it. And all honking infuriates me.
Keep that in mind as I describe what I did next to the car that honked at Jewels.
I quickly braked and hopped off my bike, with the uncontrollable impulse to swing my bike through the air as if I was going to throw it at the honking car as it passed me.
So I waited with my back to the culprit until I sensed it had pulled even with me, and then I lifted my bike, rotating my body so that, to the driver, it appeared that I was throwing my bike at him or her.
As I turned, bike in hand, I realized that the car was much closer to me than I expected. Now it wasn’t so close that I almost hit it with my bike, but it was closer than I had wanted it to be.
Anyway, the car pulled over and started reversing toward me. And I, in my anger, began walking toward it.
The door opened, and the instant before the driver got out, I had a slight fear that a very stout person, equally as mad as me, would emerge intent on pummeling me. However, I was relieved to see a small woman.
I think I was the first to talk, “How dare you honk at someone struggling to bike through the snow,” I think I said.
She sputtered, “I was just giving her a little beep to let her know I was there.”
I retorted, “We know you’re there. We know cars are on the road.”
“Well your little stunt...bravo,” she began sarcastically clapping in my face at this point, “I’ll see you in the hospital," she spat out the last word.
At this point, I turned to walk away, but not before catching a glimpse of a girl in the passenger seat, eyes wide, full of discomfort. I thought little of her until later.
Later, I thought back to the girl. You see, until later came around, I thought that my act was not entirely out of line. Of course, I hadn’t wanted the car to be so close when I swung my bike through the air, but other than that, I thought that the move would at least instill an ounce of respect in the driver.
I may be biking, but that doesn’t mean you can start honking at me because my presence is inexplicably annoying you. And if you do–look what I can do with this little bike.
But when I thought back to the girl, I realized my err. You see, I had been so infuriated with the driver (whose honk, by the way, caused Jewels to slip on her bike and fall) that it led me to act irrationally.
But in so doing, I had likely freaked out the girl sitting in the passenger seat. I think the woman driving was her mom, so I had simply stooped to the honker’s level–I had scared someone she loved after she had scared someone I love.
In the midst of this, I heard the most unwelcome, most agitating sound: a car’s honk. It’s toot-toot shattered the shushed strain of sliding through the snow.
And it was clear that it had come from behind me. About fifty feet behind me.
I jerked my head around to witness the cause of commotion. I saw Jewels, persevering as she was, as close to the side of the road as the snow would permit, and I saw a car, culprit that it was, easily passing by her with plenty of room to spare.
I was instantly livid. Furious.
You see, I have nearly zero tolerance for honking.
Since moving to Hartford, I have witnessed honkers tooting their horn because other cars don’t respond to a green light in the first four-tenths of a second. They’ve honked at me on my bike because I’m trying to turn left. I swear some of them only honk because others are doing it. And all honking infuriates me.
Keep that in mind as I describe what I did next to the car that honked at Jewels.
I quickly braked and hopped off my bike, with the uncontrollable impulse to swing my bike through the air as if I was going to throw it at the honking car as it passed me.
So I waited with my back to the culprit until I sensed it had pulled even with me, and then I lifted my bike, rotating my body so that, to the driver, it appeared that I was throwing my bike at him or her.
As I turned, bike in hand, I realized that the car was much closer to me than I expected. Now it wasn’t so close that I almost hit it with my bike, but it was closer than I had wanted it to be.
Anyway, the car pulled over and started reversing toward me. And I, in my anger, began walking toward it.
The door opened, and the instant before the driver got out, I had a slight fear that a very stout person, equally as mad as me, would emerge intent on pummeling me. However, I was relieved to see a small woman.
I think I was the first to talk, “How dare you honk at someone struggling to bike through the snow,” I think I said.
She sputtered, “I was just giving her a little beep to let her know I was there.”
I retorted, “We know you’re there. We know cars are on the road.”
“Well your little stunt...bravo,” she began sarcastically clapping in my face at this point, “I’ll see you in the hospital," she spat out the last word.
At this point, I turned to walk away, but not before catching a glimpse of a girl in the passenger seat, eyes wide, full of discomfort. I thought little of her until later.
Later, I thought back to the girl. You see, until later came around, I thought that my act was not entirely out of line. Of course, I hadn’t wanted the car to be so close when I swung my bike through the air, but other than that, I thought that the move would at least instill an ounce of respect in the driver.
I may be biking, but that doesn’t mean you can start honking at me because my presence is inexplicably annoying you. And if you do–look what I can do with this little bike.
But when I thought back to the girl, I realized my err. You see, I had been so infuriated with the driver (whose honk, by the way, caused Jewels to slip on her bike and fall) that it led me to act irrationally.
But in so doing, I had likely freaked out the girl sitting in the passenger seat. I think the woman driving was her mom, so I had simply stooped to the honker’s level–I had scared someone she loved after she had scared someone I love.