Certainly the most dangerous and unpleasant part of cycling in New York City is dealing with motor vehicles. Their behavior can range from the tedious (such as the car creeping along a narrow street in search of parking a space like a congressman trolling for a hooker) to the deadly (like the yellow cab that cuts across four lanes of traffic in order to beat another to a fare). But it’s not just the vehicles themselves that are the problem. Sometimes the worst part is what comes out of them.
As you ride in the city, you’ll notice that cars and trucks in the city are constantly disgorging detritus into the environment. Cigarette butts and cellophane are probably the most common things you’ll encounter coming out of cars, but coffee cups, food wrappers, random trash from impromptu red-light car-cleanups, and entire bags of McDonalds are also quite common. Taxis and car services also like to stop, open their doors, and spill out their excess coffee to make more room for cream, which for cyclists combines the excitement of getting scalded and getting doored. But worst of all (in terms of the impact on your dignity as opposed to the environment) is the spit.
Living in New York is like living in a giant baseball dugout. Everybody spits, all the time. On sunny days the streets practically glisten with it like glassphalt. And naturally, people don’t stop doing it when they’re in their cars. At red lights doors and windows are constantly opening to allow for the egress of spit, and riding through stopped traffic is like running a loogie gauntlet.
There are few things as simultaneously infuriating and degrading as being spit on. It is a primal act of derision far worse than the most prolonged horn-blow or the most hateful invective. I’m sure I’m not the only cyclist to have been accidentally spit upon, or to have flown into a rage as a result. Perhaps the only saving grace is that when you do start screaming insults at the spitter, they accept the insults and apologize. A driver might make an illegal turn and almost kill you, and when you yell at him he will yell right back. But the spitter at least understands the universal awfulness of spitting on someone, and so he yields. As humans, it seems to be embedded in our DNA that spitting on people is worse than killing them.
I thought about all of this once again this morning as I was nearly slathered in lung-butter like a piece of toast at a greasy spoon. Fortunately I heard the sound of the window opening and that telltale guttural hocking sound and was able to adjust my speed accordingly. I did manage to evade the projectile, though unfortunately I rolled through it and was forced to observe the wet spot on my tire for a few rotations. And true to the spitter’s creed, when I loudly admonished him for having Oedipal tendencies, he simply held his tongue and took it.
As you ride in the city, you’ll notice that cars and trucks in the city are constantly disgorging detritus into the environment. Cigarette butts and cellophane are probably the most common things you’ll encounter coming out of cars, but coffee cups, food wrappers, random trash from impromptu red-light car-cleanups, and entire bags of McDonalds are also quite common. Taxis and car services also like to stop, open their doors, and spill out their excess coffee to make more room for cream, which for cyclists combines the excitement of getting scalded and getting doored. But worst of all (in terms of the impact on your dignity as opposed to the environment) is the spit.
Living in New York is like living in a giant baseball dugout. Everybody spits, all the time. On sunny days the streets practically glisten with it like glassphalt. And naturally, people don’t stop doing it when they’re in their cars. At red lights doors and windows are constantly opening to allow for the egress of spit, and riding through stopped traffic is like running a loogie gauntlet.
There are few things as simultaneously infuriating and degrading as being spit on. It is a primal act of derision far worse than the most prolonged horn-blow or the most hateful invective. I’m sure I’m not the only cyclist to have been accidentally spit upon, or to have flown into a rage as a result. Perhaps the only saving grace is that when you do start screaming insults at the spitter, they accept the insults and apologize. A driver might make an illegal turn and almost kill you, and when you yell at him he will yell right back. But the spitter at least understands the universal awfulness of spitting on someone, and so he yields. As humans, it seems to be embedded in our DNA that spitting on people is worse than killing them.
I thought about all of this once again this morning as I was nearly slathered in lung-butter like a piece of toast at a greasy spoon. Fortunately I heard the sound of the window opening and that telltale guttural hocking sound and was able to adjust my speed accordingly. I did manage to evade the projectile, though unfortunately I rolled through it and was forced to observe the wet spot on my tire for a few rotations. And true to the spitter’s creed, when I loudly admonished him for having Oedipal tendencies, he simply held his tongue and took it.
