Dear Car That Beeped At Me,
You beeped your horn at me while I was riding to work. It was not the blaring, impatient honk of the self-important luxury car owner; rather, it was a brief chirp meant simply to alert me to your presence. And while your intentions may have been good—or at least not malicious—please note that I don’t care. Your beeping means you can see me, and I’m not worried about drivers who see me. I’m worried about drivers who don’t. Believe it or not, in a city of eight million people I already operate under the assumption that there is probably a car behind me, and the fact that you happen to be in it has no bearing on which portion of the road I choose to occupy. Please only use your horn when you are about to collide with another vehicle and death is imminent. Thank you.
Dear Car That Beeped At Me Impatiently,
Yours was the blaring, impatient honk of the self-important. What makes you think I care about your schedule or where you have to be? If you were on your way to saving a life you’d be in a truck with a siren, not in a German sedan. You also wouldn’t have food in your lap—unless you plan to resuscitate the patient by stuffing a Blimpie’s sub down his throat.
Dear Car From Jersey That Beeped At Me Impatiently,
When I told you to “go back to Jersey, you piece of [excrement],” you retorted: “I’m not from Jersey.” Now that’s just funny.
Dear Department Store Bike-Riding Salmon,
As I made my way around the double-parked FedEx truck, there you were, headed right at me, your chrome-plated suspension fork crown glistening in the winter sun. The dull sheen of your half-lidded eyeballs was a bit less brilliant, however. Speaking of brilliance, how far from it must you be to ride the wrong way down the busiest street in Downtown Brooklyn during rush hour? Mere feet separate you from the proper lane and safety, just as a mere handful of IQ points must separate you from being able to feed yourself.
Dear Fixed-Gear Caballero,
In New York City, as the mercury goes south the bandanas migrate northward, traveling from head-tubes and jean pockets to riders’ faces. You were one such rider, your hankie tied around the lower portion of your face, bandit-style. However, it just wasn’t that cold. There were infants in baby seats on hybrids with bare faces and they seemed quite comfortable. And if it had been that cold, a bandana wouldn't do anything anyway--except freeze solid with saliva and mucus and chafe your face. Maybe you wouldn’t be so cold if you knew that just because an article of clothing has a picture of a bicycle on it it’s not necessarily cycling-specific. You also don’t look menacing—you look like you’re playing Cowboys and Indians. And I’m not telling you this to mock you. I’m trying to help. A bandana is like a top-tube pad for your face. And the next step in cycling dorkitude is the Euro pirate roadie look. That’s a step you don’t want to take.
You beeped your horn at me while I was riding to work. It was not the blaring, impatient honk of the self-important luxury car owner; rather, it was a brief chirp meant simply to alert me to your presence. And while your intentions may have been good—or at least not malicious—please note that I don’t care. Your beeping means you can see me, and I’m not worried about drivers who see me. I’m worried about drivers who don’t. Believe it or not, in a city of eight million people I already operate under the assumption that there is probably a car behind me, and the fact that you happen to be in it has no bearing on which portion of the road I choose to occupy. Please only use your horn when you are about to collide with another vehicle and death is imminent. Thank you.
Dear Car That Beeped At Me Impatiently,
Yours was the blaring, impatient honk of the self-important. What makes you think I care about your schedule or where you have to be? If you were on your way to saving a life you’d be in a truck with a siren, not in a German sedan. You also wouldn’t have food in your lap—unless you plan to resuscitate the patient by stuffing a Blimpie’s sub down his throat.
Dear Car From Jersey That Beeped At Me Impatiently,
When I told you to “go back to Jersey, you piece of [excrement],” you retorted: “I’m not from Jersey.” Now that’s just funny.
Dear Department Store Bike-Riding Salmon,
As I made my way around the double-parked FedEx truck, there you were, headed right at me, your chrome-plated suspension fork crown glistening in the winter sun. The dull sheen of your half-lidded eyeballs was a bit less brilliant, however. Speaking of brilliance, how far from it must you be to ride the wrong way down the busiest street in Downtown Brooklyn during rush hour? Mere feet separate you from the proper lane and safety, just as a mere handful of IQ points must separate you from being able to feed yourself.
Dear Fixed-Gear Caballero,
In New York City, as the mercury goes south the bandanas migrate northward, traveling from head-tubes and jean pockets to riders’ faces. You were one such rider, your hankie tied around the lower portion of your face, bandit-style. However, it just wasn’t that cold. There were infants in baby seats on hybrids with bare faces and they seemed quite comfortable. And if it had been that cold, a bandana wouldn't do anything anyway--except freeze solid with saliva and mucus and chafe your face. Maybe you wouldn’t be so cold if you knew that just because an article of clothing has a picture of a bicycle on it it’s not necessarily cycling-specific. You also don’t look menacing—you look like you’re playing Cowboys and Indians. And I’m not telling you this to mock you. I’m trying to help. A bandana is like a top-tube pad for your face. And the next step in cycling dorkitude is the Euro pirate roadie look. That’s a step you don’t want to take.
