If you read this blog regularly (or at all for that matter), you know I can be highly critical. However, like most critics, it appears that the person most in need of criticism is myself. Just as Eliot Spitzer pledged to root out corruption yet used governent funds to pay for sex, I myself am guilty of violating the very ideals for which I supposedly stand. Yes, I, who have lambasted bike salmon and bike lane squatters on this very blog, was just written a ticket for running a red light on my bicycle. So in the interest of both purging myself and serving as a role model to others (it's OK to do bad stuff and benefit from it as long as you say you're sorry afterwards--just ask David Millar) I present to you my story.
It was a morning like any other (you might also want to play this for ambiance) as I approached a major intersection. While I generally wait for the green here, this can sometimes be very irritating, as the big rigs turning off the avenue together with the line of vehicles always waiting to get into the car wash on the corner as well as the general impatience of the drivers behind can make waiting at this light a particularly stressful affair. As such, when a window presents itself I will occasionally run the light in order to make the left onto the avenue. Which is what I did.
Unfortunately, this morning I did so right in front of a police cruiser. Here is a diagram which should help you visualize the situation:
Unfortunately, this morning I did so right in front of a police cruiser. Here is a diagram which should help you visualize the situation:
The police car is represented by the Police, which is fitting because there were actually three officers in the car and it's entirely possible the one in the back seat smoking was Stewart Copeland. I am represented by the guy in the chicken suit, and the car wash is represented by the movie "Car Wash." As you can see, I'm in the process of making a left turn onto the avenue, only to encounter the police car on my right, at which point one of the officers (not Stewart Copeland judging by the sound of him) bellowed at me through the loudspeaker that I "have to stop and wait like everybody else."
He had a point, but I didn't hear anything about pulling over, so I not-so-subtly altered my course and made a quick left onto a side street:
The police car continued through the interersection, and the car wash didn't move at all, so I figured I had gotten away with a simple scolding--until I heard the sound of a siren behind me:
The officer in the passenger seat leaned out of the window and demanded my license. I panicked briefly, since while I do have a USA Cycling racing license I don't actually have a state-issued license to operate a bicycle. But then I realized there was no such thing and that he meant a driver's license, which I do have, though it didn't really seem relevant since I wasn't operating a car. In any case, after briefly considering telling him I didn't have one and giving him a made-up Social Security Number and Fat Cyclist's name and address, I decided the consequences of getting caught in such a lie probably weren't worth it. "Are you going to give me a ticket?," I asked, as though this might help me decide whether or not to proffer the license. "Yeah, I'm going to give you a ticket," he replied enthusiastically. "Awesome!," I exclaimed.
As I stood there waiting for them to run my license, I felt that feeling of anger and shame that only the guilty truly know. I wanted to argue, but there really wasn't much to argue about. I'd run the light and they'd watched me do it. "Aren't you afraid of getting killed?," he asked when he finally emerged, studying the Ironic Orange Julius Bike and noting its color on the ticket. "Death doesn't scare me," I wanted to say as I dragged on an imaginary cigarette and took a swig from a bottle of Clorox, but instead I explained that, while I wasn't about to argue with him, sometimes riding a bicycle among cars necessitates your following your own rules. Of course, while this may be true, when you're talking to a cop it's about as sensible as saying you were only selling that bag of weed because you needed the money, and this was probably not the time and place to discuss the prejudices and shortcomings of the New York City traffic infrastructure. As we talked further he revealed that he's a stickler for traffic rules and that he's one of the few cops who will actually write people tickets for jaywalking--because it "annoys" him. By this time, Stockholm syndrome had begun to set in, and despite the fact that I was about to be on the receiving end of a hefty fine thanks to him I suddenly found myself admiring this guy, since handing out summonses to people who annoy me is a personal fantasy of mine.
At any rate, I took my lumps, and I tried to look on the bright side. It had been years since I'd last gotten a red light ticket on my bicycle (oh yeah, I'm incorrigible) and between that one and this one I'd probably gotten away with running thousands upon thousands of lights, so even though my wallet had just taken a hit I figure I've saved somewhere in the neighborhood of $4,000,000. (Or about €7,000.) And that's not even factoring in train fare! Also, while getting a ticket sucks, it's also much better than getting hit by a truck (or getting tackled and arrested). And, perhaps most importantly, it finally convinced me not to bid on the Allen Ginsberg bike from yesterday's comments, since I can no longer afford it.
I reflected on all of these things as I continued on my way. Did I run any more lights? Absolutely not! Well, that's not entirely true. But I checked really carefully for cops first--and I've already recouped the fine.
