hit, run, and pay?

Sometimes, because of the negative associations with it, I regret my freely chosen profession[al license]. I understand that I knew this and clearly disregarded it when I submitted my enrollment letter to law school, but having passed both the MA and NY bar has made it official: I struggled through three years of school, plus two state bar exams, to join a profession that is commonly referred to as “soulless.”
As a fairly accomplished expert in the field of denial, I’ve tried to justify the label in a number of ways [“I’m ethically bound to ‘competently’ represent my clients,” or “I think ‘soulless’ just means ‘hardworking,’”]. It’s worked so far, in that I’m not completely disgusted with myself [yet]. But then something last week reared its ugly head which made me instantly back pedal from any association with the legal profession: the story about the Eagle, Colorado financial manager who ran over a cyclist [the latter is a NY surgeon] against whom the prosecuting District Attorney chose not to pursue felony charges because “it could jeopardize his job.”

The story is fucked up three ways to Sunday: financial manager Martin Joel Erzinger hits a NY surgeon, Dr. Steven Milo, cycling on the road in Colorado, with his black 2010 Mercedes-Benz sedan. Then, instead of doing the normal thing of maybe apologizing, calling an ambulance and/or police, or at least leaving a card, he “fled the scene.” [Emphasis mine]. Erzinger was only arrested after he pulled into a Pizza Hut parking lot to call the Mercedes-Benz auto assistance service to ask that the damage to his car be addressed, failing to mention that he just ran over someone which is why there was damage to his car in the first place. Responding Avon police officers arrested him.
According to court records, the original complaint included a felony charge “for causing serious injury,” which in this case includes, “spinal cord injuries, bleeding from his brain and damage to [Milo’s] knee and scapula,” as well as “’disabling’ spinal headaches...a herniated disc...and scars.” However, the prosecuting district attorney announced for the first time, in a notification to the court on September 7, that the charge will be reduced to a misdemeanor. The justification for the reduction in charges was motivated by the “serious job implications for someone in Mr. Erzinger’s profession...when you’re talking about restitution, you don’t want to take away his ability to pay,” said District Attorney Mark Hurlbert.
In Colorado [like most US jurisdictions], district attorneys are elected officials, and prosecutors have a fair amount of discretion when it comes to deciding what charges the state will pursue. In that regard, I sadly can’t say I’m surprised. What sort of bothers me more is that it’s not even a well-reasoned justification. And here’s why.
Restitution is a legal concept which seeks to place the person as good a position as the person was in before the event occurred. The concept does not include punitive damages, but simply seeks to re-establish the former status quo. In this case, restitution would require placing Dr. Milo in “as good” a position as he was in before the accident. Putting aside the obvious likelihood that Dr. Milo may never return to his pre-getting-hit-by-a-car condition, restitution could be measured by Dr. Milo’s medical bills, property damage, lost wages, and other out-of-pocket expenses. Colorado explicitly allows victims of certain crimes the option of seeking restitution in its Victim Rights Act.

Okay, that’s great, you might think, this doctor will get paid for at least the financial cost of the hit and run. But the thing is, there is absolutely no guarantee that a victim of a crime in Colorado will be entitled to restitution. According to a pamphlet provided by the Colorado State Judicial Branch:

A defendant may be ordered to pay the victim for damages which occurred as a result of the crime committed. This is called restitution. The Victim Impact Statement helps in determining this amount.

Notice the wording. This means that it is within the court’s discretion, with input provided by the Victim Impact Statement, to determine an amount that is appropriate for restitution. Basically, even if found guilty, the court doesn’t have to order that Erzinger pay any restitution to Dr. Milo [although chances are, Dr. Milo will collect at least enough to cover his medical bills]. Furthermore, if, in any event, Dr. Milo suffers from future injury caused by the initial collision [and this seems fairly common where spinal injuries are involved], increasing the amount due under a court-determined restitution order is extremely difficult unless “the final amount of restitution due has not yet been set by the court.” [source].
District Attorney Hurlbert’s admission that Erzinger must continue to work to pay restitution may indicate that Hurlbert anticipates a hefty bill for Erzinger. But given that all of this will be determined by the court, no one knows what this amount will be [if any]. And, in any case, it’s difficult to imagine a sum so large that it would require Erzinger - an extremely wealthy financial manager - to continue working to pay it off. The stated fear that Erzinger just might lose his job becomes more absurd when combined with 1. the fact that Dr. Milo clearly does not care about the money but wants Erzinger to take responsibility for his actions, and 2. this crappy economy.
I’m disappointed to say the least. It’ll be interesting to see what happens next, and the litigious side of me is fervently hoping for at least a civil suit against Erzinger. Punitive damages, anyone?
More relevant reads on Simple Justice and ExPat ExLawyer.
Update:
After writing this post, I read on the Huffington Post that Erzinger's misdemeanor charge was part of a plea bargain which includes "significant" restitution. Hurlbert has stressed that the misdemeanors would stay on Erzinger's record permanently.
Sure, okay, but two other things: 1. what exactly is "significant restitution"? "Significant" for Erzinger might not be so significant for Dr. Milo. 2. Am I missing something or did Erzinger call Mercedes, not the police, after he drove over Dr. Milo? Other than the fact that that seems completely, well, soulless, that sounds like a clear-cut case of vehicular assault, which [Google tells me] is a Class 5 felony in Colorado...

officially an esquire!

"Mom, I passed." I said.
"What?"
"I PASSED. The Massachusetts bar."

"See? Now don't you feel ashamed? For calling us crying hysterically so many times over the summer? Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"...Wha-"
"Never mind. You passed. Congratulations. Now let me get your father."
For those like my mother, who apparently had no doubts [yet called me in August to tell me I should start studying for the February bar just in case], thank you. For those of you I called hysterically crying every week other day over the summer, I couldn't have done it without you. For those of you who came back to read the blog after a long hiatus at the height of the cycling season, thank you. And extra thank yous to everyone who bit my head off and chewed me out when I tried to back out of taking the bar ten days before the exam.
You guys [plus a few bikes] got me through possibly the worst summer of my life. You guys are the best!

falling into chicken

On River Road last Saturday, coasting along in arm warmers and an awesome Castelli vest, layered over my thickest jersey layered over a baselayer, I noticed that despite the spectacular sight of trees going from blonde to fire-hydrant red, and the not-freezing-yet temperatures, there just weren't that many people out. No one seemed to pass us from behind, hammering towards hills as they usually do, and the small handful of people sighted were the kind with flatbars with big mirrors on each side, khaki pants with a safety ankle strap for a quick, relaxing ride by the river. It was October, still warm enough, and the climbs were devoid of triathletes. What was going on?
Okay, maybe the climbs are always devoid of triathletes, but the emptiness of the road was still a little creepy. Not creepy in the way being stuck in a mountain cottage in New Hampshire with no cell signal is creepy [because let's face it, if you get attacked by zombies in the middle of the night where it's so dark out you can't see your own hand in front of your face, AND you can't use your cell phone, you're pretty much fucked], but more like the kind of creepy that partners up with dread and desperation when you finally figure out that there really is something wrong with your mental health. Worse, once that possibility is entertained, even for a second or two, if not dismissed outright, the manifestations of symptoms of a psyche gone bad become all too clear. Denial ["40F and rainy? Perfect riding weather!"], anger ["Too cold?! What do you MEAN it's too cold?"], resentment ["why did I have to choose cycling as a hobby again? This is stupid. This is so. Fucking. Stupid."]. The previously inexplicable hatred of sweaters, as well as those cravings for pumpkin pie, cinnamon, and sweet potatoes suddenly seem to make more sense. It's fall, people, and I have no idea what to do with it.

24 hours after this ugly realization that perhaps I might still be living in "summer" when it's very clearly "fall," I was perched on a stool in my underwear [because that's how I roll], watching Mike braise three pounds of meat. Yup, three pounds. Three pounds of stuff I never used to eat. Bacon oozed oil into which chunks of beef and pork butt sizzled in a huge dutch oven. Diced onion, garlic, spices and tomatoes went in and simmered slowly for two hours, the smell making me kow-tow in front of the giant black pot in hunger. All of which culminated in a chili that I ended up wanting to make love to. To kiss, and marry, and hold forever. And staring at my empty bowl, I secretly admitted it. Even with the tropical fruit in the fridge, the Cyfac set up so I can at least reach the pedals, the fairly recent discovery of a quick 45 mile route that will kick my ass every time - all vestiges of summer - I kind of like this part of the year, too.
Back home in Boston, where it's always noticeably colder than the city, that hunger for crisp, fall air, apples, and dense, dark meat - the kind you can't imagine eating after a hard, hot ride in July - had me sauteing chicken thighs in a big black pot. Balsalmic vinegar, soy sauce, garlic, and butter simmered in the pan juices before getting drizzled over the chicken and some mixed greens. Halved grape tomatoes gave the plate a nice splash of color, although the season's pretty much over for them, too.

Yeah, it's totally fall, now. But hey, don't forget, there's still a lot of riding and cooking left to do.
Balsalmic Chicken Adapted from a Japanese recipe from who knows where.
[I obviously only made three pieces, and forgot the water cresson this time around. I strongly recommend the water cresson, though, as it really pairs well with the resulting sauce. The original recipe called for thighs with the skin on, and if you use that, you'll get this crispy, crusty chicken which is awesome, too. I could only find skinned thighs, so that's what I used here, and it's just as good. I know it doesn't look like much, and it's deceptively easy, but trust me...you'll want to lick the plate once you taste this.]
Ingredients:
4 skinned chicken thighs (about 4oz each) 1/2 tablespoon olive oil salt and pepper 1 handful mixed greens 1 bunch water cresson 10 cherry or grape tomatoes, sliced in half 1 clove garlic, minced 1 tablespoon balsalmic vinegar 1 tablespoon sherry wine or sake/rice cooking wine 1 tablespoon low sodium soy sauce 1 tablespoon butter
Directions: 1. Knead olive oil, salt, and pepper into chicken thighs 2. Heat a [non-stick] frying pan over high heat and place flat side down [there's no need to use any extra oil, but the grease will fly up a bit. I used a pot instead of a frying pan for that reason]. Do not move until the underside is a golden brown. Flip over the meat, reduce to low heat, and cover. Cook for another 8 or so minutes, until juices run clear when poked. 3. Remove the chicken from the pan and keep warm on a plate. 4. Add the garlic, vinegar, wine/sake, soy sauce, butter, and pepper [to taste] to the pan juices. Simmer until reduced and slightly thickened. 5. Arrange water cresson, mixed greens, and tomatoes onto a plate. Pour pan juices over both veggies and chicken. Or, slice the chicken and serve it on a bed of greens.
Serves 4.

what i saw on my ride [saturday]

River Road + Autumn = Pretty Gorgeous Ride

...Annnnd I'm even getting better at the whole falling thing!

tour des livres

The thing I miss most about taking public transport - other than the oversized handbags digging into my side or being pushed next to guys who have B.O. strong enough to kill a horse - is that there is really no safe way to read on a bicycle. I’ve thought about audio books but have noticed on the rollers that, if I’m trying to intently listen to something while on the bike, my pedaling slows and I am definitely not paying attention to the things that are going on outside the space between my ears. This means that while I’ve gotten better at maneuvering around traffic since starting cycling, my literary prowess has as much spunk as an anemic anorexic.
Enter the end of academia and the re-introduction [commencing last summer with Strickland’s Ten Points] of books into my life. You know, the fun kind that aren’t just filled with cases and case notes. Though the “reading for fun” thing tapered off when school started last fall, a month or so ago, I felt the textured pages of a book. And I was hooked again.

At first it was magazines, then books and books and more books. Picking up a habit of Mike’s, I started to stockpile books. I’ll read this one after I read that one, I thought, justifying the purchase of two books because they were used and only $8.50 a piece and hardcover, even. They took up a small corner of Mike’s apartment, waiting for me to rifle through their pages. Then, passing a bookstore the next day, I picked up a paperback because, well, hardcovers are a bit bulky to carry back and forth on a bus. I’d need something to read between Boston and New York.
All of which has conspired to persuade me that taking the T in to work might not be so bad. The precious reading time might outweigh the mere 4 miles it takes to bike to Park Street, even if that means I have to leave my apartment earlier to get jostled around in an unstable, overcrowded, absurdly slow trolley car. I was already leaning this way when I received the new Kindle as a gift. Addicted to reading a screen that actually looks like a printed page, I read more than wrote, and spent precious time I should be on the rollers, curling up with my brain’s new love.

But then within that stockpile of physical books that I had amassed earlier, I picked up one that I had started weeks ago before being interrupted by the slim sexiness that is my Kindle. And that book - Bill Strickland’s Tour de Lance - had me consciously choosing to take the T, and stuffing that large hardcover into my bag, squished between my lunch, water bottle, and change of clothes.
For those that watched the 2009 TDF, the book may not be on their short list. Having missed most of it, and only catching a stage or two here and there, the book was an awesome stage by stage of the first TDF I attempted to follow. Being surrounded by cycling enthusiasts who just know a shit ton more than I do about pro cycling [see here], it was a little intimidating trying to understand what the hell was going on last summer. My brain caught little glimpses, but never the entire picture. I still don’t really get what’s going on, and rely heavily on friends to explain who is likely to win a stage, who might win the yellow [or pink or red] jersey, and what lies in store for each stage. I ask questions until it seems to annoy, then I stop and bide my time until I feel I can ask more.
Strickland’s book was like taking a few very well informed friends and tying them to a chair and extracting information from them at gunpoint about the 2009 TDF. Actually it’s better because, though its full title is Tour De Lance: The Extraordinary Story of Lance Armstrong’s Fight to Reclaim the Tour de France, Strickland gives a glimpse into not only Armstrong’s comeback, but into the characters that make the TDF so interesting. There are the charming Schlecks, the super domestiques that carry the yellow jersey to victory, and even in the shadow of the whole “it might be doping plastic residue in his blood” thing, the shyly adorable [at least to me] Alberto Contador. And it’s these personalities that bring the 2009 TDF to life.
Armstrong’s commitment to the Livestrong cancer foundation and his stated motivation for returning to pro cycling aside [can you really argue against cancer? Can you? Really???], it seems a gross understatement to say that he is a polarizing figure. Between honest insights into Armstrong’s personality, Strickland leaves the reader to make an independent decision on whether to actually like the guy or not, which is refreshing given Armstrong’s deathlike grip on reinforcing a positive public image at nearly any cost. And even if one might end up believing that Armstrong might want to reconsider his snippy Tweeting, there’s a lot more to the book than just Armstrong. Because while to the average American, the TDF may be reduced into the image of the infamous Texan, in reality, his teammates, fellow pros, and rivals are what make the three week stage race so compelling. Cadel Evans, Jens Voigt, and Fabian Cancellara all grace the pages and the stages of the book, and while Armstrong’s athletic ability and drive are as impressive as ever, in the end, it was the wheel of Cuddles, Voigt, or FabCan that I wanted to jump onto, to hang on breathless and follow.

Part of that is due to personal bias, but [unsurprisingly, if you read Strickland’s Sitting In] it’s also due to what Strickland does best: telling the “smaller” story of the characters that are necessary for any Tour. The characters without which Armstrong’s victories would be at best, boring, and at worst, meaningless. And though it could be argued that Armstrong has forgotten this fact himself, Strickland certainly has not. Though pros like Tommy Voeckler and [American] Christian Vande Velde are admittedly limited to the sidelines of the story, Strickland manages to squeeze enough of their essence onto the pages to spark a curiosity and interest that could solidify into an addiction of pro cycling as a whole, from Paris-Roubaix to the Vuelta a Espana. Personally, Boy Racer about Mark Cavendish, In Pursuit of Glory about Bradley Wiggins, Rough Ride by Paul Kimmage, and [you saw this coming, didn’t you?] From Lance to Landis: Inside the American Doping Controversy at the Tour de France by David Walsh ended up on my short list before my eyes ate up the last few words of Tour de Lance.
Appropriately so, perhaps, because what shines in Strickland’s book isn’t so much Armstrong as the TDF itself. While that may be an unintended outcome, it actually might be the better one. Because Strickland’s book is more than enough to convert a pro peloton newbie into a true fan of the TDF, even after Armstrong stops racing.
And you know, I’m all for committed, long-term relationships.

the sunday breakaway streak

Yup, true to my predictably unreasonable and stubborn nature, I did that Chinese Bakery Ride again this past weekend and DID NOT GO TO THE CHINESE BAKERY. It’s a work in progress okay? [And by “it” I mean “trying new things and being more sane.”]
My excuse - like Mike’s last time - was that I needed some good coffee. Sunday morning, having left around 10am, I put myself in that stupid situation where I was battling joggers, bike commuters, and [the worst of them all] rental bike pelotons up the Westside Highway to the GW Bridge. My initial giddiness acceleration turned first into careful maneuvering around joggers deaf to the world around them courtesy of their iPods, then gradually into crawling along at 5mph behind three chubby tourists who clearly haven’t been on a bicycle since 1995. A third of the way up the Westside Highway, I, as usual, gave up. Though always hopeful that it wouldn’t take me over an hour to get over the bridge on a weekend morning, I again accepted that this would never happen.
Tired of weaving around things, I hung a left when I crossed the bridge, towards River Road, the nemesis to my flimsy thighs. 9W is awesome for relaxing, long rides, but like Derrick and Cassidy informed me, I wasn’t going to get any better or faster without experiencing some pain. And frustrated at getting dropped so easily on any climb, I had mentally resolved to climb those two motherfucking hills this weekend. So I can eventually not be such a pussy [I mean that figuratively].

I did it. I mean, it wasn’t pretty, but I did it. And by “wasn’t pretty,” I mean that my jaw was sagging, I was wheezing, and the only thing that got me up that mile long climb was the fact that there was a woman in front of me in a red jersey and armwarmers, who I resolved to keep, if not within three bike lengths of me, at least within sight. Weaving through the potholes, we both edged our way up the hill, almost at the same speed. I stayed behind her, and though I was convinced she would drop me, I miraculously maintained the same distance behind her for the entire climb. We both spun in our saddles and climbed out of the saddle and avoided the gaping holes in the pockmarked road. And before I knew it, we were done.
Maybe it was that red-jersey-ed woman, or maybe the it was the exercise-induced dopamine jumping around in my brain, but the climb seemed shorter this time, and I didn’t feel like I was going to die within the next 5 minutes. I even had this ridiculous thought like maybe I could climb some more. I ate a banana, wondered what I would do next, and then the peloton caught up.
Mike, Doug, and Francesco had met up with a few others the past two Sundays or so to do some faster rides. The first time, Mike and I had left at the same time, but riding solo, I had gotten a faster and earlier start. Pollo, who bumped into me first at the bridge, then into the guys sometime later, joked when he saw me later that day that I was in the breakaway. I had hoped for a repeat performance this week, but given my crawl up to the bridge, assumed that Mike and Co. [this time joined by David, who races for FGX Racing] were way ahead of me. Not so. My breakaway streak continues...!

I stuck around chatting to them for a while, and feeling ridiculously proud that I was able to do River Road solo, felt adventurous enough to try the Chinese Bakery Ride on the way back. The guys headed to Piermont [...then Nyack, and College Hills, and out into some alternate universe somewhere which translated into 7 hours of riding], and I headed west to Tenafly. Feeling drowsy, I figured coffee and a second breakfast was in order at Cafe Angelique.
It hit the spot. Then I hit a climb. And halfway up the first hill, I started to realize what a stupid thing I had done.
Coming off of a week of no riding, I was doing the hardest ride that I’ve ever done. River Road remains a challenge that I’m determined to conquer, but there was really no need to torture myself and do the Chinese Bakery climb on top of all that. While mentally I felt great, my muscles were just barely keeping pace. In fact, they were pretty much ready to call it quits, and I had a longer climb waiting for me.
Yeah, I considered it. I considered the shame involved in getting off and walking up. I weighed how no one would probably see me or know, and then thought about how embarrassed I would feel afterwards. I tried to cheer myself up that hill, and when that didn’t work so well, tried playing pop songs in my head. I thought about how I’d never done this much climbing on a ride before, ever, and how even if I had to walk the last few feet, it would be enough. But by then, there were only 10 feet left of the climb and though the grade was steeper, it felt more stupid to get off at that point. I remembered what Fritz said once, about the climb on River Road: “Just don’t ever get off your bike.”
When I got to the top, I wanted to almost cheer, or do Contador’s victory pistol thing, or even Andy Schleck’s cheerleader thing. I danced a little in my head, then coasted back onto 9W, over the bridge, and through the city. I was dead tired, but hadn’t bonked or otherwise tipped over in sheer exhaustion. All signs of a bike ride done well [although some might argue that a bike ride done well should always include vomiting mid-climb and legs so sore you can’t move after you get off the bike].

I came home, plopped down on the bed after my post-ride-shower-that-will-always-feel-better-than-even-the-most-awesome-bubble-bath, and fell asleep after reading the last few sentences of Bill Strickland’s newest book, Tour de Lance. Though I don’t remember it, I’m sure I dreamed of bikes and the Schlecks, Contador on the Col du Tourmalet, and a road bike that just might fit.