Yesterday was cold and wet. Not the sharp cold that makes your sinuses hurt and your eyes tear up within 3 pedalstrokes. This was more a lethargic humidity that makes you briefly consider ditching class, before you reprimand yourself for how incredibly lame that would be. There was a good showing of rain too – just enough to make you hope you can avoid it if you sprinted fast enough, but not enough to make you just give up and get drenched – which made sure I was properly miserable [not to mention sweaty].
And in the middle of the day, a fog so thick it looked like Halloween outside. I wondered if I’d be able to get home; if those Knog lights would even work, or if I’d get crushed under the BC shuttle bus instead [those drivers are not kidding around]. I decided I didn’t really care, either way; my mind felt like a moldy piece of fruit, and anything more complicated than zoning out was proving to be a bit much.
Yeah, it was one of those days. You know, those “yeah, whatever” kind of days. Like “yeah, whatever, run my ass over, that’s cool,” or “yeah, whatever, pretend like you didn’t see me, that’s fine.”
Which is a terrible mentality when you’re on a bicycle. Halfway up Heartbreak Hill, it finally sort of registered and with bits of foliage blowing into my face, I managed to not fall into a pothole I knew was right there, or run into that pile of gravel that’s been over there for the past month. Not that I was scared of the impact of falling per se; but it would just be embarrassing.
Because that’s a total noob mistake. You know it, and I know it. Sure, shit happens, but biting it on a route I can navigate half-blind? Even that “well it was slippery and wet and my brakes weren’t working and this is Boston so potholes appear out of nowhere” excuse doesn’t cut it in that kind of situation. And with the NY Times article “Do More Bicyclists Lead to More Injuries?” fresh on my mind, I had no intention of making myself a neat little injury statistic to re-prove how Boston cannot give a flying fuck about cyclists.
By the time I got home, I sort of regretted reading that article; mostly because the grammatical errors and spelling mistakes in the comments had driven me absolutely insane. But even slightly drenched, with bits of New England stuck to my face and leggings, and every bit cranky, I realized it’s been a while since I’ve even flipped the bird at a driver. At some point, you get used to unpredictability. You pick and choose your battles, and sometime earlier this year, I guess I simply decided that unless I got hit or swerved at, I wasn’t going to waste my time being a patronizing [m]asshole to drivers.
Bikes are for riding, not for being annoyingly righteous, right?
[Yeah, watch me get hit by a car tomorrow. That would sort of funny...if my health insurance coverage wasn't the equivalent of a box of bandaids. So let's hope this doesn't happen.]