Thursday, August 30, 2007

I'm Hearing Voices

The voices. I hear them at night. They call me. The melodious soothing cadence of the cycling siren song is too powerful to ignore.

Joyfully, immediately, I am transported from the Puritan world of Hawthorne to the hectic jostling of lanes on Hall Road. I know Truck-Driving/Cigarette-Smokin'/Cell-Phone-Yappin Guy has no idea I am using the lane he's about to claim. I know he believes his right to a good morning smoke, a gas sucking SUV, texting his mistress, who's still hung over from the previous night's moral debauchery, all trample my two-wheeled existence. Still, I ride my lane, my line, my morning routine. Confident my bike handling skills will best his texting talent, I swerve not. The moment he barges into my lane, my lungs break their circadian rhythm to assertively proclaim this cyclist isn’t giving in and will not be discarded to the curb. Let the glass shards, cigarette butts and fender chunks play by themselves. Today, I won’t be joining those scattered road orphans. Four crank revolutions later, my eyes peer through his dog-smudged window. The Marlboro fog can’t dull my glare. He sees it, knows he’s an idiot and, like he has done since the second grade, refuses to embrace his idiocy. Soon his taillights match the stoplight dangling from the line above. Whirring past the pathetic blob of weakness, I don’t look back. There is no need. I win…again.

The cycling siren fades. I return to room 118 and continue explaining why Hester will not flee Boston but remain shackled to a life of shame and duty.


dirtdawg50k said...

While sucking down his $4.00 cup of joe, and adjusting his GPS to figure the straightest shot on Hall Road.

D. Rohde said...

Is your bike standing "ERECT" on its own?