On Becoming "That Guy"

Housekeeping note first. In "Heretic Homer," (season 4, for the true junkies) Homer Simpson decides he's had enough of church on Sunday. His effort to start his own religion (with virtually every form of sloth you could imagine) fails, but God tells him as the credits roll, "It's ok, Homer, 9 out of 10 religions fail in their first year." I suspect you could say the same about blogs.

As a blogger, I'm not particularly reliable. The six month gap since my last post here makes that clear enough. Alas, as I read regarding the demise (after far more than a year) of one of my favorite blogs, life always wins. So it has for me for a while. But I'm back. At least tonight. And probably not again for a while.

So I'll cross the first of 22 topics I have jotted down off my list: Lycra.

It's "that guy's" uniform. Up on Canada Road, Skyline, over in Sausalito, and especially on CalTrain. Always with the lycra.

I resisted. At some level I agree with the good people at Rivendell who suggest that the implicit snobbery of requiring a uniform to mount a bike ruins the experience -- or at least cheapens it -- for everyone else.

Up to December, I didn't own any. But I'd gone on a couple of rides where, frankly, I felt out of uniform, and a handful of friends I respect sport it from time to time. Lo and behold, Christmas left me with a nice pair of riding shorts from velowear.

So I waited for the rain to clear and hopped on the road bike to head to work. It was as though karma was after me for my hypocrisy (karma seems to figure heavily in my experiences here). Less than a mile into my ride, I had a flat. I walked home, changed, grabbed the commute bike, and headed to the train (not wearing lycra shorts for the first time on the train. Not. Gonna. Do. It.)

Undeterred, I tried again the next day. And here's the thing: I really liked the shorts. Really. A big improvement over my shorts. That was it. I'm officially that guy.

Jersey? Check.
Clipless pedals? Check.
Lycra shorts? Check.
"That guy?" Check.

Any sense of moral superiority is gone. I've become what I mock. And sure, I'll point out that nothing I wear has any big, fancy team logo, or psychedelic colors, or what have you, but if you see me out there on my road bike (still won't wear that stuff on the train in the morning), I'm him and he is me. And it's gotten worse, but that's a topic for another day.

And I'm ok with it. Turns out there's a reason for all the lycra. It's really quite comfortable. What's a guy to do?

Why Did The Pedestrian Cross The Road . . . Against A Red Light?

Grrr. That karma I thought I had yesterday didn't last long.

On my way home to the train station I ride down the Embarcadero past the Ferry Building. Sometimes there are a great many people waiting to cross the Embarcadero to catch their ferry. They use the crosswalk pictured here:

See, but in the picture traffic is stopped and the pedestrians are crossing with their walk light.

Last night I approached the crosswalk and had a green light. Now, I was moving right along, not at a scorching pace, but probably around 20 mph, after all I was in a protected bike lane and had a green light.

Huddled in a large mass waiting for the light to change, two pedestrians waiting at the crosswalk lost their patience -- and their minds -- and stepped off the curb right in front of me. Right where that "don't" sign is. Too bad the sign isn't really there.

I gave a shout ("NO!"), slammed on the breaks, and hoped. But hope is not a method. The first one off the curb, a man, was a step ahead of me and leaped forward, out of the way (good thing for him my reaction was stopping, not swerving as many people would do). The second off the curb, a woman, tried to get back to the curb, and very nearly did. As my bike pulled to a halt, my handlebars glanced off what I think was her purse.

As my bike came to a sudden stop and a bump at the same time, I more or less folded over and crumpled down. Not bad -- basically like the kind of fall you have when you first get clipless pedals and you practice getting out of them -- but not fun, either.

I immediately jumped up and asked if she was ok, which she was. Then I picked up my bike, and more than a little shaken, looked it over to make sure it was ok.

The guy? He literally ran away.

Several people, including a bicyclist who had been pretty far behind me, immediately came to my defense and said quite aloud that it was clearly their (his and her) fault, and that I should get the offenders' contact info. I was rattled. I could tell I was ok, a quick assessment of my bike told me it was more or less ok, and I looked over my work clothes (which I rarely wear on my way home, but I was on my way to a meeting) and they were fine, notwithstanding a little grease here or there (that's what stain removers are for). Basically I was grateful that everyone and everything was ok, I was in a hurry, and I was definitely still rattled, so I dismissed the need for her contact info.

In hindsight I should have taken it. While I don't think I would ask her to pay for anything, the stains should come out, and there isn't much more than superficial scratching here or there on the bike, I might have discovered something later (a tear in my clothes, a dent in the bike, the scrape on my arm that I did discover later, etc.).

Stuff like that shakes you up. It took quite a while last night to clear my head.

But all's well that end's well, right? She (and he) was lucky, had she stepped out a second later I would have really run her over, rather than just bumped her bag. Someone would have broken something.

Should our friends at the City's transportation department consider signs warning people to look for cyclists? (hint, hint . . .)

It's just another reminder: crime doesn't pay (even if it's only jaywalking).

Well, shoot, I'll keep jaywalking, too; just check the bike lane, before stepping out in the street against a light, ok?

PS. I also got a flat on the way in this morning. What happened to that good karma!?!