car vs. bicycle

Each day, Matt and I battle our way from Manassas to Rosslyn, then onto the metro (separately) and to our jobs. We strive to get Matt there on time (by 9), but in truth, it rarely occurs. That stress, on top of all the other stresses -- mostly stupid, political-type interpersonal paranoia stuff that any manager has to deal with -- is a bit much for him these days. So we're really trying to at least get him there on time.

Each day, it feels like we're thwarted by something new and stupid. Of course, we COULD all get up early enough to get out of the house by 7 -- that's pretty much a fool-proof way. But, c'mon! That never happens. Ha! Are you kidding me?!

Today, the sticky spot was Manassas itself. The spot where we merge onto the main road that leads to Hwy. 66 (234) had a lineup of cars as long as I've ever seen it. Unfortunately, Matt was driving -- I usually take the 'morning shift,' but not today -- so he took the "shortcut." It proceeded to take us 15 minutes to get to the highway from there, because we had to wait behind everyone else taking the "shortcut." Honestly! I really do think this is a gender thing. Men will run around a block in circles, just to keep moving. It FEELS like progress, I suppose. I was chuckling to myself that all the folks taking the "shortcut" seemed to be driving trucks, SUVs or work vans. Hmm! Probably not women behind the wheels. But, I try (emphasis on try) to bite my lip. Because it's just like a woman to point these things out. It's also like a woman to hope that, by taking note of them, we can perhaps avoid certain decisions and thus repeating certain mistakes in the future. But I realize how optimistic that is of me. As in ... a snowball has a better chance of not melting.

The commute wasn't so bad after we actually made it to the highway. We dropped Matt off at the usual corner in Rosslyn, where I pull over around the corner behind a legitimate parking space. Not ideal, but it gets me out of the flow of traffic long enough for Matt to hop out. Then I scoot back into the lane, drive around the two parking spaces, and turn right, into our parking garage, which is underneath Lizzy's day care.
Today, I checked for traffic, as usual, then pulled out. Almost immediately, something rapped my window, hard, three times. Two inches from my head. I let out a little shriek. Lizzy said, "What's wrong, Mom?" I saw an irate biker pedaling ahead and away from us. I looked at him incredulously for a moment, my heart pounding, then got mad and blared the horn. He gave the universal gesture for "you could rot in hell for all I care, road hog," glared back at me and rode off to wherever he was going. It really shook me up for the rest of the commute, and I'm trying to sort out why.

I guess that, when it comes right down to it, I hate confrontation. I really do. I mean the sort of confrontation that will a) make someone (whose opinion I care about) mad at me, or b) the sort where I realize that I did something wrong, and it's being pointed out, and I feel a lot of embarrassment and shame. The latter was true today. But I REALLY DIDN'T SEE THE GUY. I have no idea where he came from! And so I feel he's putting me in an impossible position by expecting me to take care of him, and yet ... I just don't know what he wanted me to do differently. SENSE his presence, I suppose.

Here's how it is: I really can see both sides of this issue. The biker was mad at me because, ultimately, he was scared. He's doing the good thing; taking the high road in the sense that he's biking to work. Good for him, good for the environment. In truth, I'm wildly jealous that he has that option. I would give at least a couple of eyeteeth to have that sort of commute. That sort of life. Lizzy and I used to live a half-mile from her day care. It was awesome. Except in bad weather, and I only cared then for her sake, but I digress.

However. Self-righteous little snots like that jerk think that, because they ARE doing such excellent work as stewards of their bodies and the environment, (apparently) they have the right to treat the road/sidewalk/bit of space between stopped cars as their own personal lane. And the right to look scornfully at those who do drive. Well, guess which lane is yours, bikers! That's right -- you don't have one.

This is unjust. I will be the first to agree with you. In Germany, there were bike lanes -- and paths -- everywhere. It was totally awesome. I biked all over the place, and loved it. Then I moved here, and my bike was stolen, and I have no time, and I don't bike. Nor would I, in Rosslyn. Because, as I said -- it's freakin' DANGEROUS. I looked around for traffic of all sorts this morning, as I do every morning. Granted, I don't think "biker!" most prominently. But bikers expect that somehow I will have some sort of all-seeing radar for them. They come whipping around a corner going 20 mph. I can only do a head check so fast, dude. And sometimes my daughter is distracting me. Sometimes something else is distracting me.

Bottom line: Open message to bikers. If you're whipping around on busy streets, particularly during rush hour, you are ON YOUR OWN to make sure you're safe. I will not -- cannot -- help you. I can't see you, you see? And you scaring the bejeebers out of me by banging on my window is not going to endear yourself to me.

I know that some sort of rules for bicyclists exist. I have wondered what they are ever since I moved to D.C. When I lived in Cleveland Park, I usually confined my biking to the paths of Rock Creek Park. Occasionally, I tried biking through neighborhoods, but it felt too much like taking my life in my hands. Should I have been on the sidewalk? Seemed like it was for pedestrians. The road? Heck no. Drivers are nuts, and they just don't care. So ... where was I supposed to be?

As we were pulling into the parking lot, Lizzy was quizzing me about what had just happened. I, trying to get a handle on my bitterness and fear, feebly explained that bikers AND cars think they have rights to the road, and sometimes it's not so safe for both of them to be there. "He could've pushed our car over!" Lizzy said, after I told her that I'd shrieked because the biker knocked on the window. "Well, no, honey, he couldn't have. He just wanted me to know he was there," I said. "But it scared me."
"Oh -- maybe he was scared, too," she said.

Yes, darling. You have it exactly right.