If You Kill A Cyclist, It’s Their Fault

Photo by Peter Silburn

Two weeks ago, the vilest utterance from a public official, at least that I can recall, spewed from the toxic pit that is the Fake Tan Führer’s mind.  Upon learning that Robert Mueller died, the entity who proved that 78 million Americans can be wrong sent this across the Twitterverse:  “Good, I’m glad he’s dead.” 

Perhaps it was an inevitable reaction from one of the basest beings on this planet to the passing of that increasingly rare office-holder: one who was respected by nearly everyone. But even for FTF, it was a level of moral bankruptcy and soiling of the English language I could not have anticipated.

Then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised. For decades, I have been a transportation, recreational, fitness and touring cyclist.  I also raced, if not with stellar results. During that time, much has changed. But a few things haven’t, including the way the media, law enforcement officials and much of the public react when a cyclist is killed or maimed.

George Hil, on the British website road.cc,  recounts such a firestorm of negativity when a cyclist was killed “in a collision with another vehicle” on a “not particularly dangerous “  road he regularly cycles and drives.  While he did not know the victim personally, he felt a sense of loss for him as a fellow cyclist and human being.

Those last two words were also lost in reactions on Facebook and other social media. “[Y]ou wouldn't think someone had died,” he relates, because commenters “focused on the person being a cyclist so it was probably their fault”  Perhaps the ugliest, and most clueless comment was this: “Don’t pick fights you can’t win, might is always right.”

“Might is always right.”  Could Cecil Rhodes have said it any more plainly? FTF probably had a similar thought when he decided to bomb Iran.

Anyway, as George Hill points out, such reactions encapsulate an all-too-common attitude when cyclists motorists kill or injure cyclists: “They should know better than to get in our way. They had it coming to them.” I’ve even heard people say, “Good!”:when a cyclist is run down.

Oh, and FTF hates cyclists.  As much as Robert Mueller, I don’t know. But it wouldn’t surprise me to hear him saying “Good, I’m glad” to the death of a cyclist on the road.

Should I Take This Offer?

 You may have noticed that I have not been posting as frequently as I had been. There is no illness, lover or other such demand on my time and energy.  Rather, I have been in the process of creating, and helping to create, new content on another venue.

A while back, a bicycle maker e- mailed me with an offer that, well, I could have refused I certainly couldn’t have imagined. One of its executives chanced upon this blog (hmm…I didn’t know executives had so much free time!) and was “impressed” by not only the number of views and followers, but that they are spread across all continents (Antarctica? I didn’t know penguins could ride bikes!).  Said executive explained, “We are trying to expand our reach” and “show people they don’t have to be Tadej Pogačar to ride one of our bikes.”

While I agreed with him, I couldn’t help but to ask why he chose me, and this blog, to be an “influencer.” He didn’t use that word, but that’s what I think he was asking me to do.  Was it the beautiful graphics and photography? My deathless prose? The wit and erudition behind my “Sunday funnies?”

Actually, the reason is far more mundane.  “Your name is a lot easier to spell and pronounce—and it’s Italian.”

That last bit of information made his offer make more sense, if not make sense.  After all, the bike manufacturer in question is Pinarello.

I am not sure of what to make of this offer.  Perhaps one or some of you, dear readers, can help me to understand it.  The details are here.

Who Knows The Changing Season?

 The past week has been both familiar and odd. The season is definitely changing—or, rather, the days and nights aren’t settling into one season or another.  It’s warm enough to go swimming at the beach, if the water were warmer. Then a wall of rain falls in the wee hours of morning. A clear sky is revealed at sunrise, but the air is colder than the sea you couldn’t swim in.  And patches of the most vibrant colors rise among meadows of mud that was the dust of last year’s leaves.

I haven’t ridden a lot of miles even though I’ve managed to get out for a spin, among all I’ve had to do, every day during the past week. For yesterday’s ride, I brought the usual things—spare tube, tire levers, multitool and pump—along with a can of Friskies and an aluminum foil plate from a takeout order.  I didn’t see the cat I sometimes encounter along the Randall’s Island shoreline, near the ramp to the Manhattan spur of the RFK Bridge.  But I left that meal—brunch? Do cats know it’s Sunday—anyway.

That cat, I am sure, understands the changing season better than I ever will: She (I think she’s female) has no choice but to feel it in her bones. I wonder how she sees the colors of the season, whatever it is.