We Were Doored. It Could Have Been Worse For Him.

Nearly two years ago, I experienced one of a cyclist's worst nightmares:  I was "doored."

At least the woman who opened the door into my path stayed with me as others--including a man who ran across the street to a drugstore for rubbing alcohol and bandages--stayed with me--helped in one way or another.  The woman apologized profusely and called me several times after the incident to see how I was. The worst thing I can say about her is that she was careless.

The same cannot be said for the man who opened his door into the path of Trev Walker.  The British cyclist was pedaling along a road in his native Yorkshire on 2 September when a driver, passing at what appears to be high speed, flung his door into Walker's path, slamming into his left hand.

The incident was recorded for posterity--and the local police--on a camera affixed to the rear of his bike.

Walker is a paramedic, so when he felt pain and saw swelling in his hand, he went for an X-ray.  When the pain didn't subside, he went for another, which revealed a fracture.  He says, "it could have been worse."  But I can just imagine the emotional trauma he might be experiencing:  If he is re-living the incident, it could be worse my reliving my experience because the driver who "doored" him did so deliberately.

But he summed up the seriousness of what happened to him the way I, and others, summed up mine:  Opening a car door on a cyclist could result in someone being killed.

Our Flag--Or Their Banner?

On Sunday, the day before "the 4th" (American Independence Day), I rode La-Vande, my Mercian King of Mercia, to Point Lookout.  I have taken that ride many times, on every one of my current bikes and several I've owned previously.  Although the weather was just a bit warmer than I like, the skies were clear and bright and the temperature dropped as I approached the water.  Best of all, I was pedaling into the wind, blowing from the ocean and bay, most of my way out. That meant, of course, that I rode with the wind at my back for most of the way back.

Still, I couldn't help but to notice something that distrubed me.  Perhaps the holiday, and its associations sensitized me to it.  A ride I took the other day--the day after the Fourth--confirmed my observation.

Holidays like the Fourth, Memorial and Veterans' Day and, of course, Flag Day, bring a lot of Stars and Stripes out of closets, attics, trunks and storage lockers.  People hang flags in their windows and on their doors and fly them from awnings and poles.  I couldn't help but to feel, however, that the way those flags were displayed was more ostentatious and aggressive than usual.  

My Point Lookout ride takes me through strongholds of Trump-mania:  Broad Channel, a Jamaica Bay island between Rockaways to the "mainland" of Queens, and the Long Island South Shore communities of Long Beach, Lido Beach and Point Lookout itself.  Just past the Long Beach boardwalk, one house flew a flag so wide that it unfurled over the sidewalk in front of it:  Anyone walking by could have been brushed by it which, to some, would have been offense--by the person brushed, mind you--against the flag and therefore the nation. I noticed many other flag displays that were disruptive or simply more in-your-face than ones I saw in years past.

But the incident that showed me that the flag has gone from being an expression of patriotism or simply gratitude to one of agression and hostility, or even a threat, came the other day, as I approached an intersection in Eastchester, a Westchester county town on Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic. Something that looked like a bloated pickup truck--it was nearly as wide as the two eastbound road lanes--pulled up behind me, veering into the shoulder where I was riding.  From poles driven like stakes into each corner of the rear flatbed, American flags fluttered.  Another banner, about the size of those four flags combined, visually blared, as loudly and ominously as the revved-up engine (which seemed to lack a muffler), its message:  Let's Go Brandon.  That, of course is a code for what the driver bellowed at me:  "Fuck Joe Biden."

I pretended to ignore him.  I guess I'm not a very good actor:  I noticed him, the truck, the flags--it was impossible not to.  Eyeing my bike, he growled, "If you hate this country, leave it." 

"I am here because you have the right to say that.  And I have the right to disagree with you.  Members of my family fought for both."

He eyed my bike some more.  "At least it's a 'Merican' bike.  To be fair, he's not the first person to read "Mercian" as "American" or "Murrikan."

"Have a good day, sir."

With a perpexled look, he motored away.  I hadn't felt such relief in a long time.

In 1983, people--including some friends and family members--begged, cajoled and even tried to strong-arm me into not moving back to New York.  In those days, the news, movies, television and other media depicted my city as a lawless hellhole where people were robbed, raped, stabbed or shot.  The implication, of course, was that the victims were like me--a mild-mannered white person (I was still living as male) and the perpetrators were drug-addled black and brown thugs.  

The irony is that some of the people who were sure I'd be dead within a year of moving to New York--and other people who think like them--voted for Donald Trump, a hero to the fellow who was using his truck--and the flag--to intimidate me.

Driving Drunk + Hitting Cyclist = 28 Days

Woman Sentenced to Jail for OWI After Hitting Teen on Bicycle

Although I wasn't happy to hear about another cyclist hit by a car, I was somewhat heartened, if only for a moment, when I read "Woman Sentenced".  Too often, motorists who hit and injure, or even kill, cyclists get off scot-free--or don't get much more than the proverbial "slap on the wrist."

Unfortunately, the latter was actually the case for the woman in the headline.  Yes, she is going to jail--for 28 days.  Now, if she had been like the driver who stayed at the scene after smacking into a 14-year-old Guatemalan boy in Brooklyn last month, I might have thought the sentence too harsh.  But there are other, shall we say, mitigating circumstances.

Those circumstances include the fact that she left the scene--and that she was intoxicated.  But, oh, no, this isn't an isolated incident in her resume:  This is her third drunk driving arrest.

Karen Nugent

Karen Nugent probably knew that she was facing serious time--say, five years, which is what the law allows for someone with her record in Michigan, where she smacked into that teenager.  So she pleaded guilty and got a deal:  The charges were reduced to a second-offense Operating While Intoxicated (OWI) and not stopping at the scene of an accident.  

I don't know whether I am more upset at Ms. Nugent--or the judge in Benzie County who made the deal with her.