While we’re making sure Iran doesn’t get nuclear weapons maybe we should consider not subsidizing Israel’s.
The last time i got doored was in July 2004, and it taught me enough of a lesson that i kinda figured i was now immune. But no, as with many immunizations, this one gradually wore off.
More accurately, i discovered a different way of getting doored, under circumstances in which i’d thought i was safe. See, the first dooring occurred when i was cruising along on a street without a bicycle lane and riding close enough to the parked cars that when one flung his door open i crashed into it. So since then i’ve been real careful under those circumstances to keep a good three or four feet away from the parked cars.
And also, since then, more and more of San Francisco’s streets are featuring bike lanes that are positioned so that curbed cars don’t have enough wingspan to reach passing bicyclists in the bike lane, so you’re safe.
Well, unless an entitled asshole in so much of a rush to pick up some packages being brought to the curb pulls over only somewhat into the parking space, leaving a good three feet between him and the curb, and the driver’s side of his vehicle nestled about ten inches outside the bike lane. And then pushes his door open at precisely the right moment to door me as i draw even with him.
As i lay there on the pavement, some excoriation ensued.
Which escalated when the first thing out of his mouth was a demand to see my drivers’ license.
And continued when he suggested that i get out of the street so as not to block traffic.
And reached its peak when i wanted to know why he had parked three feet from the curb and he responded that he hadn’t wanted to swing his front into the bike lane in order to parallel park.
I was pretty well spent by the time he observed that it was a good thing he hadn’t got the door fully open or i’d have bent it forward against the front quarter, but at least i had the presence of mind to observe that in that case my impact would have been cushioned.
As it was, by the time i’d stopped screaming abuse at him i’d discovered that i could stand up and that i hadn’t broken any bones. Only later did it become apparent that i’d bruised a couple of ribs, so it only hurts when i laugh.
I’ve saved the greatest outrage until last: The clueless fucker was driving a Prius, and you know how we hate those things.
Here he is:
And note how he parked: