The ultimate irony is to almost slam into the side of a hearse while pedaling along.
Now being a cyclist, one has a fair number of close calls daily, usually once, sometimes twice within a ten mile section of roads and byways. There are the creepers, the ones that slide across the stop sign line, usually by about a car length, which puts them smack dab in the middle of a bike lane. Glares sometimes help, but rarely change the outcome. Then there are the distracted right turners, never bothering to look in the rear or side view mirror for the person on the bike beside them. Some of these people I get, especially when you can hear the screaming kids in the back seats of the cars or mini vans. I get it, suicidal thoughts are in their eyes, wondering why they thought it would ever be a good idea to reproduce.
The most egregious of the entire lot, are the turn signal impaired (or retards in non pc speak), that slide very quickly in front of the cyclist, then dash into a driveway sending the rider into a full on skid. These folks who are dodging into McDonald’s drive through lines are the most pathetic of the them all, focused not even on driving, only on that rumbling feeling that pangs deep beneath the layers of fat that line the inner skin. Rarely if ever do they even acknowledge what they’ve just done, French fries (or freedom fries for red state folks) and milkshakes dance before their eyes, not pedestrians and cyclists. I’m sure if I dug deep enough on Google I would be able to find some sort of statistic that would show the death rate in driveways for fast food joints to be far higher than for cancer.
Now sure, I do love driving or being a passenger in cars, it’s a fantastic experience traveling through country roads with a sense of freedom and speed. That’s not what I am being critical of. The thing that is pushing this vindictive screed, has everything to do with awareness, wishing that those that are trapped in air conditioned bubbles somehow would see through the darkened windows at the person that isn’t strapped into an air bag cushioned steel (or plastic these days) box. The person on the outside that exhibits bulging eyeballs, and an elevated heart rate due to their life flashing before them as they prepare for the big crunch, really doesn’t deserve to die because you are listening to Katy Perry or some rap artist going on about bitches, ho’s and guns, at an ear blistering level, completely unaware of anything but your own mouth singing the words.
No, I correct myself. The ultimate irony is to be laying on the pavement bloody and near death, while “I kissed a girl” blares into ones ears. That is irony my friends, that is irony.