The Scofflaw-a persona poem

Bicycle, bicycle.
I like to ride my bicycle. I like to ride my bike.
I like to ride my bicycle. I like to ride it where I like.
The weather turns;
the wind blows icicles into my “what the fuck am I doing with wet hair” hair;
a bus blows by and honks only to pull up to the curb right in front of me;
a car nearly hits me because he answered his phone;
why do I ride?

After 2 minor fender benders, 2 major wrecks, and being thrown through a front window.
I realize, now, I hate cars.
I hate ‘em. I do.
They’re dangerous, dangerous, dangerous and driven by people who have nothing better to do….
than drive and eat dinner,
            drive and put on make-up,
            drive and drink coffee,
            drive and pluck hair,
            drive and put on DVDs,
            drive and text.
Drivers kill bikers.
You do.
Not that I could in prove it in court,
but all you people in such a hurry
that you compress air and gasoline in a combustible engine
then sit in your metal cages listening to Limbaugh or NPR or bad music
at 50 miles an hour want to kill me.
You do.
Me—the scofflaw cyclist riding in the middle of the lane,
            running red lights and four ways,
            jumping the curb to the sidewalk,
            crossing lawns and annoying your dog
            wearing dark clothing, refusing to signal,
            never surrendering the right of way
            as I flip you the bird when you lay on your horn.
You:   the Oblivious.
Running red lights while on your cell phone,
turning right but only looking left,
speeding up to 30 on a street posted as 18,
slamming on brakes and reversing into parking spaces without even looking,
and swinging your car door wide
right into me.
Bring it on, Oblivious!
I ain’t making it easy for you.
I’m getting off the road as fast as I can.
I’m wearing dark clothes, removing reflectors, never signaling, never using a light
because if you see me, you’ll hit me.
Give it your best shot, oblivious.
The Earth loves this scofflaw and not you.
So, when the next ice age comes and freezes the Northeast like a sno-cone
and all those obnoxious New Yorkers pile in their “never been off road” SUVS
or mini-vans with DVD players and move to New Mexico,
I’ll be the one biking by you in a traffic jam
on the Paseo Del Norte parking lot or Coors loading zone
and getting to work on time because I don’t need parking.
I like to ride my bicycle. I like to ride my bike.
I like to ride my bicycle. I like to ride it where
and how I like.
So, face it Mr. SUV, Mini-van, boom car, trucker,
I’m the future and the future is passing you by.

Poetry & Beer

Wow! What an incredibly warm night to be stuck inside Blackbird Buvette, but we really didn't plan on it being this warm.  So I loaded up the music stand, a mike stand, my laptop, a binder, and various cords into my cart, attached it to my fixie and away I went.

But another Poetry & Beer is not the purpose of this post.   The purpose is to talk about the ride back.

My Route Home

What I didn't anticipate was in how much drag the cart, unloaded even, is on my ride.   So as I was making my way from the low point (the underpass right by the Convention Center) up MLK to finally rest at the underpass at the highway, I had to stand up and pound on the pedals.

Off comes the jacket.   I'm sweating and its 11:30 at night.

The lesson:  no matter how loaded the cart is, you need to use the mountain bike  when you're coming home from downtown.   There's a reason for a derailleur.   I know I talked about this before, but I was assuming that was because the cart was loaded.   Not in this case.