Rules of the road, and a brief geography lesson.

I was going to write about the ripening arctic kiwis climbing up the trellis on the southern wall of my garage and how I snacked on several before entering the house after coming back from the garage with a courtesy car, having left our V0lv0 for much needed exhaust system and power steering repairs, but instead I have been inspired by my good friend teranika's most recent entry to write about my own near brush with death at the hands of an asshole motorist while I was riding a bicycle on a busy city street.

In the summer of 1975 (or thereabouts, these things are all a little hazy now), I took piano lessons at the T0r0nt0 R0yaI C0nservat0ry, affectionately known at that time as "The Kremlin". I did not drive a car and would only take public transportation in bad weather; otherwise I rode my bicycle wherever I needed to go. My route, following Avenue Road, took me down the old Lake Iroquois shoreline (descending from St. CIair Avenue to Davenp0rt), a legacy of the retreat of the last glacier. Most of the great lakes were larger than they are now (the exception is Lake Erie), and the old shoreline rises abruptly in a rather steep incline.

A bicycle is a vehicle of the road. Cyclists are subject to the same rules that govern drivers; i.e. they must signal their turns and come to full stops at appropriately marked intersections. They must also be courteous to other traffic. Most cyclists, the serious ones anyway, follow these rules. Drivers, on the other hand, look upon cyclists as nuisances, and perform rather rude actions, such as honking or cutting off, which could cost a cyclist his life or physical integrity.

On one beautiful afternoon as I whizzed down the hill, a white, expensive automobile passed me next to the curb, and proceed to make a right-hand turn in front of me onto a side street just as I was starting to cross said street. At this point I was going very fast, and even slamming on my breaks would not have stopped me in time. As a result, I ended up hitting the back end of the car that cut me off, leaving a nasty black tire mark (although no dent, sadly), and I executed the cyclist's aerial maneuver, flying over my handlebars and landing on the road behind the car, which had already advanced past me.

Luckily, I was not hurt. My bicycle was still road-worthy (although the front wheel was a trifle twisted in the shaft), and my first action, upon rising, was to pull my bike out of the way of traffic. The driver stopped and got out to inspect the damage to his vehicle. He never inquired as to my state of well being, but did say something to the effect that I should have been watching where I was going. If I hadn't been so single-minded about getting to my piano lesson on time, I would have taken his licence plate number and charged him with careless driving. But at age 18 I wasn't too with it about things like that.

I did have other mishaps, like the time I caught my right foot in the spokes of my front wheel (just before descending the same hill, in fact) and ripped my sole to shreds, thus teaching me to wear proper footwear when cycling instead of the thin water buffalo sandals that were all the rage in the 70's. But that is the only time another driver actually caused me grief. Having experienced the curb lane myself, I tend to be very courteous to cyclists. I will never be accused of being an asshole motorist.

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