Quoted message said:the enthusiasm of a lynch mob.
I theorized that if I proved to this group of angry motorists that I am
not some freak clad in spandex, but a regular guy, just like them -- someone
who shares their pain, understands their challenges -- I would extend my life
expectancy. But how? Finding an American flag on a roadside one day, I
fastened it to my rear rack and started pedaling madly. The theory of this
experiment was ''You, Mr. Chevy SUV driver, are an American, and I am an
American. We have a lot in common. From the mountains, to the prairies, to the
oceans . . .''
The angry drivers were just as angry, just as nasty, just as likely to
question my patriotism. Down came the flag.
Having spent an enormous amount of time riding past vehicles that later pass
me on the commute, I have observed the following stickers on the back windows
of those most likely to yell at me:
''I am the NRA''
''Go Sox''
''Semper Fi''
Using my desktop publishing skills, I mocked up similar signs to fit on the
back of my bicycle. Before posting them, I showed them to a noncyclist co-
worker named Kevin.
We decided that the ''I am the NRA'' sign could lead to a shooting incident.
Mounting a shotgun rack on the back of my bicycle would add an air of
authenticity, but the added bulk would be problematic.
The Red Sox approach was also complex. When the Sox win, sure, I could be
given a bit more respect on the road. But what about when the Sox lose a close
one? One bad bounce and I could be driven off the road. Until the Red Sox win
a World Series, this idea was on the back burner.
''Semper Fi'' appeared to be a strategically sound approach. Everyone loves a
Marine, so that's good. Marines know how to kill people who mess with them, so
I could inspire fear. However, what if a real Marine saluted me inbtraffic? I
would be a fraud. Back to the drawing board.
I knew I had a winner on my hands the second I penned
it:
''Ex wife got car''
''Yeah,'' my co-worker Kevin said, nodding his approval. ''Pickup truck guys
are always mad at their wives.'' One Friday evening, I tested my inspiration,
affixing it to the back of my bicycle. Guess what I got: an abundance of
knowing smiles from my core audience -- angry men driving pickup trucks,
hormonally enraged young men traveling in packs while crammed into small cars,
homophobic van drivers, as well as petite women in gargantuan SUVs.
I got plenty of thumbs up, too. And nods of approval.
One morning, a plumber and his sidekick rolled by in a rusty pickup. The
sidekick rolled down a window, nodded sagely, and said, ''Yeah, and I bet
you're still paying the insurance.''
Other men have said, in family newspaper-speak, ''I have been similarly
imposed upon.'' And a few women have actually pulled over -- not to hit me,
but to hit on me.
Most importantly, all of the drivers who can actually see where they are
going are giving me another inch of room on the road. You can't ask for more
than an inch.
Drivers who can't see where they're going, like those helming the Grand
Marquis Presidential editions or Cadillac Broughams, just keep steaming along
as if I didn't exist.
You do what you can in this world.
Joe Berkeley, a creative director at Hill, Holliday, always wears a helmet
while riding. He says his wife is not amused by the sign.
This story ran on page 1 of the Boston Globe's City Weekly section on
6/8/2003. =A9 Copyright 2003 Globe Newspaper Company.