endow anyone with such privileges.
While yes, cycling might very well be a weekend distraction for otherwise decent people after they finish browsing for new washing machines. Well, look. I’m sure a lot of Nazis and Smurfs had some noble and redeeming qualities, some even worthy of admiration, but that by no means excuses their nefarious actions, or grants any leeway for tolerating their existence.
And if I can save just one poor soul from making the foolish decision of suiting up and hitting the road, then, well no, it won’t be worth it. They all need to be stopped. While each one I take out contributes to an overall deterring effect on society, well enough, is simply not well enough. You can’t half-ass it and only cut out a bit of cancer here and there, you’ve got to go full bore and wipe the plate clean.
When the fear of me replaces the inner urging to blow $673 on a bicycle and a couple hundred more on aerodynamically formulated drag-resistant nylon spandex polyblend fabric, then I have won, then we all have won.
So how many to date? Perhaps I should leave this unanswered and open to a bit of mystery. Part of me wants to. Again I am proud and find fulfillment in what I do, but after six months and three days of committed effort I find myself lacking in efficiency and volume. Inflating my numbers briefly crossed my mind in a moment of weakness. I am equally proud and also disappointed in my accomplishments to date, and making up numbers or claiming credit for that which is not mine would only serve to diminish the important contributions I have thus far made. One little lie, one unfounded claim and the foundation crumbles. All I can do now is humbly apologize and recommit myself to improving my efforts.
Thirty-seven. There it is. Should be higher. I’m not proud of the total so far. Infinitely smaller than it should and needs to be. But that is my mark. That is my total. One happy face added to my good-deed tracker on average every five days. Crawl, walk, run I suppose. Build on the past and strive toward perfecting my craft. Overcome moments of discouragement by recalling the fond moments. The beautiful thuds. The force of impact. The short-lived, confused screams of terror. The joy of success. The rewarding feeling of a softly uttered, “on your left.”
There is work yet undone to be sure. If my car had wings, I’d be an ace at least seven times over. It does not. But it doesn’t have machine guns or heat-seeking missiles either. As I figure it, my efforts, given the resources and equipment at my disposal, and my demeanor and work ethic, clearly justify a ranking outside the realm of amateur status. I am a professional.
The relived moments provide treasured memories and inspiration, but to be honest they all start to blur together over time in my mind. I’m only human and have my own limitations after all. Thankfully dash cams exist. Yes they do create a digital trail of evidence--even with the protection of encrypted files kept off the network--but that’s a risk I’ve chosen to accept.
Both in my mind, and certainly in the file names, I’ve found it helps to nickname the memorable ones. Distinguishing cases provides definition and clarity as time passes. Not to mention the organizational value of a finely cataloged library of hits on tape.
I know what I’m going to do. They have no idea what’s coming. I also come out alive and well, so my memory of the events is substantially more intact than that of my scrambled and splattered friends. But the dash-cam videos certainly help. Everything does go by so very quickly and a little slow motion replay has gone a long way toward improving my technique and form. Plus what a joy to look at.
As far as my resume goes, there was “Crunch” and “Double Crunch.” “Two and Three Quarters Backflip Guy.” “Splits McGee.” “The Cliff Diver.” “Team Newlywed.” “Pot-Hole Filler.” “Bowling for Spandex.” And “Hogwarts Girl,” among the others.
But the first one was special. Everyone remembers their first time. My first was “Captain America.”
Summer time, Saturday afternoon on a back-country rode in Southern California. Nowhere to be in particular. Just a trip out to restock on cigars. I did have to pee, so I was a little impatient, but otherwise unbothered. Until of course I came upon Captain America looking ever so dapper in his skin-tight save-the-world getup. But as I’m sure you are aware, villains wear costumes too.
The excuse is that it helps reduce drag and therefore increases speed along the road. Well that wasn’t the case with the captain. The posted speed limit was a solid 55mph. He was pushing 12 maybe 13mph. And to top things off the tax-payer funded lane specifically designated for such douche-baggery went unused. Silly rabbit, you’re not a car. No need to be in the middle of the road pretending to be one.
A polite honk of my horn and the repeated revving of my engine merely earned me a brief backward glance. This egregious impediment of the flow of traffic went on for a good two miles.
Honking yet again produced a rude acknowledgement of the middle-finger variety. Definitely not a super hero. Definitely a villain. I would own that middle finger.
I let go of the accelerator, and my vehicle’s speed abided the laws of physics and motion and steadily dropped with the friction of the road, allowing our distance to increase to a good 40 yards. I would need a bit of room for what I intended to do.
I put on my right turn signal. I would have put on my left one had I intended to pass, but I wanted to accurately reflect where I was going, and more precisely, where he was going. There was a wide-open lane to his right intended for cyclists such as himself, and I’d sure as fuck do my part to steer him in the right direction. With his body dipped and hands outstretched upon the handlebars, he was already bent over, now was time for him to get fucked.
Having gunned my engine with the accelerator to the floor, I managed to reach a comfortable and highly effective 76mph in time for the impact. On hearing my approach he turned and stared at me for the last four seconds of his life. The look on his face was priceless. Confused panic and inescapable fear. It was like Christmas.
I veered slightly to the left and then back to the right to angle my line of approach perfectly. Over time I have learned that each situation is unique and unexpected occurrences are bound to happen, but I at least wanted to influence his impending flight path as much as possible.
When the center of my bumper slammed into his left leg he made a shrieking “argh” sound. Sort of like the kind of sound a pirate makes when he’s run over by two tons of what-the-fuck. Technically he went airborne, but his flight was somewhat limited on account of his head smashing into my hood.
The revolutions of my engine, the initial impact, the bending of metal and plastic, along with John Denver playing over the radio made for a bit of noise, but I heard the snap of his neck breaking all the same. It would have been rather poetic, and a tribute to my timing, had the impact occurred during the perfect lyrics of “Country Roads,” and how they “take me home,” but it being my first time and all, and the nature of chaos, Captain America’s life ended on the middle verse about a “miner’s lady and stranger to blue water.”
In this flash of action and background music, I didn’t see exactly where his left middle finger ended up, but I’m fairly confident that it fell under my right front tire along with various other portions of his body as the whole of the limp and lifeless spandex-encased frame was sucked underneath.
I briefly surveyed the measure of my work through the rear view mirror as I pulled away. His body lay motionless and distorted against the edge of the pavement just outside of the bike lane. Near where he should be I suppose.
The crumpled bicycle was scattered about in shattered pieces, in and around the lifeless villain’s stump. With the substantial volume of blood now pooling about, the scene reminded me of a dropped and broken bottle of red wine, with flesh and metal accounting for shards of glass.
The cigar run would have to wait, but as I drove away it felt like an appropriate time and place to utter my first, “on your left.”
Captain America is the first file on my index. Leadin
g the way ahead of the other 36 fuckers. All enjoyable in their own ways, but like I said, he was special, he was my first.
Where it will all end for me is anybody’s guess. Maybe society will eventually change, see the light, and reward me with the nachos I so richly deserve. But I’m not keeping my fingers crossed. Maybe tomorrow or somewhere down the line I’ll get taken down by black-clad troopers while I’m reviewing my work, but more likely than not I’ll get side-swiped by some lemming soccer mom texting her way through a stop light. Who knows? All I can do is drive on. Drive on and find my 38th “on your left.”
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About the Author
Robert T. Belie
Robert T. Belie has lived all over the world including stints in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. As a former US Army officer, he has seen, experienced, and interacted with people and cultures from all across the globe. His travels have taken him to nearly 30 countries and just as many states. He holds degrees in History and International Relations from UCLA and Oklahoma University respectively. He has published several works of both fiction and non-fiction. Belie has had 59 of his travel photos featured on the travel website Travellerspoint.com.
https://roberttbelie.weebly.com/
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