It’s a $500 fine for a motorist to hit a bicyclist in the District, but some behaviors are so egregious that some drivers might think it’s worth paying the fine.
So I'd like to append the following to my analysis:
Go fuck yourself.
--Wildcat Rock Machine
Sure, it's somewhat inelegant, but I'd argue more than warranted given the implications of his statement. It's not exactly like saying it might be worth shooting at people in hoodies since you're unlikely to be convicted, but it's not all that different either.
As to the gentrification issue he clumsily picked up and then fumbled with for a few sentences before dropping it again because he thinks like he's wearing oven mitts on his brain, I thought about it again yesterday while reading this New York Times Real Estate section story about Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn, because it shows people of different races running a red light on different machines side by side in perfect harmony:
Feel your heart swell with pride and goodwill as Balloon Guy says, "Let me shield you from oncoming traffic with my inflatable bounty, my brothers." Meanwhile, Scooter Guy's bicycle helment dangles jauntily behind the leg shield of his scooter as he smiles at Bicycle Guy in his rear-view mirror. As for Bicycle Guy, he looks aerobically distressed, which leads me to believe that he's motor-pacing behind the scooter and already training for next year's Five Boro Bike Tour:
Meanwhile this pair openly plots their continued takeover of the neighborhood:
The green arrow is my way of reminding myself to point out that delicate script tattoos are the new knuckle tattoos. Also, even though I wasn't there, I can guess what that woman is saying:
The answer is "Yes," because while Bed-Stuy was once the "Do or Die:"
It's now the "Do or Dine:"
Frankly, I'd feel self-conscious indulging in "molecular gastronomy" at a restaurant whose name is a tongue-in-cheek reference to a past that is systematically being dismantled apartment by apartment, but maybe I just feel like that because I'm old:
(Those who can't do, dine.)
But not too old to "rock out" to some "Fredcore!"
I was alerted to this via The Twitter, and it totally made me want to ride my bike--far, far away, to a place with no computers so I never, ever have to hear it again.
Though I do think NBC Sports should use it as the theme for their Tour de France coverage.
Speaking of Freds, yesterday I took the classic New York City Fred ride over the George Washington Bridge, and as I awaited the arrival of my riding partner for the day I did observe a sight as American as apple pie and drone strikes--a Hemi in the bike lane:
This is the unfortunate side-effect of living in a city that shares a bridge with New Jersey:
(Conspiracy theory: bike lane blockers are hired extras, and the casting is by Mike Judge.)
Studies have shown conclusively that, if you were to do away with the bridge, New York City would experience 45% less traffic and up to 85% less puking in the streets. Similarly, New Jersey experiences a massive New York City Fred and Tridork influx, especially on weekends when an unbroken procession of riders on aerobars invades the Garden State, streaming across the span like ants on a popsicle stick. With any luck, perhaps New York and New Jersey will one day reach an agreement to remove the bridge and spare each-other their worst exports.
In the meantime, if you find yourself riding over the George Washington Bridge, my advice to you is to keep moving! Don't stop, not even for a second, lest you be accosted by one of these Freds or Tridorks, who will invariably ask you for something. It's like Penn Station in the '80s, except instead of homeless people looking for change it's Crabon Cowboys looking for multitools and pumps. For example, you may remember my experience on New Year's Day, which inspired this work of art:
(You're welcome, Kenny.)
Well, this time I was forced to stop again to wait for my riding partner, and as I stood there with my saddle bag bloated with tools and my jersey bloated with middle-aged paunch, I knew I was a sitting duck. Sure enough, it wasn't long before a trim, tanned, and fastidiously depilated rider upon a state of-the-art crabon machine leered covetously at the bounty beneath my Brooks Cambium and requested use of my multitool. It seemed his flimsy crabon seat tube was having difficulty constraining his flimsy crabon seatpost, and so he was basically sinking as he rode. Proffering the tool, I watched as he tightened the seatpost clamp, silently longing for the delectable sound of Kracking Krabon, with which I'm intimately familiar from my days as a back-of-the-pack amateur bike racer. (It's the first thing you hear now after a crash.)
No sooner had I returned the multitool to its pouch than a rider astride a high-end time trial bike stopped and requested a pump. What is it with people who use aerobars and not carrying a pump? And who goes on an interstate bike ride without some way to inflate your tires?!? I was internally stiff but externally compliant as I handed over the one thing that I can't even begin to fathom not carrying.
I'll never fully understand what goes through the mind of a typical New York City Fred as he sets out on a ride, but I suppose it must be something like, "Eh, I'm not going to bring anything with me, there's always some fat guy standing around with a bag of tools."
Lastly, after my Fred ride I did manage to watch a little bit of the Touring of France, and by now we all know what happened:
The Team Sky principal, Sir Dave Brailsford, has insisted he has “no regrets” about not choosing Bradley Wiggins for this year’s Tour de France after Chris Froome was forced to pull out of the race on stage five after his third crash in two days.
If Brailsford has "no regrets" then he must be wearing oven mitts on his brain like Courtland Milloy.