...keepin it real Thursdays

So today I'll regale you with three tales of gore and intrigue... Firstly, on Tuesday evening, as I was cycling home down Christye St. about to come to the base of the Manhattan bridge, I was suddenly cut off by a silver station wagon that had been driving to my left and slightly in front of me. Thanks to my cat-like reflexes, I was able to avoid riding headlong into the rear windshield; though I didn't avoid contact altogether.

Since I was riding with my hands on the brake hoods, my right-hand knuckles went onto the tail-light of the offending Volvo, though I didn't realize this until later... Thinking I had just bumped into the car, I stopped riding to admonish the driver for not yielding to bicycle traffic, but he beat me to the punch, so to speak. The guy jumps out of his car and starts cussing me out at the top of his lungs, insisting that I intentionally and maliciously punched his car, 'cause as he said, "I see you people hit cars all the time! Don't try and act like it was an accident!"

By "you people" I can only assume he meant bike messengers, since they're usually the only cyclists in this city that are skilled and confident enough to tap a moving vehicle while evading the threat and not falling over. Actually I was somewhat flattered to be mistaken for the one of the "bad boys of cycling", though I'm not entirely certain of what led him to think I'm a messenger, I suppose it has something to do with my being on a bike, while wearing a backpack, since as we all know, backpacks are worn solely by messengers and no one else.

Once he felt his tirade was complete, he got back into his car and sped away, leaving me incredulous, staring after him. Then, trying to get pen and paper from my backpack to report him, I noticed that my middle finger looked a lot like this though on the other hand and more bloodied (sorry, I didn't have a camera with me that day):


I wish I had been able to remember the name of the lawyer in Carlito's Way, but alas, I'm terrible at coming up good insults on the fly. Anyway, he looked just like that character, so needless to say, it was pretty disheartening to get told off by a curly little punk like that. To make a long story short, it took me a while to both re-locate my finger and forget the guy's diatribe.

To help get my mind away from my worldly troubles, I escaped to the cozy confines of the Tour de France, reveling in the cyclists' determination. However, there certainly are traffic fiascos in the pro peloton too. Watching stage six end on wet catalan streets this morning, I just knew we could expect some spectacular crashes. Behold! Within three kilometers to the finish of a 181.5km stage, famed coke-head and German national road-racing champion, Tom Boonen (pronounced bonin' [as in fornication, yes...]) slips on a road marking, taking out 5-6 other riders in the process.



Unfortunately for Boonen and those other guys, when you're in a crash that close to the finish, they count the time gap instead of giving you the same time as everyone else (as was discussed yesterday) as when the peloton finishes.

Lastly, Mark Cavendish is yet again wearing the green jersey despite the best efforts of Thor Hushovd the stage's winner. During the ritual re-donning of the jersey, he sure didn't look too happy about having to actively defend it tomorrow.


Since tomorrow's stage is a highly anticipated mountain course where Armstrong, Contador, and Cancellara are expected to battle it out for the maillot jaune, the likelihood that the 'dish (strictly a sprinter) will be able to keep the points jersey is pretty slim. It's OK though Mark, I know someone who feels your pain. perhaps he can offer some consolation in song form:



Without a doubt, one of the more touching odes to self worth.