Yesterday morning I was riding my trusty bicycle to work, going very fast as usual. I was keeping to the very edge of the road, minding my own business, when something rather disconcerting happened. Two young men in a speeding Mr. Bean 2000 came up behind me, horn honking continuously as they passed. The Bean mobile missed me by inches and then swerved to avoid a collision with an oncoming vehicle. Through this maneuver the driver saved perhaps five seconds. It was inconsiderate and disrespectful at best; asinine and reckless at worst. And downright annoying no matter how you look at it.
I should also point out that this took place about twenty meters away from a police box, a sort of neighborhood office for one or two patrolmen. Said patrolmen did nothing. I guess they did not notice the horn and the screeching tires right outside their window.
I pedalled on, thinking of how I could best respond to the situation and hating the fact that I was helpless. I was mentally telling myself to relax and not allow the stupidity of others to get to me. It was just a few minutes later, after I had more or less 'moved on' in my mind, that I saw the same duo in that very same white Mini Cooper pull up to a stop signal on the street parallel to me. I thought it would be nice to see them again, so I went for a little visit. I rode my bicycle in front of the car, stopped long enough to very conspicuously note the license plate number(9 27), gave a big smile and rode away, leaving the boys at the light.
Whether or not this actually produced the desired psychological effects (regret, fear, and paranoia) I will probably never know. But I felt good about it because I had done something. I didn't let the meanies in their hot rod machine get the last word. I stood up to the bullies in the Bean mobile. Maybe I am letting the testosterone get the best of me, but I felt like I won a battle against pretty tough odds. The driver of that car does not know who I am, and he does not know who I know or what I am capable of. Maybe I am friends with the police, or the Yakuza, or maybe I just like peeing in gas tanks. He simply does not know. But I know his license plate number. And he knows I know his license plate number.
Someday, when he least expects it, I plan to do absolutely nothing. It is enough for me to know that he might be a little concerned about it, and maybe he will think twice the next time he is tempted to show utter disregard for everyone else on the road. Punk.
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1 comment:
Isn't the "Mr. Bean 2000" every car here?
Also, did you know that there's a pony that lives inside gas tanks? That's why they call it "horsepower." Like all good ponies, he likes to eat sugar.
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