I was in Chicago’s Old Town riding north in the bike lane on Wells St. when a cab pulled ahead of me and stopped, wedging me between him and a parked SUV. Right away, the right rear door opened, and—left with no time to stop or go around—I plowed into it at full speed.
I pitched forward, but my left leg was lodged in the bike frame, so when momentum propelled me over the door, my bike came with me. My right shoulder slammed into the SUV and dislocated, and I flipped onto my back with the bike beneath me, my left leg still trapped. I felt my head (in helmet) bounce off the fender of the SUV and then the pavement. My backpack—housing my brand new, painfully expensive laptop—broke my fall.
I lay paralyzed, trapped inside my bike frame, arm out of the socket, hearing no sound but my own breathing. Blood trickled from a gash on my chin. As time and sound suddenly rushed back and my brain reported no broken bones or worse, my only pathetic thought was… my computer!
Adrenaline surging through my system, my heart racing, all I could do was pant. The girl who’d opened the cab door mumbled “Sorry” and behind me, a group seated at tables outside a café jumped up to help. One tried to pick me up from behind but let go when I howled.
Slowly dislodging my left leg from the bike frame, I began to try to right myself, like a turtle flipped on its shell. Two arriving cops asked if I needed an ambulance, and someone from the kind café trio shouted to them about my right shoulder. I waved them off, managed to wriggle my left arm out of my backpack, stood up and reset my right shoulder on my own. Door Girl turned white and looked away. I was still too winded to speak.
While I stood there trying to get my bearings, I became acutely aware of what people were saying.
Loudmouth bystander: “That’s what happens when you ride bikes in the city, dude.”
His companion, snarky, “Yeah, but he’s got a really cool helmet.”
A passing biker: You ok? I nod. She barks at the cabbie, “Bike lane, asshole!” before pedaling off.
The cab driver was arguing with one of the bike cops. The cop remonstrated, “You were in the bike lane; you are required to make sure your passenger is safe before letting her out!” When the cabbie yelled back, the cops ordered him out of the car. He muttered in passing, “Man, why are people driving bikes in the city anyway? Cities are for cars!”
His remarks left me completely flummoxed. Just recovering my ability to articulate, I had the entire extended socio-political-eco argument for urban biking at the ready when the cop preempted me and shouted back, “Cause gas is too expensive and people are dying for oil, man! Now give it a rest and pick up a newspaper sometime.”
Reeling from the profundity of a cop uttering such slogans, I noticed everyone looking at me expectantly. Every muscle and bone in my body was screaming in pain and Door Girl, having moved from shock to fear, was now begging forgiveness. The cabbie was eyeballing me with a look that seemed to translate into, “You ain’t hurt, but I know you’re gonna sue me and I’m gonna lose my job.” The cops moved between us like a barrier.
In an instant, I was presented with a clear choice: let anger rule the moment, invariably making everything worse, or act from a place of patience and maturity and defuse the whole incident.
I took a deep cleansing breath, consciously telling myself, “Nothing will be gained by turning this situation ugly; be the bigger person.” I calmed down the increasingly panicked Door Girl and told the cops I just wanted a report—in case I needed medical assistance and because I felt the cabbie should fix my mangled bike. The cops agreed.
I suddenly remembered my computer and checked it frantically, all the while fumbling with the shame and ambivalence of my own particular materialistic curse.
At some point the owner of the SUV appeared, date in tow. “Sorry ’bout those dents,” I told him. “That would be my head that caused them.” While waiting to make a report for his insurance, he pronounced, “I’m one of those people who just doesn’t understand why anyone would want to ride a bike everywhere.” Although the words were delivered affably enough, I thought I could detect a hint of tree-hugging, liberal hippie freak.
I replied, “And I’m one of ‘those people’ who just doesn’t understand why anyone would want to buy an SUV.”
We laughed, but beneath my words was dismay at recognizing that we represented two distinct worldviews, and the little patch of bike lane we fight over, like a curbside Gaza Strip, is an emblem of the change happening everywhere. Biking is a symbol of health and consciousness… for the Earth, for the city, for the rider. SUVs are a symbol of waste, yet SUV drivers will have to be dragged off the streets kicking and screaming, because they believe they have an equal right to be there.
In many ways, our encounter that day mirrored the ongoing clashes within our culture, the skirmishes that emerge as a consequence of contested land and values. Each of these encounters has the potential to bring change or to reinforce animus. What would become of this encounter? It was a peaceful resolution, but would it have a lasting result?
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help you?” Door Girl asked, contrite, as I prepared to leave.
“You could give me two dollars so I can get home.”
She seemed surprised but gave me the two dollars, and I limped to the nearest EL stop.
Both my body and my bike healed nicely, with minimal expense. So, choosing not to sue, I threw out the police report.
Charles Shaw is the editor-in-chief of Conscious Choice in Chicago.