Yin and Yang
02/22/2005 01:26 a.m.
Yin and Yang

Part 1

I have been an avid cyclist for several years now. I have a beautiful yellow/black/chrome road bike that is jewel like in its precision and whooshes like the wind. I credit it for my Ichabod Crane, Thomas Jerome Newton, Joey Ramone, Manute Bol, stork-like thinness, despite my advancing years (my graying hair is a clear indication that I am well into my declining years).

One evening after work I was enjoying a peaceful ride, Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” raggedly raging inside my head. Pure pleasure. At 20 mph on a bicycle, the world can feel like a wonder.

As it is a heavily traveled route for automobiles, I am used to traffic and comfortable “sharing the road.” This particular road is wide and I stay well to the right.

The phlegmy roar of a cancerous muffler began to close from behind. I sized up the approaching vehicle in the micro-rearview mirror mounted to my helmet. A battered and rust eaten pickup was closing fast. The vehicle pulled along side me, down came the window, a sudden movement in my peripheral vision, a white spiraled oblong object passing at high velocity beneath my chin, and a sudden sharp pain on the soft inside part of my arm, just above the elbow. The pickup accelerated, but I saw the extended middle finger thrust out of the passenger side window as it sped away.

I stopped to ascertain the damage, but there was only a large, oblong red mark (which later turned to a handsome sickly soupy green/yellow bruise!). I wouldn’t have minded a little blood. It makes me feel tough, and I could have showed it off at work the next day (I like showing my wounds to the ladies).

I circled back to the point of impact to search for what had struck me. There, in the gutter, was a spark plug. The passenger had hurled the equivalent of a rock in the direction of my head for no reason what so ever.

Part 2

I continued on my way. I still had several miles to go before I would double back and complete the 18-mile route I had chosen that evening. Since the injury was minor, I forgot about it, but the pointless and unprovoked incident stuck in my head.

On the way back, not 100 yards from the earlier incident, I caught sight of activity up one of the side streets. A gleaming golden Jaguar was crookedly stopped in the middle of the residential street. The hood was open gapingly and flames leapt six feet up into the southern summer sky from the engine. Behind the Jaguar was a spindly weather beaten Ford Escort.

A sobbing, elegant, and somewhat statuesque blond dressed in a matching pants suit found sanctuary in the arms of a large and matronly black woman dressed in sweat pants that were stretched to their limit in the seat.

I surmised (I believe correctly) that the black lady Escort owner was comforting the blond Jaguar owner after the engine suddenly caught fire. It was a multi-faceted reassuring moment.

In a matter of seconds, several more motorists pulled in to assist, people jogged out from their houses, and a siren wailed in the distance. The black lady continued to comfort the blond; stillness amidst the activity.

Since I had nothing to offer that wasn’t already offered in triplicate, I continued on my way.


That evening lives in my mind‘s eye.