I knew what the guy was going to do before he did it.
The cloverleaf near the south end of the Ballard Bridge, where Nickerson, Emerson and Elliott Way come more or less together, is a tricky spot. If you're coming up Nickerson and bending right with the intention of heading north across the bridge, you have no stop sign, but you do have to watch yourself, and others. Somebody coming down around the mini-skyway from the direction of Fishermen's Terminal/Magnolia could plow into you on the left.
And straight ahead - well, there is no "straight ahead" when you have something like a 180-degree turn to execute; but there's that transit stop on the bus lane that parallels the main Elliott Way traffic lanes.
Last Saturday - bright, sunny afternoon, clear as a bell - I had no motorist on my left, and no bus lurking at the bridge-end pickup area. But I did spot a bicyclist headed north on Elliott. He was in the bus lane, almost invisible thanks to the transit rain shelter, but I saw him.
I'd already slowed going into the curve, but I slowed some more, then stopped and watched as the cyclist passed in front of me. Now, let us review: I'm stopped. I've stopped in plenty of time (no scream of brakes, no cloud of dust) that the cyclist is three or four car lengths away from me as he (1) enters my immediate field of view, (2) crosses my path and (3) heads up onto the curb, with the intention of biking across the bridge on the pedestrian way.
Except, as this cyclist starts across in front of my car, he visibly registers: eek, a car! May we reiterate that the car has stopped? Doesn't matter. The poor sensitive plant almost loses control of his bike as he transitions to the sidewalk.
Even before that klutzy move, I already knew what would happen in about 10 seconds. I would drive ahead onto the bridge approach. And as I passed him, the cyclist, with all the self-righteousness a heart-healthy diet and eschewal of an internal-combustion engine could confer, was going to yell something simultaneously sanctimonious and obscene. Which he did.
My fellow citizens, can we get together on a fact of contemporary American life? Namely: The hermaphroditic narcissism of the bicycle rider knows no bounds.
Bicycle riders have to be the most self-congratulatory bipeds on the planet. They are holier than thou, and certainly than moi. No rules apply to them. They switch from street to sidewalk and back again as convenience, or whimsy, dictates.
Red lights don't matter: "Hey, it's not as if I was a car!" And if they do notice the red, they'll take it as a cue to lyric improvisation: "Hmm, the walk light is on, I'm not stuck in a car, I ride a bike... I'm takin' the crosswalk." And forget about that pedestrian whose foot they just ran over.
In their insectile helmets and fluorescent Speedos, it's all about them. Can you spell "bounty"?[[In-content Ad]]
