So, it was about five years ago. A bright Sunday morning. Riding my Bacchetta Ti Aero recumbent bike. It was the last hill after eighteen miles of climbing. A long 6% grade of twisty two lane mountain road (the White Spars in Prescott National Forest, Arizona).
Well, it was slow. But I was well to the side of the road so that motorized vehicles had the whole lane to themselves.
Along comes one of those gigantic pick up trucks. It was huge. Massive tires. And it was loud. And it was shiny black, spotless. Completely empty with the exception of two guys in the front, the passenger side window down with a man's arm resting on the window frame.
As the pick up approaches me the driver downshifts. A suffocating cloud of black diesel smoke comes out the tail pipe. He leans on the horn and veers to his right, coming within inches of me. I could hear both guys laughing while the passenger flips me the bird and yells "Get off the road, faggot."
My reaction was instant. Didn't give it a nanosecond of thought. I flip BOTH of them the bird, too. And yell, "Go **** yourself!!!" and keep pedaling.
And then it happened.
The entire back end of the truck flashes RED. It comes to a sudden stop. Like a giant wall of TRUCK dead in the middle of the road.
I stop, too. Thinking, "Oh ****! They're coming after me." And then bright white backup lights flash and the truck starts to rapidly reverse towards me.
Me, I'm flummoxed. Worried. Chastising myself for `taking the bait' and reacting. "How do I defend myself?"
Under the frame I had a long black tool bag containing two little plastic tire levers, a few CO2 cartridges, a few inner tubes and patches. And, of course, several sheets of toilet paper. In case I got a flat tire...or something more serious.
So, while the truck is backing up I nervously reach under my bike for the tool bag, unzip it and what? pull out an inner tube or something?!!! Threaten them with toilet paper?!!!
And then the monster pickup truck comes to a sudden stop, about 10 yards ahead of me. It sits there for about 20 lonnng seconds. I can see the two guys looking back at me, talking to each other.
The backup lights go out. No brake lights either. The pickup truck literally burns rubber accelerating up the hill. It looked like they were escaping.
First, I'm relieved. Then, I'm wondering. What the hell just happened? They could have yelled, threatened, thrown water and trash at me. Even beaten me up. But, No. Nothing. In fact, it looked like they were frightened and sped off.
----
A few years go by.
And then, cycling up that same hill, I see an old small pickup truck on the side of the road with an older fellow sitting next to it in a lawn and garden chair. On the ground in front of him was a cardboard box on which he wrote, in big black letters, GUNS. He waves at me. I wave at him. Yeah. He was selling rifles and handguns from his pickup truck on the side of the road. LOTS of them In broad daylight. All day long.
I thought, Well, this wouldn't happen back home in Chicago. I'm in `Arizona.'
----
So, it took a few years to pass. And I was still wondering how I escaped being pummeled by two faux macho guys in a giant tank-like pickup truck.
It dawns on me.
When they saw me reaching into a long black bag under the frame of my bike ... they figured I was `reaching into a holster for my gun.'
Reaching for my gun!
Me!
On my bicycle.
And they feared a gunfight.
Like I was gonna shoot them.
----
Arizona.
Selling guns out of a pickup truck.
On the side of the road.
In a lawn and garden chair.
Arizona.
I enjoyed reading this Dan. Guess they thought your macho juices flowed thicker than their own... alternatively, maybe they didn't want to risk getting picked up for violating parole.
ReplyDeleteThought provoking. I too, have had the knee-jerk reactions that I immediately regretted. But then apparently so did your pickup truck fellows. You never know.
ReplyDelete