Archive for General

That’s so L.A.: Parking meters — Should I pay or should I go?

In honor of Los Angeles’ new advertising slogan, I’m starting a new semi-recurring feature highlighting the things that make this city just so L.A.

And while the focus of this blog is cycling, let’s kick it off with something that might be more appropriate for Streetsblog or maybe LAist.

Parking.

More specifically, the new parking meters in Brentwood.

As I mentioned previously, we went out to dinner in Brentwood over the weekend. And after doing my part to contribute to high gas prices, smog and global warming by repeatedly circling a several block radius looking for a parking space, we finally found one in front of the Whole Foods on San Vicente.

As soon as we got out of the car, we noticed that the city’s attempt to gouge every last dime out of its citizens free up parking spaces and increase revenues— without providing viable alternatives — had spread to Brentwood.

Meters that had previously cost $1 an hour now cost $2. And the hours of operation, which had previously allowed free parking after 6 pm, had now been extended to 8 pm.

westwood-parking-1

It might have been nice if they had posted something about the rates going up — after all, I ride through there at least a couple times a week, so I would have noticed.

But this is L.A., after all.

So we started digging for quarters, until we looked up and noticed this sign directly over our parking space:

westwood-parking-21

To pay or not pay? That was the question.

The sign suggested we could just walk off and enjoy our meal without worrying about a ticket, since it was well after 6. Yet the meter insisted we would be ticketed if we didn’t pay.

We finally concluded that a handful of quarters were cheap insurance against a ticket, even if we could — or at least, should — beat it in court. But it just wasn’t work risking the aggravation.

So the city got an undeserved buck out of us. And reinforced once again how deeply dysfunctional this city is.

And that’s just so L.A.

Next: New and improved pedestrian-free crosswalks!


A couple of must-reads: A great, in-depth report on the problems with traffic and bike lanes in the Big Apple, with lessons that could easily apply here. And an article on why California cyclists need bike lawyers, including insights on fallacy of the “I just didn’t see him defense” (#3) and the sanctity of bike lanes (#7). The increase in cycling means more riders are getting injured, while a cyclist in Japan dies after being refused treatment. Is that what we have to look forward to? Finally, the Governator takes to the road, with security — and without a helmet. Way to set the example, Arnold.

That’s so L.A.: Parking meters — Should I pay or should I go?

In honor of Los Angeles’ new advertising slogan, I’m starting a new semi-recurring feature highlighting the things that make this city just so L.A.

And while the focus of this blog is cycling, let’s kick it off with something that might be more appropriate for Streetsblog or maybe LAist.

Parking.

More specifically, the new parking meters in Brentwood.

As I mentioned previously, we went out to dinner in Brentwood over the weekend. And after doing my part to contribute to high gas prices, smog and global warming by repeatedly circling a several block radius looking for a parking space, we finally found one in front of the Whole Foods on San Vicente.

As soon as we got out of the car, we noticed that the city’s attempt to gouge every last dime out of its citizens free up parking spaces and increase revenues— without providing viable alternatives — had spread to Brentwood.

Meters that had previously cost $1 an hour now cost $2. And the hours of operation, which had previously allowed free parking after 6 pm, had now been extended to 8 pm.

westwood-parking-1

It might have been nice if they had posted something about the rates going up — after all, I ride through there at least a couple times a week, so I would have noticed.

But this is L.A., after all.

So we started digging for quarters, until we looked up and noticed this sign directly over our parking space:

westwood-parking-21

To pay or not pay? That was the question.

The sign suggested we could just walk off and enjoy our meal without worrying about a ticket, since it was well after 6. Yet the meter insisted we would be ticketed if we didn’t pay.

We finally concluded that a handful of quarters were cheap insurance against a ticket, even if we could — or at least, should — beat it in court. But it just wasn’t work risking the aggravation.

So the city got an undeserved buck out of us. And reinforced once again how deeply dysfunctional this city is.

And that’s just so L.A.

Next: New and improved pedestrian-free crosswalks!


A couple of must-reads: A great, in-depth report on the problems with traffic and bike lanes in the Big Apple, with lessons that could easily apply here. And an article on why California cyclists need bike lawyers, including insights on fallacy of the “I just didn’t see him defense” (#3) and the sanctity of bike lanes (#7). The increase in cycling means more riders are getting injured, while a cyclist in Japan dies after being refused treatment. Is that what we have to look forward to? Finally, the Governator takes to the road, with security — and without a helmet. Way to set the example, Arnold.

How many cyclists have died in this Brentwood boutique?

Will the carnage never end?

Ghost bike used as a display in Brentwood boutique

Ghost bike used as a display in Brentwood boutique

I noticed this window display the other night when my wife and I stopped in Brentwood for a bite to eat, and stopped by on my ride today to take a picture.

My best guess is, whoever does their displays saw a ghost bike along the road somewhere, and thought it looked cool — without realizing the symbolism. Or maybe they did know what it was, and wanted to send a subtle public service warning to the many riders on San Vicente Blvd to be careful out there.

It could be a not-so-subtle warning to Critical Mass riders to keep out of their store. Or maybe a cyclist really was killed trying to ride between their display racks.

Whatever.

Or am I the only one who thinks it’s incredibly poor taste to use a memorial to dead cyclists to pimp women’s athletic wear?

ghost-bike-window2

 

Will relates a truly frightening tale of a roadway confrontation. Maybe I really am lucky mine got away last week. The Sunday Santa Monica Farmers Market now has a bike valet. Which brings up Stephen Box’s latest post about bicycle parking in Hollywood, or more precisely, the lack thereof. And he picks up the story of how the Orange Line Bikeway became a homeless encampment.

Today’s ride, in which I don’t inconvenience anyone

As I was riding today, I was still a little steamed about last week’s unpleasant interaction with a driver who tried to tell me off after he nearly hit me — even though I had the right of way and was riding safely.

I was also considering his anger, and my unfortunate reaction to it, in the context of the anti-cyclist comments that are all too common online — such as the recent ones on the Times’ website.

You see, to a certain segment of the driving population, we seem to be an almost evil presence on the road — something to be tolerated, at best. Or for some, to be run off the road, if possible. Whether literally or figuratively.

To those people, there are no good cyclists.

As far as they’re concerned, we’re a breed of rude, arrogant, two-wheeled law-flaunting scofflaws who block the road, don’t signal, consistently run stop lights and never, ever observe stop signs. Especially the ones they see as the ultimate, crème de la vile crème of roadway criminality — the spandex-clad racers and recreational riders.

Like me.

Of course, you don’t have to watch the road very long to notice that many, if not most, riders actually do signal, as well as stop for — and wait out — red lights, and observe stops at least as often and well as most local drivers do.

But it seems that many drivers don’t notice the countless riders they pass who ride safely; just the few who blow through lights or commit some other unforgivable act. Even if it’s something that other drivers do on a near daily basis.

So that’s what I was thinking when I was stopped at 7th on San Vicente, and another rider — also a spandex-wrapped roadie — came up behind me.

We struck up a conversation, and once the light changed, fell in together as we rode side-by-side up the hill and back down the other side.

Turned out he was a pretty a nice guy. We discussed how nice it was to be riding in 80 degree weather when people back east are digging themselves out from the latest storm. About his work in the film industry, and the prospects for yet another crippling strike. And about his avocation a racer — an expert-level mountain biker, and a CAT-4 roadie who competed in last year’s Brentwood Grand Prix.

As we rode, an interesting thing happened. As the outside rider, when something came up that posed a risk for me on the inside, he’d briefly move out into the traffic lane to give me a little more room. And when I noticed something that could force him into traffic, I slowed down just enough to let him pass before moving back up beside him.

Just two riders working together to keep each other safe, without having to exchange a single word.

And despite riding tandem for nearly two miles, up and down hill, we both stayed comfortably within the bike lane virtually the entire time, allowing traffic to pass by uninterrupted. No red lights were run, no drivers inconvenienced.

So if some drivers insist on blaming us all for the actions of a few, I guess I can live it that.

Then a little further on, I encountered another cyclist. This time, it was an older woman riding slowly as she struggled up a short, steep hill and around a sharp corner.

As I approached her, I noticed a car coming up from behind, and realized that the driver’s view of the woman was blocked — and would have no idea she was there when he rounded the corner.

So I swung out around her, taking the corner much wider than I usually would, and blocking the lane to prevent the driver from going by.

I’m not sure the woman even knew what I was doing. But once the driver rounded the corner and saw her, he seemed to understand what I was doing, and why. So I moved back to the right to let him by, and he passed both of us — very safely — with about six feet of clearance.

Just one cyclist looking out for another.

 

Illuminate LA offers a guide for reducing cycling collisions, with studies to back it up. LA Rides provides a pair of maps for riding safely between Westwood and Mar Vista. No Whip describes a 75-mile ride on and off road through the hills of L.A. Ubrayj envisions a car-free Lincoln Park. Will gets excited about volunteering for the Tour of California. Cynergy Cycles announces their Women’s Week, a week of exclusive events for female riders; too bad their website isn’t as cool as the email, which I can’t link too. The Daily News calls on the MTA to speed up its support of cyclists. And finally, Streetsblog talks about the need to reform the laws governing cycling, while Indiana is in the process of doing something about it, with the support of the local paper.

Today’s ride, in which I don’t inconvenience anyone

As I was riding today, I was still a little steamed about last week’s unpleasant interaction with a driver who tried to tell me off after he nearly hit me — even though I had the right of way and was riding safely.

I was also considering his anger, and my unfortunate reaction to it, in the context of the anti-cyclist comments that are all too common online — such as the recent ones on the Times’ website.

You see, to a certain segment of the driving population, we seem to be an almost evil presence on the road — something to be tolerated, at best. Or for some, to be run off the road, if possible. Whether literally or figuratively.

To those people, there are no good cyclists.

As far as they’re concerned, we’re a breed of rude, arrogant, two-wheeled law-flaunting scofflaws who block the road, don’t signal, consistently run stop lights and never, ever observe stop signs. Especially the ones they see as the ultimate, crème de la vile crème of roadway criminality — the spandex-clad racers and recreational riders.

Like me.

Of course, you don’t have to watch the road very long to notice that many, if not most, riders actually do signal, as well as stop for — and wait out — red lights, and observe stops at least as often and well as most local drivers do.

But it seems that many drivers don’t notice the countless riders they pass who ride safely; just the few who blow through lights or commit some other unforgivable act. Even if it’s something that other drivers do on a near daily basis.

So that’s what I was thinking when I was stopped at 7th on San Vicente, and another rider — also a spandex-wrapped roadie — came up behind me.

We struck up a conversation, and once the light changed, fell in together as we rode side-by-side up the hill and back down the other side.

Turned out he was a pretty a nice guy. We discussed how nice it was to be riding in 80 degree weather when people back east are digging themselves out from the latest storm. About his work in the film industry, and the prospects for yet another crippling strike. And about his avocation a racer — an expert-level mountain biker, and a CAT-4 roadie who competed in last year’s Brentwood Grand Prix.

As we rode, an interesting thing happened. As the outside rider, when something came up that posed a risk for me on the inside, he’d briefly move out into the traffic lane to give me a little more room. And when I noticed something that could force him into traffic, I slowed down just enough to let him pass before moving back up beside him.

Just two riders working together to keep each other safe, without having to exchange a single word.

And despite riding tandem for nearly two miles, up and down hill, we both stayed comfortably within the bike lane virtually the entire time, allowing traffic to pass by uninterrupted. No red lights were run, no drivers inconvenienced.

So if some drivers insist on blaming us all for the actions of a few, I guess I can live it that.

Then a little further on, I encountered another cyclist. This time, it was an older woman riding slowly as she struggled up a short, steep hill and around a sharp corner.

As I approached her, I noticed a car coming up from behind, and realized that the driver’s view of the woman was blocked — and would have no idea she was there when he rounded the corner.

So I swung out around her, taking the corner much wider than I usually would, and blocking the lane to prevent the driver from going by.

I’m not sure the woman even knew what I was doing. But once the driver rounded the corner and saw her, he seemed to understand what I was doing, and why. So I moved back to the right to let him by, and he passed both of us — very safely — with about six feet of clearance.

Just one cyclist looking out for another.

 

Illuminate LA offers a guide for reducing cycling collisions, with studies to back it up. LA Rides provides a pair of maps for riding safely between Westwood and Mar Vista. No Whip describes a 75-mile ride on and off road through the hills of L.A. Ubrayj envisions a car-free Lincoln Park. Will gets excited about volunteering for the Tour of California. Cynergy Cycles announces their Women’s Week, a week of exclusive events for female riders; too bad their website isn’t as cool as the email, which I can’t link too. The Daily News calls on the MTA to speed up its support of cyclists. And finally, Streetsblog talks about the need to reform the laws governing cycling, while Indiana is in the process of doing something about it, with the support of the local paper.

Today’s ride, in which I don’t inconvenience anyone

As I was riding today, I was still a little steamed about last week’s unpleasant interaction with a driver who tried to tell me off after he nearly hit me — even though I had the right of way and was riding safely.

I was also considering his anger, and my unfortunate reaction to it, in the context of the anti-cyclist comments that are all too common online — such as the recent ones on the Times’ website.

You see, to a certain segment of the driving population, we seem to be an almost evil presence on the road — something to be tolerated, at best. Or for some, to be run off the road, if possible. Whether literally or figuratively.

To those people, there are no good cyclists.

As far as they’re concerned, we’re a breed of rude, arrogant, two-wheeled law-flaunting scofflaws who block the road, don’t signal, consistently run stop lights and never, ever observe stop signs. Especially the ones they see as the ultimate, crème de la vile crème of roadway criminality — the spandex-clad racers and recreational riders.

Like me.

Of course, you don’t have to watch the road very long to notice that many, if not most, riders actually do signal, as well as stop for — and wait out — red lights, and observe stops at least as often and well as most local drivers do.

But it seems that many drivers don’t notice the countless riders they pass who ride safely; just the few who blow through lights or commit some other unforgivable act. Even if it’s something that other drivers do on a near daily basis.

So that’s what I was thinking when I was stopped at 7th on San Vicente, and another rider — also a spandex-wrapped roadie — came up behind me.

We struck up a conversation, and once the light changed, fell in together as we rode side-by-side up the hill and back down the other side.

Turned out he was a pretty a nice guy. We discussed how nice it was to be riding in 80 degree weather when people back east are digging themselves out from the latest storm. About his work in the film industry, and the prospects for yet another crippling strike. And about his avocation a racer — an expert-level mountain biker, and a CAT-4 roadie who competed in last year’s Brentwood Grand Prix.

As we rode, an interesting thing happened. As the outside rider, when something came up that posed a risk for me on the inside, he’d briefly move out into the traffic lane to give me a little more room. And when I noticed something that could force him into traffic, I slowed down just enough to let him pass before moving back up beside him.

Just two riders working together to keep each other safe, without having to exchange a single word.

And despite riding tandem for nearly two miles, up and down hill, we both stayed comfortably within the bike lane virtually the entire time, allowing traffic to pass by uninterrupted. No red lights were run, no drivers inconvenienced.

So if some drivers insist on blaming us all for the actions of a few, I guess I can live it that.

Then a little further on, I encountered another cyclist. This time, it was an older woman riding slowly as she struggled up a short, steep hill and around a sharp corner.

As I approached her, I noticed a car coming up from behind, and realized that the driver’s view of the woman was blocked — and would have no idea she was there when he rounded the corner.

So I swung out around her, taking the corner much wider than I usually would, and blocking the lane to prevent the driver from going by.

I’m not sure the woman even knew what I was doing. But once the driver rounded the corner and saw her, he seemed to understand what I was doing, and why. So I moved back to the right to let him by, and he passed both of us — very safely — with about six feet of clearance.

Just one cyclist looking out for another.

 

Illuminate LA offers a guide for reducing cycling collisions, with studies to back it up. LA Rides provides a pair of maps for riding safely between Westwood and Mar Vista. No Whip describes a 75-mile ride on and off road through the hills of L.A. Ubrayj envisions a car-free Lincoln Park. Will gets excited about volunteering for the Tour of California. Cynergy Cycles announces their Women’s Week, a week of exclusive events for female riders; too bad their website isn’t as cool as the email, which I can’t link too. The Daily News calls on the MTA to speed up its support of cyclists. And finally, Streetsblog talks about the need to reform the laws governing cycling, while Indiana is in the process of doing something about it, with the support of the local paper.

Today’s ride, in which I chase a BMW and race a Porsche

I should have known it was going to be one of those rides.

Just three blocks from home, I come up to a 4-way stop, then went through the intersection the same time as a car going the opposite way. Only problem was, a car on the cross street began his left turn as soon as the other car passed, while I was still in the intersection — attempting to occupy the same space I was already in.

But I bit my tongue. Hard.

I mean, not one word or gesture. It wasn’t that I had suddenly become a pacifist. I just didn’t want to ruin this beautiful day. Not even when he pulled to the curb a couple blocks later, almost dooring me as he got out of his car.

Then just a few blocks after that, at another 4-way stop, some idiot on the cross street came to a full stop — in the middle of the intersection. Which meant he was blocking the path of every other person on the road, including me. Then he just sat there waiting to see if anyone else was going to go first.

Message received. Just one of those days.

So about a half-dozen minor incidents later, I found myself riding down San Vicente in Brentwood, when I noticed a large BMW preparing to enter the street from the parking lot at Soup Plantation.

Only problem is, there was a large truck parked next to the exit, completely blocking his view of the street. So he had no way of knowing if there was a bike, car, bus or the entire USC Marching Band bearing down on him.

The way this ride had already gone, I assumed the worst, and grabbed my brakes while swinging out wide into the lane. And sure enough, just as I rounded the corner of the truck, he gunned his engine to pull out, then jammed on the brakes when he saw me.

But when he saw I was slowing down, this gold-plated, double-dipped Richard-head gunned it again, clearly thinking he could lurch out in front me — except by then, I was already in front of his car. So he jammed on the brake again, as I rolled by with my hands out to the side in the universal “What the fuck?” gesture.

Once I was past, he gunned it again, then pulled up beside me with his window down, yelling something unintelligible. But it was pretty damn clear it wasn’t an apology. So that caveman portion of my brain kicked, punching out the standard fight or flight response.

And I sure as hell wasn’t going to run away.

So the chase was on.

I kicked it up a couple gears, assumed my best sprint position and picked up the cadence. And much to my surprise, I found I was actually gaining on him.

In fact, I was just about to catch up to him, prepared to give him one of the few pieces of my mind that I have left, when a Porsche pulled out from the curb directly ahead of me without looking.

So I swung hard to the left. And next thing I knew, I was racing down the left lane at about 30 mph, next to the driver’s door of a 911 — the operator of which was preoccupied with talking to his lovely passenger, and had no idea that I was there, since he hadn’t once looked in my direction.

Now, any sane person would have realized the complete idiocy of that situation, grabbed hard on the brakes, and let the Porsche go by.

But that would have meant that the esteemed Mr. Head would get away.

So I kicked it up to my smallest gear and cut in front of the Porsche. And causing the driver to jam on his brakes, with an expression that clearly said “What the holy f…!!!!”

And yes, I confess that there was a small part of my otherwise engaged brain that registered his expression, and truly enjoyed it.

But Mr. Head comma Dick was getting away, so I continued to hammer down the street. And I was only about 20 feet behind him when he pulled a U-turn and raced off in the other direction. Leaving me in the position of chasing him down once again, or getting on with my life.

I chose the latter.

I’d like to say the remainder of my ride was uneventful. Really, I would.

But I would be lying.

Maybe I’ll share it with you another time. Or maybe I’ll just pour a few fingers of good Irish Whiskey and try to forget the whole thing.

One last thing, though. All that adrenalin must have done some good.

Because I finished my usual 2-1/2 hour ride in just a hair under 2:10.

 

Evidently, I wasn’t the only one who had a challenging ride lately. Will documents the Anatomy of an Inattentive Driver, while Gary discusses a recent hit and run that put a Santa Monica cyclist in critical condition. My friend, the proprietor of the Altadena Blog, uncovers a slightly nauseating video of a fat tire ride down Echo Mountain. L.A.C.B.C announces Car-Free Friday; celebrate it by riding with City Council President Eric Garcetti. And Stephen Box marks the second anniversary of storming the L.A. Bicycle Advisory Committee’s figurative Bastille with an open letter to the new head of the Bikeways Engineering Group.

Today’s ride, in which I chase a BMW and race a Porsche

I should have known it was going to be one of those rides.

Just three blocks from home, I come up to a 4-way stop, then went through the intersection the same time as a car going the opposite way. Only problem was, a car on the cross street began his left turn as soon as the other car passed, while I was still in the intersection — attempting to occupy the same space I was already in.

But I bit my tongue. Hard.

I mean, not one word or gesture. It wasn’t that I had suddenly become a pacifist. I just didn’t want to ruin this beautiful day. Not even when he pulled to the curb a couple blocks later, almost dooring me as he got out of his car.

Then just a few blocks after that, at another 4-way stop, some idiot on the cross street came to a full stop — in the middle of the intersection. Which meant he was blocking the path of every other person on the road, including me. Then he just sat there waiting to see if anyone else was going to go first.

Message received. Just one of those days.

So about a half-dozen minor incidents later, I found myself riding down San Vicente in Brentwood, when I noticed a large BMW preparing to enter the street from the parking lot at Soup Plantation.

Only problem is, there was a large truck parked next to the exit, completely blocking his view of the street. So he had no way of knowing if there was a bike, car, bus or the entire USC Marching Band bearing down on him.

The way this ride had already gone, I assumed the worst, and grabbed my brakes while swinging out wide into the lane. And sure enough, just as I rounded the corner of the truck, he gunned his engine to pull out, then jammed on the brakes when he saw me.

But when he saw I was slowing down, this gold-plated, double-dipped Richard-head gunned it again, clearly thinking he could lurch out in front me — except by then, I was already in front of his car. So he jammed on the brake again, as I rolled by with my hands out to the side in the universal “What the fuck?” gesture.

Once I was past, he gunned it again, then pulled up beside me with his window down, yelling something unintelligible. But it was pretty damn clear it wasn’t an apology. So that caveman portion of my brain kicked, punching out the standard fight or flight response.

And I sure as hell wasn’t going to run away.

So the chase was on.

I kicked it up a couple gears, assumed my best sprint position and picked up the cadence. And much to my surprise, I found I was actually gaining on him.

In fact, I was just about to catch up to him, prepared to give him one of the few pieces of my mind that I have left, when a Porsche pulled out from the curb directly ahead of me without looking.

So I swung hard to the left. And next thing I knew, I was racing down the left lane at about 30 mph, next to the driver’s door of a 911 — the operator of which was preoccupied with talking to his lovely passenger, and had no idea that I was there, since he hadn’t once looked in my direction.

Now, any sane person would have realized the complete idiocy of that situation, grabbed hard on the brakes, and let the Porsche go by.

But that would have meant that the esteemed Mr. Head would get away.

So I kicked it up to my smallest gear and cut in front of the Porsche. And causing the driver to jam on his brakes, with an expression that clearly said “What the holy f…!!!!”

And yes, I confess that there was a small part of my otherwise engaged brain that registered his expression, and truly enjoyed it.

But Mr. Head comma Dick was getting away, so I continued to hammer down the street. And I was only about 20 feet behind him when he pulled a U-turn and raced off in the other direction. Leaving me in the position of chasing him down once again, or getting on with my life.

I chose the latter.

I’d like to say the remainder of my ride was uneventful. Really, I would.

But I would be lying.

Maybe I’ll share it with you another time. Or maybe I’ll just pour a few fingers of good Irish Whiskey and try to forget the whole thing.

One last thing, though. All that adrenalin must have done some good.

Because I finished my usual 2-1/2 hour ride in just a hair under 2:10.

 

Evidently, I wasn’t the only one who had a challenging ride lately. Will documents the Anatomy of an Inattentive Driver, while Gary discusses a recent hit and run that put a Santa Monica cyclist in critical condition. My friend, the proprietor of the Altadena Blog, uncovers a slightly nauseating video of a fat tire ride down Echo Mountain. L.A.C.B.C announces Car-Free Friday; celebrate it by riding with City Council President Eric Garcetti. And Stephen Box marks the second anniversary of storming the L.A. Bicycle Advisory Committee’s figurative Bastille with an open letter to the new head of the Bikeways Engineering Group.

Today’s ride, in which I chase a BMW and race a Porsche

I should have known it was going to be one of those rides.

Just three blocks from home, I come up to a 4-way stop, then went through the intersection the same time as a car going the opposite way. Only problem was, a car on the cross street began his left turn as soon as the other car passed, while I was still in the intersection — attempting to occupy the same space I was already in.

But I bit my tongue. Hard.

I mean, not one word or gesture. It wasn’t that I had suddenly become a pacifist. I just didn’t want to ruin this beautiful day. Not even when he pulled to the curb a couple blocks later, almost dooring me as he got out of his car.

Then just a few blocks after that, at another 4-way stop, some idiot on the cross street came to a full stop — in the middle of the intersection. Which meant he was blocking the path of every other person on the road, including me. Then he just sat there waiting to see if anyone else was going to go first.

Message received. Just one of those days.

So about a half-dozen minor incidents later, I found myself riding down San Vicente in Brentwood, when I noticed a large BMW preparing to enter the street from the parking lot at Soup Plantation.

Only problem is, there was a large truck parked next to the exit, completely blocking his view of the street. So he had no way of knowing if there was a bike, car, bus or the entire USC Marching Band bearing down on him.

The way this ride had already gone, I assumed the worst, and grabbed my brakes while swinging out wide into the lane. And sure enough, just as I rounded the corner of the truck, he gunned his engine to pull out, then jammed on the brakes when he saw me.

But when he saw I was slowing down, this gold-plated, double-dipped Richard-head gunned it again, clearly thinking he could lurch out in front me — except by then, I was already in front of his car. So he jammed on the brake again, as I rolled by with my hands out to the side in the universal “What the fuck?” gesture.

Once I was past, he gunned it again, then pulled up beside me with his window down, yelling something unintelligible. But it was pretty damn clear it wasn’t an apology. So that caveman portion of my brain kicked, punching out the standard fight or flight response.

And I sure as hell wasn’t going to run away.

So the chase was on.

I kicked it up a couple gears, assumed my best sprint position and picked up the cadence. And much to my surprise, I found I was actually gaining on him.

In fact, I was just about to catch up to him, prepared to give him one of the few pieces of my mind that I have left, when a Porsche pulled out from the curb directly ahead of me without looking.

So I swung hard to the left. And next thing I knew, I was racing down the left lane at about 30 mph, next to the driver’s door of a 911 — the operator of which was preoccupied with talking to his lovely passenger, and had no idea that I was there, since he hadn’t once looked in my direction.

Now, any sane person would have realized the complete idiocy of that situation, grabbed hard on the brakes, and let the Porsche go by.

But that would have meant that the esteemed Mr. Head would get away.

So I kicked it up to my smallest gear and cut in front of the Porsche. And causing the driver to jam on his brakes, with an expression that clearly said “What the holy f…!!!!”

And yes, I confess that there was a small part of my otherwise engaged brain that registered his expression, and truly enjoyed it.

But Mr. Head comma Dick was getting away, so I continued to hammer down the street. And I was only about 20 feet behind him when he pulled a U-turn and raced off in the other direction. Leaving me in the position of chasing him down once again, or getting on with my life.

I chose the latter.

I’d like to say the remainder of my ride was uneventful. Really, I would.

But I would be lying.

Maybe I’ll share it with you another time. Or maybe I’ll just pour a few fingers of good Irish Whiskey and try to forget the whole thing.

One last thing, though. All that adrenalin must have done some good.

Because I finished my usual 2-1/2 hour ride in just a hair under 2:10.

 

Evidently, I wasn’t the only one who had a challenging ride lately. Will documents the Anatomy of an Inattentive Driver, while Gary discusses a recent hit and run that put a Santa Monica cyclist in critical condition. My friend, the proprietor of the Altadena Blog, uncovers a slightly nauseating video of a fat tire ride down Echo Mountain. L.A.C.B.C announces Car-Free Friday; celebrate it by riding with City Council President Eric Garcetti. And Stephen Box marks the second anniversary of storming the L.A. Bicycle Advisory Committee’s figurative Bastille with an open letter to the new head of the Bikeways Engineering Group.

Control the intersection, part 2: Actually, it is polite to point

Just last week, I was riding towards a busy intersection. Ahead of me, there was a long line of cars facing me, waiting to make a left turn onto the cross street.

The driver of the first car had plenty of room to make his left before I got to the intersection, crossing my path and going on his way with room to spare.

The second car probably shouldn’t have gone. The driver’s view had been blocked by the first car, and he had no idea I was there until he followed the first driver in making his turn. Fortunately, I hadn’t quite entered the intersection, so he rounded the corner without posing an undue threat.

The third car was another matter.

It was clear that his view had been totally obscured by the cars ahead of him. And if he followed their lead, neither one of us would make it to the other side.

So I pointed at him.

I wasn’t trying to be rude. It’s just a little trick I’ve learned over the years. When a driver doesn’t seem to see me, I extend my arm and point at him. And invariably, they notice me, and respond appropriately.

Don’t ask me why it works. It just does.

In this case, I pointed at the driver as soon as he came into view, after the other car turned. We made eye contact, he nodded, and I rode safely through the intersection and on my merry way.

I’ve used the same technique as I’ve been stopped at a light, when it appeared a driver a going to try to get the jump on me as soon as the light changed. In that case, the driver appeared to be purposely ignoring me, refusing to make eye contact — always a bad sign.

Sure enough, the light changed and he gunned his engine, lurching into the intersection, despite the fact that I had the right of way. So again, I pointed.

And God help me, he stopped.

He sat there with an embarrassed look on his face and let me ride past. Then gunned his engine again, screeching through the corner and down the road.

Other times, I’ve used an extended digit — the first one, not the second, which I tend to employ all too often — to indicate where I intend to go. By pointing straight ahead, I could show that I was going to ride straight across an intersection, even though it was a situation where most drivers would have expected me to turn.

Or I’ve pointed out at a slight angle, to tell drivers that I was entering the lane briefly to go around some obstacle, rather than taking the full lane — or risk confusing them by making a left turn signal.

And in every case, it’s worked. Drivers slow down, and give me enough space to make my move or cross the street. And more amazingly, I’ve never gotten a single horn, shout or obscene gesture in response.

Don’t ask me why.

I’ve even been known to take it a step further by actually directing traffic.

Like at a four way stop, for instance, when no one knows who should go first. In some cases, it may have actually been my right of way. But only a fool would insist on taking it without knowing that the other vehicles intended to cede it.

And as they say down south, my Mama didn’t raise no fools.

So I point at one driver, and hold up my hand to indicate halt. Then point at the other driver and wave him through the intersection, before waving the first car through. And once the intersection is clear, I’ll go through myself — sometime holding out that same halt signal to tell a late arriving vehicle I’m going through.

I always expect the drivers to ignore me. Or laugh. Or get pissed off. But oddly, it never seems to happen.

Instead, they invariably respond to my points and hand commands as meekly as a herd of sheep with a border collie nipping at their flanks.

I can’t explain it. I won’t even try.

All I know is that it works. And the fact that I’m still here to tell you about it is all the proof you need that it does.

 

Bicycle Fixation offers their stylish Limited Edition Herringbone Knickers; very cool, but at that price, I think I’ll continue to wear my decided unstylish spandex. Meanwhile, another rider offers a jersey indicating the three foot passing distance we should all insist on — at least until our personal portable bike lanes hit the market. Gary relates his semi-soggy saga of riding to San Diego over the weekend. Another local bike path becomes a habitat for homeless humanity. Leave it to the Japanese to meld a parking garage with a bicycle vending machine. The Expo Construction Authority seeks an alternate for the Expo Bikeway through NIMBY-ist Cheviot Hills. Yeah, good luck with that. Bike paradise Boulder, Colorado is about to get a state-of-the-art off-road bike park, while Belmont, CA drivers are raging over the new bike lane. Finally, the Rearview Rider, aka the Bicycling Librarian, offers up her new blog of bike-worthy links.