Rolling off the pavement, my ear-buds still in, I think I’m okay. Just a little road rash on my knee. I get up, look around, then yell, “THANKS FOR THE HELP, FUCKERS?!” I was just hit by a car and the fifteen people on the block, including the dumbass who hit me, are just staring and waiting for me to get up. No one is saying a goddamn word and the driver isn't even getting out of his goddamn car. It's my understanding that bike lanes are to promote green transportation throughout the city, and I agree with being green, but don’t for one second think that they’re safe. If biking in New York City has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t have nice things.
Since I couldn’t bring my motorcycle to the city due to a lack of parking, I decided to do the next cheapest thing—ride a bike. It forced me to learn street names rather than simply remember how many turns I had to make from the Broadway/Lafayette stop to get to Saturdays for my La Colombe fix. Don’t get me wrong, biking is the best habit I’ve gotten into since moving to this concrete jungle full of selfish and self-centered monsters, and I urge everyone to try it. I have lost weight, built confidence in quick decision-making and, most of all, it opened up a kind of city living that you cannot experience using public transportation, which smells like homeless person dick for the most part anyway. However, before you get all excited, there are some things you need to know.
Shit happens to your shit when your shit is nicer than the shit of that dude who just walked away with your bike.
First of all, the second I get on my bike I fucking hate everyone. It’s not personal. It might sound crazy, but a car isn’t my biggest threat when riding every night. My biggest threat is you and your dumb face. After 10pm on weekend nights, bike lanes down avenue A go from being a bike lanes to drunk pedestrian catching a cab lanes. Everyone knows how it works, especially myself. We’ve all done it before and we just don’t think about it because we are hammered. It looks like a great place to stand and cabbies love to use it. It’s perfect. Yeah well, sorry, but fuck that. When I’m biking I have the option of staying in the bike lane and hitting every one of you, or riding with traffic and risk getting a ticket. So please stand on the sidewalk, a taxi will see you, I promise.
Another thing you have to understand is that you cannot under any circumstances have nice things in New York City. People love to have nice things, especially bikes, and when you have one of those and lock it up outside so you can catch a quick bite with some friends over brunch, you better be pissing your pants that your shit doesn’t get stolen. It happened to me on a Sunday afternoon, with one of the best bike locks I owned. What most people who don’t have much money, but get one nice thing don’t realize is that when you have nice shit, OTHER PEOPLE WILL TAKE IT WITHOUT HESITATION BECAUSE YOU DO NOT MATTER TO THEM. Shit happens to your shit when your shit is nicer than the shit of that dude who just walked away with your bike. If and when that happens, learn your lesson—get a brightly colored bike (like the bright yellow one I just picked up for winter visibility), and strap on the cheap pair of shoes that no one else wants to ride because they look over-worn and only fit your feet in sentimental ways.
And, most importantly, be a citizen of the world for once in your fucking life and watch out for people everywhere.
If you have seen Premium Rush and now think that you want to ride or even be a hotshot bike messenger and do lots of cool things like they do in the move, you might as well go get hit by a car, no one cares. That was a movie, not a documentary. I don’t know much about bike messengers, but I can guarantee you that they don’t do next level tricks, they don’t use their locks to break mirrors and THE CHICKS DON’T WEAR BOOTY SHORTS.
Go buy a bike and get out there and be a fucking champion. Expect to be hit anytime in any place. Don’t go slow and get in my way. Don’t get a nice bike because the guy who just gave it the eye on the street corner is going to steal it when you turn around to check out that girl's ass. And, most importantly, be a citizen of the world for once in your fucking life and watch out for people everywhere. Technically, they have the right of way (giving every New Yorker their signature false sense of invincibility), but when you yell at them when you’re pushing Speed Racer speeds in the bike lane, I cannot tell you how rewarding it feels to know they might have just shit themselves a little.
Oh, right, helmets—yeah, you're gonna look like a fucking nerd, but try and do something that would make your parents proud this one time. Okay?
James Deufel is a writer and narcoleptic living in Brooklyn. Read his blog here and follow him on Twitter here.
