By Stan Purdum
All of us who cycle on roads have had people in passing vehicles shout at us. Often, they are passing so fast that we can’t make out what they are saying, but the tone usually suggests it’s something catty, mean-spirited or insulting. And it’s not often that we have a chance to confront the yellers. But here’s what happened on one occasion when I did come face to face with two such persons.
In 1999, I was cycling the length of US Route 62, from Niagara Falls, New York to El Paso, Texas. One day in August, I was pedaling across northern Arkansas lost in thought when a loud wolf whistle cut through my reverie. (Hey, I may have great legs, but I suspect the whistler hadn’t really noticed!) An old pickup trundled by, and as I looked up, a young man in the passenger seat was just drawing his head back inside the cab. The truck pulled ahead of me, and I saw that its bed was full of scrap metal. I continued riding without making any response.
About 10 miles later, I arrived in tiny McDougal, looking for somewhere to eat. The only choice — indeed, the only business of any sort — was a small, ragged store. In front dozed the beat-up old pickup.
I lumbered in to discover that a small selection of hot food was available, cooked by a young woman on an electric skillet behind the delicatessen counter. I ordered a sandwich and then wandered the aisles while waiting for it to cook. The shelves were jammed with an assortment of foodstuffs, hardware, auto supplies, notions and other sundries. Near the back, at an ordinary kitchen table, sat two young men dressed in oil-stained clothing. One of the pair, beefy but muscular, weighed at least 300 pounds. I recognized the other — who was half the size of the first — as the one who had issued the wolf call. The only remaining place to sit was across from this pair.
When my sandwich was ready, I clattered over to the table and slid into a seat. “You the guys that whistled at me?” I asked.
The big guy, looking wary, stopped eating. His partner immediately blushed and said, “Oh … yeah … ah … We used to do that in high school.” It came out sounding like an embarrassed apology, so I decided to let him off the hook.
“Good.” I said. “I thought I was losing my touch. Nobody’s whistled at me in a long time.” They both laughed, and I could sense the tension evaporating.
As we all ate, I asked the pair about the load in their truck. The big man, clearly the spokesman for the duo, explained that they were self-employed scrap haulers. The pickup outside was their smaller vehicle. They also ran a larger truck when loads warranted it. He went on to tell me that the scrap yards in some distant cities paid more than some nearer ones, but it required a substantial load to balance the cost of running the truck over the greater distance. I listened, asking a few questions, which he answered in a straightforward manner. He then inquired about my trip, and I told my story. By the time we were done eating, there was a companionable feeling at the table. When the pair rose to leave, the big guy wished me a safe journey, and it sounded sincere.
His partner, the whistler, waved and added, “Me too.”
Stan Purdum has ridden several long-distance bike trips, including an across-America ride recounted in his book Roll Around Heaven All Day, and a trek on U.S. 62, from Niagara Falls, New York, to El Paso, Texas, the subject of his book Playing in Traffic. Stan, a freelance writer and editor, lives in Ohio. See more at www.StanPurdum.com.
wow, great that you turned things around. So many non cyclists have no idea what its like to be out there . I have never been able to interact with someone that has yelled or thrown something at me. In CO we do have a phone number we can call to report rolling coal but , again you have to be able to identify the vehicle.
Safe riding!
judi
This is pretty timely given the current political culture of our nation. There is more that unites us than divides us. We need to remember that.
Thanks for your comments.
Very smart! I never engage negatively with rude motorists. I’ve been on group rides where others do, but they create further animosity toward cyclists, and imperil the safety of all of us. Too many guns in glove boxes, and too much easily ignited aggression. Live to ride another day!
Nice story. One day recently I was riding my usual route. It includes a spot that is narrow, curving hill. When I go up that hill and can tell there’s a vehicle behind me, I always worry that it will be someone who will pass me on that blind curve. More often than not, they wait the needed few seconds to pass safely. So this morning there was definitely someone behind me and it sounded like a full size pickup truck.. I did my best to pick up my speed. Ultimately, as I came to the end of the curve, sure enough the truck came up beside me. It then slowed down and I could see the driver and his passenger window going down. My reaction was to just wait for some inane insult to be shouted and to move on to the next minute of my life. And then it comes, he yelled, “I see you every day. You’re my idol. Keep it up, man.” I thought it was great and easily put all the prior insults to permanent rest.