Heading home on Magnolia through Larkspur, I was nearly run over. My light was green, I had just passed the intersection, and in the corner of my eye, I could see the SUV merging into the lane behind me from my right. As he was making no clear effort to slow down, I swerved to the left which gave him just enough room to come to a screeching halt, narrowly missing me.
During and after the course of this maneuver, I also yelled out many loud sounds, and, miraculously, none of them were obsceneties.
Then, to further illustrate my unfavorable view of this situation, I waved my arms up to the sky, clearly a carry-over from all my Spanish language instruction. I’m becoming a more passionate communicator.
The driver then drove up along side of me with his window down to engage in a play-by-play discussion of what just transpired. Believe it or not, I am not making any of this up. This is exactly what was said.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I said.
“Hey, I’m really sorry.”
“My light was green, yours was red. That’s all I have to say about that.”
“You were in my blind spot. I’m really sorry.”
“You should be!” I said, as he sped off.
Blind spot? How can a cyclist in front of you be in your blind spot? Unless you’re blind?
Who lets these people onto the road?