During graduate school, I took to ferrying myself between home and work via bicycle.  This was done on the simple rationale that carbs were cheaper than gas.  Being on a bike offers an interesting perspective on the world, one that commuters of the mechanized variety fail to see.  For one thing, cyclists notice far more of their surroundings than their motorcoached brethren.  For example, a family of four in a Honda Civic is usually too distracted to notice a plate of homemade brownies that’s been inexplicably left in the gutter, and only rarely are they moving slowly enough to read the labels of CDs that have been wantonly abandoned to the gutter.  I’ll have you know that, from what I’ve seen, there’s an epidemic of people afflicted with an unstoppable desire to hurl Keith Richards discs from their car mid-tune. 

You also see the more visceral side of humanity.  On one occasion, I witnessed a drug deal go down as I pedaled past.  It was my first time witnessing drug deal, possibly the participant’s last, at least for a while: For reasons unknown, the two geniuses conducted the exchange within easy view of a parked and manned police squad car.  I was so intent on noting the proper etiquette for the purveyance of narcotics (and whether the officer would intervene in their negotiations) that I didn’t notice a staggering man ahead of me until he threw up a little on the sidewalk next to the parked cruiser.  As I drew closer, the man took two more unsteady steps and vomited prodigiously directly into my path, forcing me to swerve and narrowly avoid hitting the cop car in question.  This created a scene that, to the best of my knowledge, occupied the officer.  As far as I know, the vomiting man and the drug deal were unrelated.  The remainder of the ride was beset with musing: was the vomiting man a lookout?  If it was a planned distraction, wasn’t it a little over-the-top for a street deal?  And who buys drugs at 8 AM on a Tuesday?

I also had a number of interesting encounters while I was riding on campus, including several near-crashes in which I was distracted by scantily-clad coeds and two occasions where I fled from campus police who were chasing me for speeding violations.  For legal reasons, I cannot discuss these in great detail, but I will say that a bike going downhill can go pretty darn fast, and a biker who doesn’t have enough money to pay a fine can go faster still.  These encounters are merely appetizers, for the story I’m about to tell made my past shenanigans pale impressions of vibrant life.     

If I have one pet peeve about bicycling, it’s motorists who have an irrational fear of bicyclists.  Those of you who do not know the savage joy of pedaling are no doubt scratching your heads, wondering what I’m talking about.  To be specific: I get pissed off when I’m in traffic and pull up next to a luxury car at a stoplight.  After a few seconds, long enough for the driver to notice the presence of a biker, the unmistakable click of locking doors is heard as they scramble to secure their $40,000 car from the likes of me.  The inference is clear: this big, bad bicyclist is going to carjack me.  Never mind that I’m wearing spandex shorts and a cycling helmet.  Never mind that I’ve been sitting here for 45 seconds until you got off the phone long enough to notice me.  Never mind that I’m riding a $1,000 bike, sweating, in the midst of drinking some Gatorade, and am otherwise completely ignoring you.  No, gentle motorist: I’m about to get off the bike, totter over to the driver’s side, pull you out by the throat and shove one of my uncomfortable bike shoes up your ass.  Then I’m going to pack my bike into your 500-cubic-foot trunk and peel out in your car in broad daylight, all before the light turns green.  Yeah, good thing you locked the door just now, hero.  That was close. 

I’m a patient man, but one day, I’d had just about enough of this when I watched while a woman applied lipstick for the better part of a minute, totally oblivious until she finally realized I was there.  When she finally noticed I was parked next to her silver Mercedes SUV, she lunged – lunged – for the door locks, which whirred smoothly to secure her.  Then she sighed visibly, and returned to her cosmetology.  It was not subtle. 

Since this was a long light, and since she seemed so afraid of the likes of me, I decided to have a bit of fun with her.  On such short notice, I could only think of a single course of action: I ripped my cycling jersey up and put ‘em on the glass, Sir Mix-A-Lot style. 

For those of you over forty, this means I pressed my bared nipples against her passenger side window, pressing the sweaty protuberances against the lightly tinted glass.  I accompanied this with a dramatic “BLAAAGHH!!!” in which I stuck my tongue out and allowed it to wag from side to side as I furiously shook my head, as if to say, “Oh no, you just didn’t do that lady; it’s crazy time now.”

Several things happened in quick succession.  After giving her a solid four seconds of man breasts, I removed my chesticles from the glass, just in time to witness one of the greatest overreactions in the history of mankind.  Apparently, my quarry hadn’t quite been done with her lipstick, which now issued from the corner of her mouth, across her right cheek.  Perhaps I had surprised her, a suspicion that was immediately confirmed when she emitted a high, bloodcurdling shriek, followed by another.  Followed by another.  In total, the three screams went on for at least ten seconds, certainly long enough for unfathomable shock my perspiring chest had dealt to wear off.

The woman dropped her tube of lipstick, grabbed the clutch, and dropped the car into gear.  I hate to say this, but – with the makeup malfunction – it appeared as though I was looking into the world’s most expensive clown car.  Back to the escape: The clown princess turned hard left, sending the Mercedes over the curbed median into a wild U-turn that took her across three lanes, directly into (oh, the irony) a yield sign.  The woman then backs up, straightens out, and peels out, leaving not one, but two hubcaps in the street where she’d jumped the curb, and a sizable dent in her front bumper.  It was the least effective escape I have ever seen, lasting about thirty seconds in total.  Were I inclined, I think I could have carjacked her twice.

The light has turned green, yet no one is honking or seems to be in a terrible hurry to leave.  Based on facial expressions, the crowd seems divided on the hilarity of what transpired, with lines forming roughly along the MSRP of the car they’re sitting in.  Directly behind me is a pizza deliveryman (car: early 1980s, possibly the earth’s last Gremlin) who is laughing so hard it appears someone has just sprayed him with mace.  I flash him a thumbs-up that gently melded into a subtle stroke of the left nipple, and pedal away like a bat out of hell, understandably unsure about the legalities of hot public nipple-on-car action.