Bike Riding & the Killer Ape

I'm back to riding my bike to work. I had stopped riding my bike in favor of walking for a couple of reasons.

My daughter used to ride in with me. We'd ride together to her school and drop her off, chain up her bike, and then I'd be on my merry way to work. On a couple of occasions we had jackasses who weren't paying attention nearly run us off the road. They'd come around a blind corner too fast and have to swerve to avoid us even though we were hugging the curb as we rode. It was making me nervous to ride in with her knowing that we shared the road with a gang of retards.

The second reason was a guy who literally swerved his car at me to threaten me. There's a stoplight on my route at which I make a left turn. I was second in line and there was a third person (in a car) behind me. The light turned green and I started to go. If anything, I was tailgating the car in front of me a little bit.

Starting from a dead stop and immediately turning I can keep up with the cars through the turn (unless they're driving like they were in a race). Since there's no such thing as a left turn bike lane, I ride in the same lane as the cars until we're through the turn and then I merge over to the right where the bike lane resumes. Perfectly legal and it slows no one down.

So this guy behind me (fat-ass with glasses and a beard in a maroon early 90's Toyota Corolla) got mad at me for whatever reason. He gunned the engine in his car, pulled alongside me on my left (in the oncoming lane), looked over at me, honked his horn and then swerved his car at me. He gunned it past me and the car in front of me, swerved back into the right lane and raced ahead of us.

At first I was stunned. When I got over the initial shock (maybe 2 seconds) the Murderous Primate kicked in. I wanted this fat motherfucker's blood. I wanted to break my fists on his face. In short, I would kill this tiny-pricked bastard if I got a hold of him. I don't think I've ever been that bent on hurting someone in my life.

I remember thinking to myself as I pedalled like a maniac, "Let the stoplight catch this asshole. Please, God, let me kill this motherfucker."

The stoplight turned red. The fat-ass in the maroon early 90's Toyota Corolla stopped his car and my heart leaped for murderous joy. The mental photograph of him glaring at me while he stiff-armed his horn bubbled up. Both the passenger and driver side windows were open.

His window was open. Huge mistake, fat-ass.

I side-saddled my bike as I rapidly approached his driver-side window. I was going to just ditch the bike and let it go where it might. I was going to reach in this guy's window with my left hand, hook my index and middle fingers up his nose, clamp down with my thumb, and pull his head out of his window. I would then proceed to drill his skull repeatedly with my clenched fist. I wanted to bruise his brain and make it swell up in his fat head.

He looked up in his rear view mirror as I was about 30' behind his maroon early 90's Toyota Corolla. His eyes opened up like saucers, the brake lights went out, and the rear end of his car dipped a bit as he punched his gas pedal and ran the red light. His tires gave a short chirp.

"Fucking twat!" I screamed after him. "You better find a new way to work, motherfucker! I'll fucking kill you!"

I screamed so loudly at him that I hurt my throat in that one outcry. By the time I got to work, my voice was raspy and I was shaking from the adrenaline that was wearing off. I hate that sick feeling in my stomach after I get jacked on adrenaline.

But, man, do I love the soaring power I feel in my limbs and chest when I'm that mad. It's like a drug. Clarity settles into my mind and a singular focus consumes all (in a Darth Vader voice, of course):

Destroy that which has angered thee, Murderous Primate! Kill all that would defy thine glorious vengeance!