I followed all the biking rules, including the lesser known one meant for women, the one about not wearing a head set so you can hear the ensuing attacker hiding in bushes.
I should have forgotten that last tid bit and worn headphones anyway because of the constant harassment of whistling, honking horns, and many a suggestive, “Hey baby, ride that thing!”
I rode through lots of stop signs, red lights, and even on the wrong side of the street to avoid creeps who wanted to follow me and continue their harassment unabated.
When it became too much I started forsaking myself the (cough cough) safety of town for country roads.
The decision worked well, at first, there was plenty of peace and quiet, the beautiful landscape of farm country, no hooting and hollering or comments made about my getting it on with the bike.
Then I was hit by a car.
Fortunately, I didn’t end up road kill or smeared across a windshield, just thrown into a ditch. No major injuries, but I was pretty shook up.
The real icing on the cake was that the asshole didn’t even bother to stop, not even a glance in his rearview mirror!
I wish to this day I’d gotten the plate number instead of the back of his head forever seared into my memory.
This happened a little more than ten years ago and I’ve not ridden my bike since; unless you count a few loops in my driveway, and to this day my family believes I won’t ride my bike because of getting hit by a car.
Well, that’s one reason out of two!
Written by Beth
Thanks for the awesome picture Beth!