I was groggier than normal this morning as I pedaled to work
along Prospect Park West. I took note of
my fellow cyclists, sizing them up to see if they were worth racing. I don’t like to be passed - I consider my
ride to work a success when the score is something like 27-0, meaning I passed
27 people without being passed. Just the
day before I’d set an all-time record – catching and lapping close to 40. Today I was mellow, not even perking up when
a wiry geezer zipped by, grey beard rustling in the breeze. He had on black dress pants crudely rubber-banded
around black socks and a white dress shirt.
His helmet sat high on his head as if it were a bit too small. He pedaled with the heels of his pointy dress
shoes, leaning forward with a rod-stiff spine.
He looked like a stork.
He disappeared on the horizon, slipping over the rise at the
middle of the park and I congratulated myself for the mature response. “You don’t always need to win” I told myself,
not fully believing it, suspecting that my sore legs were a likelier reason for
not giving chase.
It was on Vanderbilt St, the first downhill of the ride,
that I began to pick up speed and reel in some competitors. They were an assortment of the usual. The angry looking girl on the fixie, elbows
out like daggers. The Parisian wannabe in
skirt and boots, riding a cruiser with a small dog in a wicker basket. The dog smiled at me as I passed, front paws
perched on the handlebars. Then there
was the beefy dude in the grey tank top on a wheezing junker that sounded like
it was spraying nuts and bolts. I tucked
them all neatly behind me, unconsciously up to attack speed when I noticed a
black silhouette half a block ahead. The
Stork!
I shifted into the 7th of 8 gears expecting to catch
him by the end of the block. I put my
head down and pushed hard, looking up every few seconds. No ground gained. I pushed harder, getting up to 25mph and finally
got to within a few bike lengths.
Without a glance back, as if he knew I’d expended a lot to catch him, he
began to put distance between us. It
wasn’t obvious how, I didn’t hear any gears shift or notice any change in his
pedaling. He just drifted away from me like
he had his own personal tail wind.
We made the turn onto Flushing Ave, passing the Brooklyn
naval yards and I began to wonder if I were dreaming. I was riding as fast as I have all summer,
faster even, and I couldn’t catch the Stork.
I was gripping the handle bars and pumping while he smoothly, methodically
pulled away. I would wake up soon and
this confusion would clear up. Of
course, I didn’t wake up. I felt the pain
in my lungs and spit out a gob of cotton that had built up. This was a real chase, an exciting battle and
I was on the wrong end of it.
I’d managed to keep the gap to 20 feet as we approached the
Washington Ave intersection. The light
turned red but the Stork flew right through it.
I slowed to take a peek and all clear, stood up to sprint through,
hoping to limit the damage. We entered
the long stretch of narrow bike lane that carries you into Williamsburg. It’s a six-foot wide two-lane ribbon with a
cement wall on one side and curb on the other.
In some ways it’s more dangerous than being on the road – the oncoming
cyclists are only inches from you. I was
formulating a big plan – my attack move.
A mile ahead we’d be exiting the bike lane onto a flat drag strip of
road that leads under the Williamsburg bridge and up a hill to Greenpoint. I would catch him and attack on the
hill.
Nothing up to that point gave me much confidence in the plan,
the Stork was now 30 feet away, swooping around the final downhill curve of bike
lane. The cyclists in the oncoming lane
seemed to be at a comparative standstill.
They were plodding along, oblivious, until the Stork blew past them and
gave them a start. There was one
particular zombie in the distance who was about to be buzzed awake by the Stork. He was a prototypical bearded WillieBurger, tattooed
from ankle to wrist, mirrored sunglasses, sitting upright on his fixie, one
hand on the bars, the other holding an iced coffee. He was riding on the line dividing the lanes,
glancing off to his left, failing to notice he was on a curve. He was slowly drifting into our lane. I crossed into the empty oncoming lane but the
Stork maintained his speed and bearing.
I expected the Stork to change lanes at the last second,
slowing a bit to do so and giving me a springboard for my attack. I watched and readied myself. WillieBurger was now in the Stork’s lane, ten
feet away and oblivious. The Stork didn’t
budge and not until the last second did he death-grip his brakes, pitching into
a sideways slide towards Willie, who finally turned his gaze and maintained a
level of disinterest as puzzling as the Stork’s stubbornness.
Front wheel to front wheel crunch and Willie was quickly airborne,
upside down, one hand reaching for, but no longer gripping, the bars. His coffee exploded into a brown cloud, ice
cubes skittering along the road. The
Stork somehow stayed upright, one foot sliding along the ground. He’d completely separated Willie from his
bike, flattening it against the cement wall while passing under Willie’s
somersault.
Had this been a diving competition, Willie would’ve gotten
first place. After coming out of his
mid-air flip he pointed his arms, straightened out and landed head first, his
right shoulder taking most of the impact.
That tattoo damage alone was probably going to be more than the bike
replacement.
I slowed down, expecting the worse, expecting somebody to be
dead. Willie was upright already,
looking upset about his coffee more than anything else. “Sorry, I am very sorry” the Stork was
saying. “No, not at all, it was my
fault, all my fault” said Willie.
Miraculously, they were both ok. I pedaled on slowly, waiting for the Stork to catch up so we could resume our battle. I passed through the shade of the Williamsburg Bridge, up the hill to Greenpoint. The Stork never did reappear. I spent the rest of the commute alone, unsatisfied.
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