I hate the men who deliver food on bikes. They threaten my life. They make me, a daily urban cyclist, an endangered species. As of October 23rd 2017, I had stayed out of harm's way. Out of the way of crazed looking, crooked-arm texting, boombox blasting, wrong-way riding men who make more money when they ride too fast, take dangerous shortcuts, and deny the danger they create for themselves, their families, and people like me. I know this hatred is irrational, morally wrong and psychologically unhealthy. I always knew I would have to put an end to it. But until this incident, it felt very protective.
The morning of October 23rd would mark my date with destiny. I began the grayish blue, balmy autumn day with an open air breakfast with a dear friend. After we said farewell, I unhitched my bicycle and walked it to the curb. I hopped on and looked down 11th Ave to plan my route. Suddenly, I heard a noise that sounded like a warning. Then, something crashed into me from behind, slamming me to the ground. My right shoulder and hip bounced off of the pavement. I was dazed and terrified. I bolted upright to see what had hit me. And, there he was; a delivery bike-messenger with his cobalt blue saddle bags bulging from each side. I yelled at him in fear. "Why the f--k did you run me over?" He yelled something at me and drove off. The Traffic Officer standing nearby, came running to me. I asked him what happened. "The guy tried to pass you on the right but there wasn't enough room." "I was three feet from the curb," I shrieked. “No traffic to the left of me!" " I know, it was crazy," he said.