Scoot Commute

Mr Porsche Cayenne, Get a Real VolksWagen

I’m behind in my posts lately, but I am just so freaking angry I have to get this out (well, out more than the screaming at the guy got out).

I’m riding home on Pleasant Valley and the traffic is really, really backed up, especially in the right lane. There’s a YMCA bus in the left lane (not in the turn lane like he should be, but sort of sneaking across in front of traffic and holding up everyone in the left (my) lane). He finally moved over enough and my lane got moving, but the right lane was sitting still. I was behind a red minivan with some space between us (not a lot as we had been stop-and-go), but not on her butt, either. No one was behind me in the left lane. The minivan is moving up the lane, right lane is not moving.

All of a sudden a silver Porsche Cayenne does a sharp pull into my lane. No blinker, just a quick cut of the wheel and wanting to do a quick pull and speed up to get around the stopped traffic (even though he needs to be in the right lane to take the entrance ramp onto the highway). Well, guess who he pulled into? That’s right, me! The only thing that saved me from a collision was the fact I was  in the left side of the left lane (which is where I usually position myself). I didn’t even have time for a Stebel blast. I barely got by and immediately turned my body around and gave him the WTF armflap (if you ride, you know what I mean).

He stayed way behind me and I kept  watching in my mirrors to make sure he was done with his murderous desires and to try to get his plate number. I then let a gardening truck in front of me (he was a making a U-turn into my lane from the other side). I thought that would infuriate Mr. Cayenne enough to get back into the right lane which is where he should be. Sure enough, he pulls back into the right lane and then pulls up next to me, puts his window down and says “What’s your problem?” “What? Are you frikking kidding me? My problem is you tried to ________ kill me, you ________ ________!” (Yes, I was beyond furious.) He then says how he didn’t see me and I’m screaming “Ya gotta look, ya gotta look, you tried to freaking kill me!”

Then I pull back to see his rear plate (there was no front plate; in lieu he had a Porsche emblem plate) and there’s no rear plate. There’s no temp plate in the window, nothing. He’s yelling “What are you doing?” and I’m yelling “Trying to get your plate number…you have no plates.”

After a few more choice words, his final retort was “Get a real bike.” and he put up the window and took the entrance ramp to Route 6. Erik’s brilliant comment when I got home was, “You should’ve countered with ‘Get a real Volkswagen!'”.

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