Scoot Commute

Projectile Vomit

Posted in Buddy St. Tropez (Franz Biberkopf), Daily Commute by sbahn on 2012/03/25

Thursday morning’s commute was, to say the least, interesting.

The turn at Eagle Square from Atwells onto Eagle Street is a downhill, sweeping right turn with a yield on the right and cars directly across that often ignore the red left-turn arrow and plow through. It’s a five-points, so, at the core, a dangerous intersection.

But it’s also fun, especially when you have the green from a distance so you can get up some nice speed and sweep downhill and make a graceful, leaned-over right. On this particular morning, I had the green light with no one in my lane in front of me to mess up my momentum. I do a quick cross-check of traffic and roll on the throttle, chin over my right shoulder, looking through my turn, when I notice there’s sand on the roadway.

“Oh shit!” I thought and straightened the scoot up a bit. As I completed the turn and straightened upright, I noticed the sand continued. And it was organized, as if a truck full of beach sand had driven down the street with a firehose drooped off the back, neatly dispersing the sand in a line on the roadway.

At the T-junction where I take a right, the sand continued. And up River Ave, yes, more sand. I have no idea what was going on, and I’ll see what the road surface is like tomorrow morning (Monday).

When I turned onto my cut-through street and onto Smith, the sand was finally gone. I suspect the sand-dispersal truck had headed straight on River. However, I wasn’t safe yet from the incidentals of the commute, oh no, far from it.

Quick right onto Smith, on which I only ride three blocks, when I see a black Suburban/Bronco sorta truck thing in the opposite direction. The sun is in my eyes in the morning on this ride so I do have to squint some to see oncoming traffic.

“Huh? Wha? What is that guy doing with his head stuck out of the driver’s side backseat?” went through my head in half a second. Yep, you guessed it. The SUV was barreling down Smith Street with a passenger puking his brains out onto the street, not slowing, not signalling to pull over.

“Aaaaargh! I’m wearing a mesh jacket!” I quickly changed my lane position to be as close to the right curb as possible, just as the truck passed me and the passenger let out another gobful of last night’s overindulgence.

My commute is FOUR miles. Really? Can it not be a peaceful, quiet, side-street ride with birds singing and children waving. Oh no, not in Probbydense.

Oh, and there’s a reason I didn’t go to work on Friday! That’s to come.

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