Riding to Work in the Bike Lane

I am commuting to work on my stealthy, flat-black cruiser bike when a big SUV slows next to me. Yes, I am riding on the stripe that separates my space from that of cars.

I turn my gaze toward the rolling mountain of fumes and iron -- which happens to be dangerously close, in spite of a wide car lane and open left-hand turn lane -- just as the driver rolls the window down.

“Hey! Why don’t you move over to the curb?”

Before I can answer, the luxury SUV speeds up; the window zips shut; and I am left only with a half-baked answer on the tip of my tongue and the noxious gas fumes.

I want to tell her that I was riding the line because there was broken glass in the bike lane. 

I wanted to tell her that I have to swerve around branches (mesquite, palo verde, and more pernicious prickly pear, ocotillo, cholla, and other tire penetrators), car mufflers, discarded, ripe diapers, galvanized pipe, bungee cords, baseball caps, big rocks, small rocks, and, one time, an entire toilet. 

There are also the dead animals and the live animals – skunks, bull snakes, pack rats, all in varying stages of sinking into the pavement, the bald guy with his put bull that is straining against its leash to get at me, growling, the pajama clad grandma who nods as I go by and gives me a wink, the middle-school kids walking three abreast sharing a stolen smoke, and, once, a coyote loping along side me. Green eyes. Hungry looking.

There are more, many more. I won't bother you with the complete, exhaustive list.

They are all there in the history of these commutes, my companions of the routine road to work. That history teaches me to ride the line, the line between the clutter of the bike lane and the relatively clear road of cars.

But I know I could not put all of this into a quick answer for the driver, so I just drop the unrequited response and continue my commute. 

I will have to be faster next time, but I doubt the driver really wanted an answer.