King Car and Dick the Driver

Wide roads here in Berkeley. Wide enough to let two gas-guzzlers pass and on top of that accommodate the occasional biker you would think. Dead wrong, as I had to experience Sunday afternoon.

Jimmy and I were riding our bikes along University Avenue, heading for the Berkeley Marina. When I passed the parked truck in the picture—while staying nicely in my lane—, I was hit by one of those dangerously oversized ‘vans,’ made some spectacular leaps and bounds and ended up on the asphalt…

 

Don’t worry—I’m fine. Some bruises, a painful knee, a bloody toe and slightly damaged hands aside I can really consider myself lucky not to have hit anything with my head. No serious material damage either, just some scratches on my bike and clothes.

But then again, it didn’t feel very good. The driver pulled over—he must somehow have noticed that his metal monster had brushed alongside some rare road-occupant that should not have been within its perimeter. He turned out to be a slightly retarded nincompoop—I admit having had to look up the specific vocabulary here. If it wasn’t for his motorized vehicle and undetermined though clearly 20th century-headgear, he could just have emerged from his cave, growling at the unwelcome intruders. If you would ever like to encounter one of these dopes here in their natural habitat, rest assured. They are not about to become extinct yet: a second creature soon emerged from the vehicle. At first sight it showed a striking resemblance to the driver in both body mass and way of moving about, but later it turned out to be female. Their mutual grunting suggested that they had already mastered some form of communication, albeit a very rude and basic one.

Interaction with these simpletons would prove difficult, as I realized once I had more or less recovered from the first shock. Luckily, a witness showed up and made a quick and clear analysis of the situation. Not “You look pale, maybe you should sit down for a while!” or “Are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?” No, the diagnosis was clear: if I was going to sue the driver, I would probably have to prove that he hit me, not the other way around. And that would be very hard. The moron driver endorsed this with some resigned nodding. Very hard indeed. If anything, he could probably sue me for the scratches that my bike’s handlebars made in his car.

Moreover, the nitwit lady helpfully mentioned that it was illegal to ride a bike without a light—in plain daylight, after her husband just smashed the light off my bike by hitting me with his four-letter-wording-tank. I was flabbergasted. At that moment, I must confess, I was inclined to support the idea that one should be free to carry a firearm anywhere, anytime, to quickly and properly settle this kind of disputes.

Fortunately, the lawyer was not far off. An uncle of Alex explained to me that I could sue the driver up to two years after the accident, if it should turn out that I had to go to the doctor in the end. I could better wait and see how my bruises evolved. Himself a fervent biker, he confirmed that riding a bike here was tricky business.

The attitude that exists in Belgium towards ‘fragile road users’ is just not present here. However, it seems to be badly needed if you want to let pedestrians and bikers participate safely in traffic. You cannot just rely on people’s common sense telling them to leave a little room for bikers or to just wait with overtaking them until they have safely passed a parked truck. Sofie told me that an angry driver once shouted “Get off my road!” at her husband while he was biking. These eruptions give away a deeper mentality that apparently takes years to change.

I have been riding my bike in quite busy traffic to school for 3 years, to university for 5 years and to work for another 3 years. I only got hit once in all those years. It’s not that I drive like a fool. It’s not that I am not aware of the risks. Bikes are just not supposed to be on the roads here. Car is king, the rest should consider themselves lucky if they can find a free spot.

The thing is, traffic seems very courteous and calm here, and that turned out to be deceptive. Last month I was in Beijing. There, you know that the streets are governed by the law of the strongest: trucks overrule cars overrule bikes overrule pedestrians. It’s as simple as that. If you follow this rule, you might emerge unharmed, although I would think twice before riding a bike there. The situation here is far more deceptive: no honking, no sudden yanks at the steering wheel, no crossing red lights and no squeezing out the last drop of performance of your engine to make that green light. But no inherent attention towards bikers or pedestrians either. These roads were built for cars and so far they remain dominated by them.

Maybe these are not the kind of stories one is supposed to put on a blog. But then again, the scratches of a sharp pen give more satisfaction than those of my bike’s handlebars in the driver’s car. If I don’t think of my painful leg or my damaged bike, I can already laugh at the situation. And finally, this time you will feel pretty obliged to leave a short note in the comments, no?