This past Sunday found Corrie and I waking up early and preparing for, and then executing, a long bike trek to the Marina in Belmont Shore--a shiny beach neighborhood on the eastern side of Long Beach--for their farmer's market. It's just over five-and-a-half miles from our apartment on the west side to the far east side, pretty much on the border with Orange County, so you can decide how long that is in terms of lifetime...it takes about a half hour, maybe forty minutes.
Corrie's basket was attached to her bike and I sported a bigger-than-average backpack, and we headed out along the beach, planning on returning along the streets for a change of pace. We started out before we had breakfast, as we planned to eat at a place out on the Marina's man-made peninsula.
Having forgotten to grab some cash from our nearby bank before we left our 'hood, and not wanting to pay the exorbitant fee from a sidewalk ATM, we located the closest Chase branch. It turned out to be a short jaunt over into Orange County. It was our first time bicycling to another county.
After we loaded ourselves down with a ridiculous amount of groceries--Corrie's eyes and ambition have always been larger than her carrying capacity--some excitement went down.
Her basket was so full, and poorly constructed, that it was drooping and resting against her front wheel's break line, causing the diminished ability of that break to work. I, having no basket, found myself with a backpack bursting at the seems with produce, so full as to have our fancy granola stuffed into the bungee netting on the outside of the rucksack. It must have been at least thirty pounds, and since my big heavy cruiser bicycle is nearly eighty pounds itself, I had quite the added weight.
Neither of us were travelling very fast. But we left the parking area where the market takes place, obeyed all applicable traffic laws, turned left out of the market and into a lane that was unpopulated at the time, the left turn lane. Our plan was to turn left, nice and legal, back out onto 2nd Street and start the trip home.
What we couldn't see was an asshole tearing out of the market at a exit behind ours in such a rush that he hadn't noticed two bikers. We hear honking and brakes skidding, voices yelling from behind. We're yelling too, hollering as a white SUV zooms around us, coming alarmingly close to Corrie. The driver, a man in his fifties or so, had a look on his face like, "What the hell are you doing?". I remember yelling "It's the law! We have to be here!"
The SUV sped off for the green turning signal and as I shook my head in disbelief, I heard another person behind us yelling and cursing up a storm. Loaded down I tried to turn and look, but the person--on a bicycle--sped past. This guy was on a mission. He was tearing off after the SUV. He even threw his water bottle at the truck in between profanity laced threats. He pulled off his bike lock and was prepared to crack some windows, but the hill after the light proved the difference maker in that equation.
This young man, a round young Long Beach State student probably, had watched the driver almost kill us (Corrie mainly), had taken personal offense to the action, and decided to retaliate: an attack on one is an attack on all. You have a four thousand pound fossil fuel burning machine, we have under-a-hundred pound human powered mechanisms. This is not a game of chicken we can win.
After the young guy sped off after the SUV, I turned to Corrie and said, "I'm buying that kid a drink." Never got to, but we did chat for a minute, and proclaimed out unity.
We decided to take the beach path home, mainly to keep away from cars and to keep our momentum going forward; the starting and stopping from those lights would prove too annoying carrying all that weight.
When we got home Corrie cracked a beer and went off to take a nap. I showered and went to work, but boy was I ready for sleep that night.
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