Last year was a bad year for motorcyclists in my home town of Madison, Wisconsin. For a month or so there was a nasty heat wave, and hardly a day went by without the words "hit and run", "drunk driver" and "motorcyclist killed" on the evening news. Cars got more and more beligerent on the road as their occupants tried to get where they were going without roasting or sweating through their clothes.
All this registered somewhere in the back of my mind, but I didn't think much of it. Then, driving home from work one evening, as I'm rounding a turn maybe five block from my house, a car runs the stop sign. He skidded. I skidded. He missed me. Close call. What did hit me was his reaction. He cursed at me, called me every name in the book as I sat on my bike in front of him. In his eyes, this almost accident was my fault. I was the crazy one for riding a bike. More than a little shaken, I rode the rest of the way home.
The next day, I drove my car to work. As the summer progressed into fall, I found myself riding less and less. I'd get on my bike, but something was missing. I found myself watching everyone on the road a little closer. I found myself wondering if today's the day I become a statistic. I saw that braying ass in every driver. Riding wasn't fun anymore.
I'd like to say that eventually I got over it, but this year, the bike stayed under it's cover almost all summer. I wish it was different, but every time I the evening news tells me about another biker getting killed, I just think of the reaction of that driver. In their eyes, it's our fault.