By Richard Cohen ,CRITIC AT LARGE
Washington Post, February 21, 1988
Why are you here?"
"I need help, Doctor. A compulsion is coming over me, a desireI can't control, an urge, an obsession, a . . ."
"What is it?"
"I want to kill a bicyclist. I want to hit one of them with mycar, knock him off the road, send him spilling over the curb, tumblingout of control. I want to see the bike go flying and then -- this is myfantasy -- I stop my car, get out and so do all the other drivers. Theycheer me. They yell 'Hooray!' and then they pick me up and carry me aroundon their shoulders. And then they take me down to the District Building,where they have a ceremony for me. The mayor and everything, if he's intown."
"Do you actually want to kill the bicyclist?"
"No, not really. I do want to wreck his bike, though."
"This is a normal reaction to the stress of city driving. You havenothing to fear as long as you do nothing. I mean, as long as you reallydon't hit one of them."
"Yes, I know. But that's why I'm here. I tried to hit one the otherday."
"Tell me about it."
"Well, I used to run every day in Rock Creek Park, and while somepeople fear muggers, I used to fear the nuts on the bikes. They would comewhizzing around curves. Several times I nearly got hit. You can't hearthem coming, and sometimes they come right up on you from behind. I wouldfeel them more than hear them and jump out of the way."
"Go on."
"Well, if that wasn't bad enough, then I started to fear the bikemessengers you see downtown, who often ride on the sidewalk. If I was walking,they would almost hit me, and if I was driving, I was afraid of hittingthem. They snake in and out of traffic. They have a rule, I think, neverto brake. They are not allowed to come to a full stop or let their feettouch the ground. They just circle in front of you. It's like a taunt."
"Why do you take this personally?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm here. They drive me . . . er, crazy.Sometimes when you're driving, there will be a biker ahead of you thatyou can't pass. Not only that, you can't really gauge the distance betweenyour car and the bike. It makes me nervous. Then, when I'm finally pasthim, I'll come to a light or something and the guy on the bike will goright by me -- and then run the light!"
"Yes, yes, I know."
"I mean, where are the cops? Did you ever see a cop stop a bikerand give him a ticket for running a light? Did you ever see one of thoseguys get nailed for riding on the sidewalk? Did you ever see one of themget arrested -- yes, arrested! -- for almost hitting someone? I mean, where'sthe fairness of it all?"
"Life is not fair."
"Thanks. That's a big help."
"Please, lower your voice. Get control of yourself."
"Okay, okay. I hate those outfits the bikers wear, too. (Is thatbetter?)"
"Yes. Much better. Please, go on."
"They look like some sort of space-age creatures, as though noneof the laws apply to them because they're Mercury, the winged messenger,or something. They don't even have to obey the laws of gravity, never mindthose of traffic. Those skin-tight outfits, just exuding contempt, arroganceand an unbridled sexuality . . ."
"I think you'll need another session."
"Yes, okay. But here's what happened. Last Sunday, I was drivingthrough Rock Creek Park, and the traffic was backed up. There were twobikers on the road -- the road! -- when they should have been on the biketrail. They were holding up the traffic. No one could pass them, and theywouldn't pull over. Finally, one by one, we passed, but a moment laterwe came to the stoplight at Calvert Street NW. Traffic backed up again,and the bikers just whizzed out into the oncoming lane and passed us. Iwas furious."
"I understand."
"I think it was all too much for me, the culmination of years ofbeing pushed around by people on bikes. I was seething. I wanted to killthose guys, but I couldn't catch up to them. Later that day, I was takingmy son to a friend's house. I was at Tenley Circle with the light in myfavor, going through, really moving, when a biker dressed in one of thoseawful outfits ran his light. I almost hit the guy, and I gave him my horn.He gave me the finger."
"Yes, yes. Then what?"
"I chased him. I zoomed up Wisconsin Avenue until I caught him.I rolled down my window and yelled at him. We were at a light, and theguy was doing one of those circling numbers, just going round and round.He was laughing. He told me to go to hell, and then he took off -- againstthe light. I chased him again. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to send himand his bike clear to Chevy Chase on the fly.
"Finally, I got hold of myself. I got scared. 'What am I doing?'I thought. 'This is sick. Juvenile. I'm a newspaper columnist. People knowme. If I killed a biker, there would be a scandal. Some people would admireme for it, I know, but others would say, "See, that's the guy whotells us what to think. That's the one who thinks he's always right, andlook -- look! -- what he's done." ' I went home, shaken. That's whenI decided to call you, a psychiatrist, someone who could explain why I'macting the way I am."
"That was you?"
"Huh?"
"You could have killed me!"
"Please, Doctor! Lower your voice!"
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