by Mike Barnicle,
Boston Globe, July 25, 1989
 

I'm walking along State Street at high noon the other day, and thereis a big, fat woman just ahead of me. She is almost the size of the 32bus to Copley Square. Naturally, she is carrying a bunch of plastic containersfilled with take-out stuff from one of the get-rich-quick poison palacesin Quincy Market.

Traffic is stopped at the light. The big woman steps off the curb justas a bike messenger comes past faster than a false fact out of Mike Dukakis'mouth. The biker narrowly avoids hitting her which sure would have meantthe end of
him.

The woman goes down on her keister. Egg rolls and chicken wings rainfrom the sky. Seeing the poor woman fall was like watching the HancockTower topple slowly.

My friend and I went to see if we could help. I have a bad back so Iwas being careful with my offer of assistance. Off her size, I felt likemaybe we should call Marr Equipment rental and get a hoist to pick herup off the pavement. A couple of other kindhearted citizens stopped tohelp haul her off the asphalt.

The guy on the bike never paused. Never looked back. Just bolted throughthe light and up Court Street. So I think it's time to consider the deathpenalty for these foolish people on bikes who insist on placing so manypedestrians in harm's way. They are a menace.

Now don't get all aggravated and hit the phone in order to abuse me.Mostly because you'll only get yourself all lathered up over nothing butspecifically because I don't care what you think about this topic.

I know that bikes are great for cardio-vascular fitness. And I knowabout the studies that say if more people rode bikes, society would behealthier, we'd live longer, and the air would be cleaner.

That's not what I'm talking about this morning.

I'm talking about those airheads who drive around on foreign-made 10-speedsthinking they are behind the wheel of a car. Except they don't obey thesame rules of the road you have to respect when you're out in the old Detroitor
Yokohama bomber.

For example, nearly every morning I see this young guy on Boylston Street.He's got the same kind of slicked-back, razor-cut hair that Charlie Sheenhad in the movie "Wall Street."

The guy wears expensive clothes. He wears one pant leg in a little clipso the cloth won't get caught in the chain and send him into the atmospherelike the space shuttle. His suit coat is always tucked neatly into a rackbehind a bicycle seat built for those who weigh less than 120 pounds andthink celery sticks are a great snack.

He flies down Boylston, rockets through the intersection at Exeter,never stopping, no matter if the light is red. You can see him coming likean express train all the way from the Hynes Auditorium.

He yells at you to get out of the way, too. Sometimes he pedals furiouslyalong close to the curb, but the cabbies who stop in front of the Lenoxhave taken to throwing their doors open when he gets close so lately he'sbeen barreling down the middle of the road.

Cars can't pass because he screams at them. He weaves in and out oftraffic like Michael Jordan on his way to the basket. People lunge forthe curb because you know he won't mind brushing them back, like his bikeis a fastball or something. Simply put: He's in a big hurry, and we haveto get out of his way. Just another selfish yuppie.

He couldn't behave like this behind the wheel of a car. After all, thereare laws, aren't there?

It's not just him. And it's not just the Back Bay. It's all over town.It's these bicycle messengers who get paid by performance instead of bythe hour, along with a collection of dizzy, affluent, childless cement-headswho come in both the male and female variety and typify the type of urbanarrogance and rudeness that says, "I don't care about you. Out of my way.I'm important."

I've never seen a cop stop one of these bozos. I've never heard of anyof them being ticketed for driving to endanger. That would be a great thing.

Instead, I'm left to fantasize about what one of these morons wouldlook and sound like if I were able to thrust a stick into the spokes oftheir speeding front wheel. In my mind, the guy at the intersection ofBoylston and Exeter streets would land, screaming, in the park at CopleySquare, preferably on cement. I bet that would keep him off the bike andout of our way for a bit. Or at least make him think twice before he endangerednormal citizens on foot.

Of course, you probably think I'm a sadist for wishing bodily harm ona crazy biker. I beg to differ: It just proves that I'm a hopeless optimist.