From today's Twitter feed from Bicycling magazine- a post on the Bicycling Mag forum:
"Victim in LA driver v. cyclists road rage case asks you to write to the DA today, prior to sentencing: http://tinyurl.com/ye77hl9"
There's an excellent post from Bob Mionske's Road Rights blog on the Bicycling website describing the case.
In a nutshell:
A Los Angeles-area driver (and physician, God help us) harrasses two cyclists, and then slams on his brakes in front of them. One has a separated shoulder; the other has his face launched through the rear window. And- oh yeah- he's done this kind of thing before, to other cyclists.
He was convicted on seven felony counts stemming from this and another road rage incident. Another cyclist unfortunate enough to have encountered Dr. Christopher Thompson, Patrick Watson, is encouraging cyclists to write to the LA district attorney, Mary Stone, sharing their views on sentencing for Dr. Thompson, which is set to take place in early December. You can get the information in the tweet above, or here.
FYI, here's the letter that I posted a little while ago:
Dear Ms.Stone:
I am a 41 year old mother, wife, daughter, physician, and Ironman triathlete. I am a cyclist by choice, and a motorist by necessity.
I am writing to encourage the maximum sentencing for Dr. Christopher Thompson after his felony convictions stemming from a road rage incident which resulted in significant injuries to two cyclists.
This is one of the nightmare scenarios that I often envision before I head out on the road on my bike. My enthusiasm for a ride is tempered by the fear that “today might be the day”. What if that driver doesn’t see me when she’s reaching for her cell phone? What if that driver doesn’t see me before he pulls out of his driveway? What if, worst of all, that driver decides that I don’t belong on the road, that I should be on the sidewalk, and decides to “teach me a lesson”?
It is fact that we are allowed to share the road with motorists- it is the safest way for a cyclist to travel, as it allows clear visibility for both cyclists and motorists. Cycling on the roadway actually makes us less of a hazard, to ourselves and to others, than on a sidewalk or a bike path. It also makes us subject to traffic rules and regulations, which the vast majority of us attempt to comply with.
A large percentage of general motorists are ignorant of a cyclist’s rights and responsibilities, and are uneducated in proper bike-motorist behavior. We in the cycling community are aware of our role in educating motorists, and we know that much more can be done in government to improve and reinforce this education.
Unfortunately, there must also be consequences when motorists ignore existing laws protecting cyclists- as well as laws that not only protect cyclists, but all citizens, from intentional harm caused by another person. Laws which prohibit assault and battery- by any means- on another human being.
What Dr. Thompson did on that road was no different than leveling a loaded shotgun at those cyclists.
I am appalled to think that a fellow physician could fail to appreciate the damage that a moving car can do to a human being riding a bicycle. As both a cyclist and a Medical Examiner, I have seen the very grim consequences of these interactions.
Even more disturbing is the thought that the doctor indeed did recognize the possible consequences of his actions, and chose to act anyways.
I realize, of course, that Dr. Thompson is a criminal. His behavior is an exception to the behavior of most motorists on the road today. Despite their ignorance, most motorists will not attempt to maim or kill a cyclist because they believe that the cyclist is in violation of the law, however false that belief.
The Dr. Thompsons out there frighten me—because I know that one may be out there on the road with me when I ride my bike.
I have to remind myself that there are motorists out there like the trucker who followed my husband home, letting his headlights illuminate the road in front of my husband, who was caught on the road after dark one night, with no way to see well enough to ride home safely. He drove off when my husband pulled into the driveway, before we could thank him.
For the rest of the driving population, for those in between the two extremes above, I hope that the case of Dr. Thompson will draw attention to the challenges that both motorists and cyclists face by “sharing the road,” and highlight the need for increased motorist education. I hope that increased awareness and tolerance will prevent the Dr. Thompsons of the world from attempting to justify injuring or murdering cyclists like me, my husband, or my children-- because our bikes were simply in their way.
I believe that, by giving Dr. Thompson the maximum sentence, other criminals such as him will be given the message that intentionally striking a cyclist on the road can never be justified. “Because they pissed me off” does not justify assault or battery under any circumstance, including having to share the road with a cyclist.
Thank you for your time, and for the service that you have done for the cycling community in prosecuting this case.
Sincerely,
Janna Summerall-Smith, M.D.
Showing posts with label cycling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cycling. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Wednesday Ride
I've recently joined an online writing site, Writers Village . I've taken some good courses, both peer-reviewed and facilitated. I did one recently based on the book by Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way. One of this month's classes is "Writing the Memoir", based on Your Life as Story by Tristine Rainer. Since I love personal essay (like, duh, because most of what I post here is just that), I hope to get some good stuff out of it.
I thought I'd share my homework for this week-- nothing profound, just a few thoughts about The Wednesday Ride:
Allen and I ride bikes every Wednesday, after work. “After work” is a loosely applied term, which means “we hope to get out there and get some miles in before the road turns completely black in front of us because we never bring our headlights and the only light we get is the light that shines on our backs as the headlights run up behind us.”
The usual Wednesday ride take-off point has been at the intersection of US-1 and Swamp Park Road, parking in the grass beside the road in front of the train tracks. Sometimes, when we’re setting up our bikes, a freight train comes by, and we have to plug our ears with our fingers to muffle the deafening horn.
This parking area is where the Crazies hang out before and after the ride: a group of guys, cyclists, who spend an hour in a pace line at speeds in excess of 23 miles per hour, attempting to shake each other off the tail of the group. They stand around in the parking area in their flip-flops and spandex after the ride, swilling Gatorade and ribbing each other about their prowess, or lack thereof, in cycling—and elsewhere.
We don’t hang out much there lately. As much as I enjoy the trash-talk and machismo, I have never really been able to keep up with those guys, so I end up riding alone. It’s getting hard for Allen, too—and he’s finally reached the point where he doesn’t want to keep up with them—it just hurts too much.
So we park at the State Park down the road, which has actual bathrooms and a real parking lot. We get there in the evening, and the pavilions and playground that surround the lake are deserted. It’s quiet, and we have the whole park to ourselves.
We have our Wednesday Ride ritual: we pull the bikes off the rack on the tailgate of the truck, and complain about how much our bike rack sucks. We air the tires on our sleek carbon road bikes, the tires making a quick “pop” when you pull the pump from the tire valves. I pad around in my socks, trying to avoid the rocks in the parking lot, as I collect my (very smelly) bike shoes, glasses, and helmet with my (also very smelly)gloves tucked inside. I put my shoes on next-- I love the sound the hard cleats make when they strike the pavement. I check my water bottles, bike computer, and the tires one more time. I buckle my helmet and slide on my gloves, and then hop into the saddle.
If you’re not a roadie, you probably don’t know about clipless pedals, bike pedals which attach to the soles of your bike shoes, this rendering you one with the machine. I do not particularly like to be rendered one with the machine, because I hate to fall over like a bug when I can’t unclip my shoes fast enough, but they do allow you to ride strong and fast. So-‘click’- we’re clipped in and on our way.
The Wednesday Ride must follow this exact route: it’s the law. We must take a right out of the park and onto the road. We wind past the lake and over the dam, past the bass fishermen, up the hill and around the Camp for the Blind. We coast down the small hill to the golf course—if I’m very lucky, we stop in to the pro shop and pick up some tokens so we can hit a bucket of balls at the driving range later.
Then the ride begins in earnest. By now, the afternoon has started to cool off, and we speed up, past the pine trees on either side of the road. The Wednesday Ride always smells like pine trees.
Then we get to the hairy part of the ride: crossing the four lanes of US 1, with its fast-moving tractor trailers barreling towards the interstate a few miles away. I shift down to the little gear so I can stop if I have to. Allen rides circles at the side of the road while he waits for the trucks to pass—I think he’s nuts, and I worry about him falling into the road. I breathe a sign of relief when we’re across the highway, across the train tracks, and onto Swamp Park Road.
Swamp Park Road is named, appropriately enough, after Swamp Park, the little Okefenokee tourist attraction, with its boat tours of the swamp, and its abundance of alligators. We love Swamp Park Road because it’s devoid of cars, flat, and fast. If you are so inclined, you can haul butt, rocket to the entrance of the park, spin around, and rocket back- unless, of course, there’s a head wind.
But, sometimes, we don’t rocket through the place. The Big Fire, which burned in the Okefenokee Swamp a few years ago, and nearly took the town with it, burned the pine trees down. The smoking trees were horrible, but what grew in their place is strangely beautiful. You can see for miles—nothing to impede your view but grass and bushes and the occasional lone Georgia Pine. So we stop, and just look, and are thankful we’re in the Okefenokee Swamp on a Wednesday evening, and watch the blue herons and the red-tailed hawks.
By now, the sun is starting to get very low on the horizon, and I am beginning to get nervous, because I hate riding in the dark. So we pick up the pace, dodging the odd snake crossing the road.
We work together now, intent, and silent. I draft off Allen so I can ride faster, and therefore get back to the truck faster. We spin past the park entrance, down to US 82—the route that must be followed; it’s the law, remember—and then swing back.
Now it is most definitely getting dark, and I am cursing under my breath and swearing that this is the LAST time I will ride this late—EVER—and I can’t believe how stupid this is and try to see the road using the last of the light coming from between the trees.
Finally—we coast back into the parking lot, and do our ritual in reverse. Helmet off, gloves off… but this time, it’s in the dark, and I sometimes can’t see my hands in front of my eyes.
And then we’re finally in the truck, cruising down those same roads that we just biked on, headlights on, back into town, to the Wal-Mart, to the house, to dinner, onto the couch, and then into bed, very tired.
We’ll be back again the next Wednesday, and I will have still forgotten the headlights. So we’ll ride until it’s dark, through the summer and into the fall, until the darkness falls so early that we won’t even have time to get the bikes off the rack before we won’t be able to see. We’ll wait out the winter, and when it’s finally light enough after work, we’ll be back for our ritual Wednesday Night Ride. And my riding will be slower and more tentative after the winter, I am sure, but the road and the Swamp will still be there for us.
I thought I'd share my homework for this week-- nothing profound, just a few thoughts about The Wednesday Ride:
Allen and I ride bikes every Wednesday, after work. “After work” is a loosely applied term, which means “we hope to get out there and get some miles in before the road turns completely black in front of us because we never bring our headlights and the only light we get is the light that shines on our backs as the headlights run up behind us.”
The usual Wednesday ride take-off point has been at the intersection of US-1 and Swamp Park Road, parking in the grass beside the road in front of the train tracks. Sometimes, when we’re setting up our bikes, a freight train comes by, and we have to plug our ears with our fingers to muffle the deafening horn.
This parking area is where the Crazies hang out before and after the ride: a group of guys, cyclists, who spend an hour in a pace line at speeds in excess of 23 miles per hour, attempting to shake each other off the tail of the group. They stand around in the parking area in their flip-flops and spandex after the ride, swilling Gatorade and ribbing each other about their prowess, or lack thereof, in cycling—and elsewhere.
We don’t hang out much there lately. As much as I enjoy the trash-talk and machismo, I have never really been able to keep up with those guys, so I end up riding alone. It’s getting hard for Allen, too—and he’s finally reached the point where he doesn’t want to keep up with them—it just hurts too much.
So we park at the State Park down the road, which has actual bathrooms and a real parking lot. We get there in the evening, and the pavilions and playground that surround the lake are deserted. It’s quiet, and we have the whole park to ourselves.
We have our Wednesday Ride ritual: we pull the bikes off the rack on the tailgate of the truck, and complain about how much our bike rack sucks. We air the tires on our sleek carbon road bikes, the tires making a quick “pop” when you pull the pump from the tire valves. I pad around in my socks, trying to avoid the rocks in the parking lot, as I collect my (very smelly) bike shoes, glasses, and helmet with my (also very smelly)gloves tucked inside. I put my shoes on next-- I love the sound the hard cleats make when they strike the pavement. I check my water bottles, bike computer, and the tires one more time. I buckle my helmet and slide on my gloves, and then hop into the saddle.
If you’re not a roadie, you probably don’t know about clipless pedals, bike pedals which attach to the soles of your bike shoes, this rendering you one with the machine. I do not particularly like to be rendered one with the machine, because I hate to fall over like a bug when I can’t unclip my shoes fast enough, but they do allow you to ride strong and fast. So-‘click’- we’re clipped in and on our way.
The Wednesday Ride must follow this exact route: it’s the law. We must take a right out of the park and onto the road. We wind past the lake and over the dam, past the bass fishermen, up the hill and around the Camp for the Blind. We coast down the small hill to the golf course—if I’m very lucky, we stop in to the pro shop and pick up some tokens so we can hit a bucket of balls at the driving range later.
Then the ride begins in earnest. By now, the afternoon has started to cool off, and we speed up, past the pine trees on either side of the road. The Wednesday Ride always smells like pine trees.
Then we get to the hairy part of the ride: crossing the four lanes of US 1, with its fast-moving tractor trailers barreling towards the interstate a few miles away. I shift down to the little gear so I can stop if I have to. Allen rides circles at the side of the road while he waits for the trucks to pass—I think he’s nuts, and I worry about him falling into the road. I breathe a sign of relief when we’re across the highway, across the train tracks, and onto Swamp Park Road.
Swamp Park Road is named, appropriately enough, after Swamp Park, the little Okefenokee tourist attraction, with its boat tours of the swamp, and its abundance of alligators. We love Swamp Park Road because it’s devoid of cars, flat, and fast. If you are so inclined, you can haul butt, rocket to the entrance of the park, spin around, and rocket back- unless, of course, there’s a head wind.
But, sometimes, we don’t rocket through the place. The Big Fire, which burned in the Okefenokee Swamp a few years ago, and nearly took the town with it, burned the pine trees down. The smoking trees were horrible, but what grew in their place is strangely beautiful. You can see for miles—nothing to impede your view but grass and bushes and the occasional lone Georgia Pine. So we stop, and just look, and are thankful we’re in the Okefenokee Swamp on a Wednesday evening, and watch the blue herons and the red-tailed hawks.
By now, the sun is starting to get very low on the horizon, and I am beginning to get nervous, because I hate riding in the dark. So we pick up the pace, dodging the odd snake crossing the road.
We work together now, intent, and silent. I draft off Allen so I can ride faster, and therefore get back to the truck faster. We spin past the park entrance, down to US 82—the route that must be followed; it’s the law, remember—and then swing back.
Now it is most definitely getting dark, and I am cursing under my breath and swearing that this is the LAST time I will ride this late—EVER—and I can’t believe how stupid this is and try to see the road using the last of the light coming from between the trees.
Finally—we coast back into the parking lot, and do our ritual in reverse. Helmet off, gloves off… but this time, it’s in the dark, and I sometimes can’t see my hands in front of my eyes.
And then we’re finally in the truck, cruising down those same roads that we just biked on, headlights on, back into town, to the Wal-Mart, to the house, to dinner, onto the couch, and then into bed, very tired.
We’ll be back again the next Wednesday, and I will have still forgotten the headlights. So we’ll ride until it’s dark, through the summer and into the fall, until the darkness falls so early that we won’t even have time to get the bikes off the rack before we won’t be able to see. We’ll wait out the winter, and when it’s finally light enough after work, we’ll be back for our ritual Wednesday Night Ride. And my riding will be slower and more tentative after the winter, I am sure, but the road and the Swamp will still be there for us.
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