ANGER, EGGS, & ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Several months ago my family owned twelve actively producing laying hens. We have since seen this number dwindle and the number of chubby neighbourhood raccoons increase exponentially.

Before the remaining birds bared witness to their friends being snatched up by a lanky raccoon perched on a low-slung branch and subsequently decapitated/devoured, life was good. So good, in fact, that we were faced with more of nature’s most perfect food than we knew what to do with. And these weren’t just any old eggs. Know that I am talking about the product of free range grain fed specimens here. Sometimes I’d go out back and rile them up a bit just to make sure they kept toned. These were the little George St. Pierre’s of the Langley laying hen scene. 

 

Athletic MMA star; Equally athletic chicken

To ensure nothing would go to waste, I began slamming back absurd amounts of raw eggs per day. Before long I found myself with high cholesterol, a blackening liver, and the strength of ten men. A decision was made to share the eggs. But these eggs were special, and they couldn’t simply be passed around to ungrateful co-workers or nosey neighbours. They must be used for a greater purpose. Gandhi once proclaimed; “We must be the change we wish to see”. These eggs had the power to facilitate such a change. And I had a plan:

I SHALL THROW THE EGGS AT CARS!

Gandhi; Gandhi in egg form

Now, I know what you’re thinking and you can stop thinking it. I am in no way referring to any childish “egging” antics. This blog is far too mature for that. What I am proposing is a safe and sensible way to bring attention to a growing crisis in the Greater Vancouver Regional District. The problem, or course, is bad driving. 

Those with a considerable commute to work or school understand what I mean. Those with a commute that takes them through Surrey really know what I mean. I have been making the trek out to the heart of Surrey (Kwantlen) for about the past three years or so. The area is both a cultural and generational melting pot where each faction of the population doesn’t appear to have a clue what the other is up to. This disconnect is no more apparent than on Surrey’s overcrowded streets. If you have learned any important lessons about driving, they almost certainly do not apply there. There isn’t just an abundance of bad drivers; there is an abundance of crazy drivers. Curiously, the issue appears to have no connection to the big three stereotypical predictors of poor driving; race, sex, and age. While commuting to class one eventful autumn afternoon, I observed two incidents that I hope will underscore my point.

I approach a major intersection and there are three lanes of traffic; two going straight and one for left-hand turns. I am in the middle lane and have begun to slow down as the amber warning lights are flashing. Directly to my right, a black and chrome H2 Hummer revs its engine. Okay, I think to myself, this guy is gonna run the light. I think this because years of driving experience have conditioned me to think this. In the real world, when a traffic light has gone yellow and the snarling sport utility vehicle beside you is still spewing jet black exhaust fumes out its ass, you are about to witness a dangerous maneuver. But this is not the real world. This is Surrey. All bets are off. In this situation, it is less likely that you will merely witness a dangerous maneuver, and far more likely that you will be unwillingly involved in one. 

All in one continuous motion, and without signal or any warning whatsoever, the Hummer blasts out of its farmost right-hand lane and bullies its way past the grill of my Explorer, through my lane, and without pause, devours the entire left-hand turn lane before jutting into the intersection and completing the stunt just as the light flips to red. I catch a fleeting glimpse of the driver. A middle-aged Indian woman loaded up with other passengers.

A dozen of us were forced to slam on the brakes about 100 meters shy of the intersection as the action unfolded. Glancing around at the other commuters I saw a mixed bag of emotions. Obviously, there were those sitting frozen, jaw-in-lap, with utter astonishment. It must have been their first time in Surrey. Then there were others, such as myself, who were certainly jolted, but far from surprised. I nodded at an Asian dude waiting in the left turn lane as if to say, CLASSIC Surrey, huh? The guy nodded right back as if to say, Oh fuck buddy, you don’t even know!

Six hours later my Ford Exploder is back on the road. Stopped at another light, I spot a BLACK H2 HUMMER idling one lane to the left and two cars forward—in the front of the left-hand turn lane. This particular intersection has its own left turn signal, which as most people understand, operates independent of the main traffic light. Seconds later, this main light turns green. The left signal light remains dark. Almost expecting it to happen, I watch the black and chrome beast rumble out into the intersection to make its illegal left turn. The driver does not realize they have successfully cutoff the two oncoming lanes of traffic until the turn is about 60% complete. What follows is a befuddled mix of reevaluation articulated by abrupt taps of the brake. I have this sense that everyone around me is thinking the same thing: Good God man! Step on the damn gas and put an end to this hideous display. It is at this point that I notice, although my lane actually has a legit green light, the car in front of me has not budged an inch. They must be caught in a trance by this idiocy. They have never seen such a thing. They are not from Surrey. By now the star of our show has inexplicably kicked the H2 into reverse and is poorly executing a motorist equivalent of the walk of shame. The Hummer ends up back at the front of the left turn lane; the exact some spot they were in thirty seconds ago, but more crooked. My light is back to amber. I have yet to move but I’m totally cool with it. Well worth waiting around to get a look at the driver. It can’t be. It CAN’T be!

It’s not. The driver of this H2 is a young white male wearing a TAPOUT t-shirt and large sunglasses. At first I am disappointed. But then it all starts to make sense—in Surrey (and maybe places that aren’t Surrey, too) there are a ton of shitty drivers and no way of telling them apart. I suppose you could make the argument that this is merely a Hummer phenomenon and that these two stories speak to the aggressiveness (or asshole-ness) of those who choose pollution and petrol in exchange for, well…nothing. And you might be right. But I believe these stories (along with the countless other WTF moments I’ve witnessed) say an awful lot more about the disconnect between members of the community. Not only is Surrey highly multiracial, but the class system is out of whack compared to most cities due to, among other factors, divergent cultural values and a seemingly prevalent gang/drug problem. Any theories you’ve developed on how a person may behave in traffic due to interactions between race, sex, age, and/or type of vehicle are about as helpful to you at the Harmonized Sales Tax. Call it racism/sexism/ageism, call it whatever ism you want; the fact is most of us spend so much time on the road that we develop a set of beliefs as to what constitutes a “good match” between a person's race/sex/age and the kind of car they are driving. If you saw an elderly woman behind of the wheel of a Hummer, that would likely stand out to you as being NOT a “good match”. Well, I see a lot of grannies driving Hummers in Surrey (only sometimes literally). But perhaps Surrey’s situation can be viewed as a positive thing. Maybe the lack of predictability will go a long way in tearing down longstanding stereotypes and, in the future, maybe they’ll be better for it. Regardless, there is one thing I know for certain. At least for the time being, it would be heroic if someone with an excess of eggs could start plastering stupid Surrey drivers. Call it a temporary “band aid” solution to a larger social problem.

I even proposed the idea to a classmate of mine in a course on the philosophy of consciousness. She looked right back at me and said, “Aren’t you that guy who is always complaining about paying for parking? And now you want to egg drivers on your way to school? Take the bus!” She had clearly failed to see the beauty in my proposal. Consider this:

You are driving down the street and you ZIG with you should have ZAGGED. How stupid of you. The problem is, these days there are so many stupid things available to be done (e.g. texting, talking on the phone, driving drunk, driving sober but still driving over the now legal limit, eating a KFC double down, sexting, ect.) that there’s a good chance you have not realized just how foolish you have acted. You haven’t, but others have.

Do not text & drive; Do not eat the KFC Double Down

So how do you inform a person that they’ve done something stupid? You can honk at them. But people seem to honk about anything, good or bad, and I really think it has lost its sting—so that’s out. You could finger them. Though, as we will very soon discover, this doesn’t always work. It also doesn’t have the same effect in all cultures. Surrey is multicultural—so the finger is out. Or you could hop out of your vehicle and club the person with The Club. I admit this is often the most tempting option but, depending on the circumstances, you’ll probably be facing a stiff 8-10 year sentence –so that’s out (for now). That leaves the egg. It’s a little less ambiguous than the honk or the finger and a little less illicit than clubbing someone to death with your anti-theft device. The perfect harmony! This may sound like a joke—it’s not. I am perfectly serious.

The best part is that, performed correctly, tossing an egg is completely harmless. An egg can pack a powerful message with no lasting damage to a vehicle. However, it is important to remember to aim your egg at the body of the car, NOT at any windows as this may obstruct the driver’s vision and potentially exasperate the problem we are working to solve. Just do what the RCMP does with their tasers and ammunition; focus on center mass and hope for the best. Sixty percent of the time it works for the cops, every time.

WHAT? Is that egg streaming down my hood!?! I am very mad about this!! Well…wait. You know what, he’s right. I deserved that. Good day to you, mister. 

Unfortunately, the trauma our family of chickens endured has since left them incapable of, or indisposed to, producing at the same rate (think of trying to conceive a baby after watching an episode of Jersey Shore). It was an ambitious, and potentially community altering, initiative that was cut short by Mother Nature’s cruel wrath. Though, I have recently been given reason to rehash the egg agenda in a new context…

It is 9am on November 12^th, 2010. My best guess is that a multitude of mommies and daddies are in a post Remembrance Day haze because the rush of school buses and mini vans is a little behind schedule this morning. It’s interesting how many of us spend our mid-week stat holiday dedicated to remembering by drinking to forget. I watch the wave of vehicles slowly subside through the kitchen window as I gear up for a bike ride.

It is not raining, but it has been. The road is slick and water splashes across my exposed legs with each rotation of the front wheel. This gives me the chills. Serious road riders shave their legs, but right now I’m wishing I had more hair on mine. The first few minutes are the worst part of these damp and dreary efforts. I am cold, and stiff, and home is still only a u-turn away. Fortunately, my decision to wait out the morning commuters has left me with the roads almost entirely to myself. When the odd car does pass, the lull of mid-morning allows for the drivers to drift completely into the oncoming lane as they proceed. At a busier time of day, or in a more populated part of town, this courtesy gap inevitably narrows. But on these quiet Langley avenues it is common practice to move the hell over. I begin to warm up and the reality of the ride sinks in. I am relaxed.

A few minutes later I can hear the grumble of a large vehicle at my back. I am riding on the white line that distinguishes the road from the shoulder. Should I have been fully off the road? Perhaps. But there are rocks over there and I’m trying to keep things smooth. Besides, I am operating a vehicle just as these motorists are and can ride wherever I please as long as I abide by the rules of the road. But none of this matters right now because everyone is giving me space. I am relaxed…AHHH (girlish scream)!

A large truck roars past my left shoulder. It not only denies me of space, but brushes so close to me that I feel a gust of wind surge against my left torso and a smattering of road water slap my limbs. Did that ______ ________ just try to clip me!?! This truly catches me off guard. Realistically, I probably wasn’t in any real danger and though it would be impossible to tell unless you were directly behind me, I’m sure there was still several feet between the truck and I. However, I have NEVER been brushed that close while riding and I decide immediately that this douchebag had intentionally given me a scare. I suppose it was the cycling equivalent to a slap in the face or a slew foot in hockey—maybe it’s not that dangerous, but it will really piss you off.

The truck driver’s plan worked. I am spooked and I am angry (beat per minute data from my heart rate monitor reviewed later was off the charts). I quickly weigh my options: no horn, no eggs, and no club. I sit up in my seat, take one hand off the handlebars, and finger the truck. I don’t even know if they can see me, but it feels glorious. I continue riding.

A few hundred meters down the road I can see the truck waiting at a stop sign. I can also see that there is absolutely no traffic moving in either direction of the adjacent road.  So maybe they did catch the finger. Just in case this guy is actually waiting on me, I try to recall everything I know about fighting in the next thirty seconds as the distance between the truck and I slowly but surely closes. Bas Rutten is the first person who comes to mind:

Outside of Bas’ advice on how to kill a man, a quick review of my personal history in physical combat reveals that I am far from a fighter. I would like to say that I am a lover, not a fighter (except I’m not really a “lover” either):

1) I have spent some time working as a casino security guard. During this time, I somehow became involved with in a fight club that took place in a co-worker’s garage. This is not as barbaric as it sounds; but it’s close. The head of this operation had a wealth of experience in martial arts and I hardly ever feared for my life. I punched people and I kicked people. But mostly I was punched and kicked by people. Once I was kicked so hard in my leg that the next day at work my boss asked if I’d been in a car accident.

2) Basketball is the sport with the most contact (out of all the “non contact sports”). Throughout my career I found myself in a handful of near “tilts” with opposing players. Looking back on it now, nearly all of these instances share one common instigator—I was fouled when I thought I had a dunk. Nothing is cooler than intercepting a pass and running the length of the court for a breakaway slam dunk. And nothing is less cool than intentionally fouling a player who is in this process. Chicks dig the dunk. So if you can see one in your very near future and that possibility is suddenly stripped from you, it can be quite upsetting.

I pull up at the stop sign right beside the truck, unclip one foot from its pedal, and glance into the cab for some answers. There is no one inside the truck because the driver has already stepped out of the vehicle and is rounding his way to my side of the street for what I can only assume will be, at best, a spirited debate and, at worst, a violent assault. Before I even get into this, allow me to paint you a picture of this person by illustrating a few facts about them that I believe to be very telling as to why the encounter took place:

1) The driver was male.

2) He was in his mid-to-late twenties.

3) As previously stated, he drove a truck (a red Dodge Ram to be specific). Although this wasn’t the kind of truck that most twenty-something’s roll around in. To me, there are only two types of pick-up truck; those purchased in pursuit of girls and those purchased for getting shit done—this was the latter. The truck was dirty and dented and there was a heap of stuff piled in the box. 

4) He wore a beard. Not just any beard, though. This was the kind of unkempt scruff that starts in sporadic clusters on the cheek and continues down around the Adam’s apple. If the beard could talk it would have said, “It’s damn near huntin’ season”. I also have a beard, but ten minutes with a Gillette Fusion Power Glide every morning makes it far more trustworthy:

Our great divide only increased when the bearded man got a closer look at my getup. I am dressed in skin-tight black and yellow spandex with neon green sunglasses whose tinted lenses have been replaced with bright yellow daytime substitutes. None of this helps. With my long lanky limbs I most closely resemble a daddy-longlegs spider:

This is not my cycling gear but the similarity is clear

Bearded Man takes note of this, but would have likely described me as a gay daddy-longlegs spider because he wastes no time in breaking out the homophobic slurs. This guy is holding a large mug in one hand and, at first, the angry talk is purely one sided. I sit there, resting on my bike seat and leaning slightly toward the man; left foot on the pavement, right foot still clipped in. I am mostly just hoping if I keep quiet he’ll shut up and leave, but I’m also hoping he doesn’t pour any hot liquids all over me. I don’t get the sense that Bearded Man is going to punch me in the teeth, although I am also becoming increasingly aware that he is not satisfied with the rise (or lack thereof) that he is getting out of me. He grabs the left handlebar of my bike with his one free hand. This jars me because all my weight is on my left foot and, with my right foot still attached to the bike, I am extremely vulnerable to being toppled over. I don’t like the sensation so I respond with a hard shove to the guy’s chest. He steps back and, for a moment, I think he’s going to climb inside the truck. Instead, he sets his mug atop the passenger side door and turns back towards me. It is then I realize that his mug must contain caffeine because Bearded Man is fired up! Again, he doesn’t come directly at me like he wants to start the fight, but he quite clearly is itching for some action. We exchange expletive-deletives. Then Bearded Man turns it up a notch and starts bobbing around like an NFL linebacker storming out of the tunnel on Sunday:

This is getting out of hand! I restate my feelings to Bearded Man on him as a driver and him as a person. Then I clip back in and make a left turn to continue with my ride. Seconds later I hear the same unmistakable grumble in my ear. I look to my left to see the red pick-up truck coasting right along beside me. Windows down, sinister remarks up. 

I hear: “You ain’t ridin’ away from this, faggot!”

I hear: “THIS IS SOME PUSSY SHIT!”

I hear: ‘Ohio’ by Neil Young?

Kent State - May 4, 1970

That’s right. This guy has chosen a soundtrack to his scurrilous behaviour and that soundtrack just so happens to be one of my favourite Neil Young tunes. And, from my brief encounter with him, it is a surprisingly mellow choice for Bearded Man.

Neil wrote the song in reply to the Kent State massacre of May 4 1970. Four college kids were shot and killed by the Ohio National Guard, Neil wrote a song calling out President Nixon, and the song become a hit—all in the span of just one month. That kind of quick turnover just doesn’t happen in the primarily over-polished mainstream rock ‘n’ roll of today. And up until now, I didn’t think this stuff happened anymore either! Do people still solve disputes with a duel in the streets? 

In the early 1940s, a young Abraham Lincoln was making a habit of shit-talking people. He would compose scathing letters of ridicule directed toward whom he saw as lesser men. Abe would then leave these letters around town in locations where they were sure to be found. The notes were left anonymous and the townsfolk would all enjoy a hearty laugh at someone else’s expense. However, honest Abe had gone too far. He took shots at an Irish politician called James Shield and the message was not received well by the target. Shields was pissed and wanted to throw down with whoever wrote the critique. He discovered the source of the material, rode up to Lincoln’s pad on his horse, and challenged Abe to a fight to the death. Straight up. Mr. Lincoln told Mr. Shields that he was opposed to dueling but Mr. Shields told Mr. Lincoln to go fuck himself. Abe was choked but managed to at least secure the choice of weapon—broad swords! After some work on his swordsmanship, the lanky Lincoln met James Shields on a sandbar in the Mississippi river and was ready to rumble. 

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately—depending how you look at it), Abe and James’ lady friends stepped in and put a stop to the madness before any blood was shed. Lincoln was forever a changed man and, until two weeks ago, this was the last duel I knew of. Fittingly, ours was also diffused before it really began as I elected to pull into an elementary school parking lot to avoid going head to head with a 5000+ pound Ram. The brute growled off down the road with authority but something tells me (due to the close proximity to my house in which this all took place) that we shall meet again.

Now, before you start wrapping your knuckles before every bike ride, let’s remember Fight Club. In this 1999 movie there is a moment where the club leader requests that, as homework, each member go seek out a fight and intentionally lose. What follows are some hilarious scenes of eager antagonists provoking would-be combatants with notably frustrating (to them) results. You spray a guy with a hose as he walks past your driveway and as much as he looks like he wants to fuck you up, he’d much rather go home and tell his buddies about how he would have fucked you up if it weren’t for excuses (a), (b), (c), ect., ect. But seriously though, the Bearded Man… I TOTALLY could have taken that guy. No contest.

I think the same holds true for real life. At the end of the day, there are far more people who like the idea of getting into a fight than will actually come to blows (I am strictly speaking of sober people here). Let’s just hope that a similar truth exists for running cyclists off the road. Just in case, I am now considering a change in wardrobe to ward off any potential assailants:

-KK