The Truck that Burped
Show time! It was the first day of the fall semester at UF. Time to get back to the daily bike commute to work. Traffic would be heavier because the students were back. You know how it is: lots of people not paying attention to where they were going, failing to signal, failing to stop, etc. So there was lots of potential for accidents and frustration and short tempers… and ill-will toward cyclists. But I donned the usual lycra shorts and helmet, and Road ID band and phone with camera for license plates of unruly motorists, and loaded the pannier bag, and headed out.
The big question: follow my typical route to UF, or chicken out and take a slower path with lots and lots of stop signs? I took a swig of cold Gatorade from my bottle and, refreshed and inspired by the strong associations somewhere deep in my head of Gatorade with relief from dehydration and oxygen deprivation, I opted for the typical route. The one right down 13th Street. You know, the one with no bike lanes that is full of cars containing grumpy homicidal motorists. My route on 13th runs something like 25 blocks, from the intersection with NW 16th Avenue down to University Avenue, and then on to where I get off at SW 8th Avenue, aka Museum Road.
I did the usual warm-up loop: west from NW 34th St along NW 16th Avenue (now with bike lanes!), then north on NW 43rd St, then east on NW 53rd Avenue, then down NW 34th St, then east on NW 16th, up the hill to the intersection at NW 13th St. Gotta travel these streets, you know?
The cross traffic on 13th had green, but there was a nice, big gap between vehicles, so I signaled and turned into the curb lane. Thus I began my soiree down 13th. Then I heard it: the ominous sound of a tractor trailer’s blaring horn: BUUURRRP! BUUURRRP!
I glanced over my shoulder and sure enough, there it was, closing fast, surrounded by little bug cars, with nowhere else to go but forward. Toward me, that idiot cyclist with a suicide death wish, right smack in the middle of the lane.
The moment of truth approached. BUUURRRRP! BUUUUUURRRRRRP! My first instinct of course was to dive for the curb and say a prayer. I took another swig. The Gatorade was still cold. Inspired again by a sports beverage, I steadied myself, knowing I was full well within my rights by law to stay right where I was. The onrushing truck had nothing to do with my shift up and slight acceleration. Nothing at all! But I held my lane position.
One last warning was issued: BUUURRRP! BUUUUUURRRRRRP! Now it was close. Audibly closing in, too, judging from the first BUUURRRP to the rather louder second. I began preparing for the worst by imagining the headlines in the papers the next day. First, The Gainesville Sun: “Knucklehead Cyclist Gets What He Deserved!” And then The Alligator: “One Less Nuisance on the Road!”
Then came the telltale noise of a big diesel engine revving high. It sounded like the driver had decided that he’d issued sufficient warnings and had now opted to go for the kill. I began composing my obituary: “He was doing the righteous and legal thing…” Then I realized that nobody’d likely ever get to see it, since I’d be road pizza before I had a chance to write it down. But still I held my position.
And then, it happened, the blessed event: the truck moved into the other lane, issued another pair of BUUURRRPS, and went its merry way. The little bug cars also circulated right around me, in an orderly little line, without any burping. As we neared University Avenue, the traffic inexorably slowed down. I caught up with and passed many of my fellow travelers in their putt-putt motor vehicles. And as fate would have it, I pulled up at the light at University Avenue… right next to the BURPing truck. But now, the burping had ceased. The light turned green, we went our merry ways, and I arrived at my office with only the typical chaos on campus.
Since then, I am pleased to report no further burping on NW 13th St. YES, FRIENDS, IT CAN BE DONE!