Today Part II - Whilst Driving

If you missed Part I, I just want to point out that I've doubled the blog today, so anybody interested enough to read one post may be interested enough to read two.

For those of you who do not already know, I am a motorcycle rider. I love my bike, even though it hasn’t run in over a year.

I take biker safety seriously. Not just because I have a wife and little-girl who love me and want me to be safe, not just because I can’t stand the thought of my daughter growing up and not having any real or lasting memories of her daddy, and not just because biker safety is a smart thing to take seriously. I take biker safety seriously because I don’t want to put anybody through the horrifying experience of having to scrape my mangled, broken, bloody, and gory corpse up off the road. Nobody should have to see that, let alone participate in it.

With that said, sit right back and read a tale, a tale of a homeward trip. It started at a working port aboard my wifey’s car.

(abandon theme music)

As I was driving south on Bangerter Highway, approaching the 201 interchange (for those of you who are out of state or otherwise unfamiliar, you can Google Map this, and then use the little orange guy to get to street level and see just exactly what it looks like there), a motorcyclist with no protective gear – when I say no protective gear, I want to be clear: shorts, not jeans, let alone chaps; short-sleeve shirt, not a leather jacket; and bald… not one hair between him and the open road – started drifting from the far left lane into the center lane, directly ahead of me. At first I thought he was going to lane-split (definition: to ride your motorcycle between cars along the lane-dividers – legal in some states, not legal in Utah), but I was mistaken. He was changing lanes completely, never mind the fact that there was a car in the center lane.

He didn’t bother signaling and from what I could tell, he may have checked his mirror, but didn’t bother turning his head the 10º-15º it would have taken to see that there was a car next to him (directly in front of me). I prepared to brake, rather than risk adding additional trauma to my soon-to-be traumatized psyche. Fortunately, the guy in front of me was more aware of his surroundings than the nugget riding the motorcycle and moved into the right-hand lane, safely enough.

He soon made it through a light that I didn’t fight for. As he disappeared into the ever congealing mass of vehicles that constitutes rush-hour traffic, I began doubting the wisdom in taking Bangerter Hwy. I usually don’t take it, but at the hour I was traveling today, I didn’t figure traffic was going to be any better on the freeway, and the hwy was more direct between work and the in-laws (who tend my princess). I began envisioning clogged transit arteries as rubber-neckers inched, gawking, past a broken, flayed body before emergency vehicles could arrive at the scene and hide the horror from unpaid, unpaying spectators.

I caught up to him again near 4700 south (about 16 blocks from where he’d lost me), and he was still alive and, as I found out later, not planning on changing lanes again before leaving the highway.

This whole drive I had been raging internally at what an idiot this guy was. He was not only stupidly risking his own safety, but he was risking the safety of other people on the road, and being inconsiderate of the feelings of people who presumably love him, not to mention his lack of concern for how his possible ruin could adversely affect those who witnessed it.

But then I caught up to somebody who made that guy look like a 133t super genius. This new guy was wearing approximately the same quality of protective gear, though he did have long, thinning hair on his head, was wearing long pants, and was sporting a sweet handle-bar moustache. Despite these obvious differences, he was by far the less intelligent, qualified biker.

My first thought as I approached him from behind (I was in the center lane, he was in the right-hand lane) was, “Geez, that guy’s only got one arm? He must have a sick, tricked-out bike that only requires one arm to operate!”

Steve’s Educational Corner:

For those who aren’t familiar with motorcycle workings: A motorcycle has a front brake and a rear brake. The front is operated by the right hand, the rear is handled by the right foot. Most bikes are manual transmissions, requiring a clutch and shifter. The clutch is activated by the left hand, the shifter by the left foot. It is possible to shift gears without activating the clutch (unlike a car), but it’s not something I would recommend doing very often, and it’s true that some bikes have automatic transmissions, though I’m only aware of that among scooters.

Once that foolish thought outlived its instant of glory, reality set in and I realized he was talking on his cell phone. His CELL PHONE! On the hwy at… well… considerably less than hwy speeds… like maybe 30 mph. But still. HIS CELL PHONE!!!!

As I passed him, I toyed with the idea of honking at him, maybe interrupt his call… maybe let whoever he was talking to in on the secret that his geniusness was in traffic. I opted against it. After I passed him I ended up moving into the lane ahead of him (this was just north of 5600 south, my exit was 6200, which was the next light after 5600). The light turned red, and we had to stop. Again, I toyed with an idea. This time I considered stopping suddenly to see what happened to the phone. I didn’t.

But I did watch him in the mirror. As he came to a stop, he lodged the phone between ear and shoulder so he could clutch and downshift to neutral (neutral lives between 1st and 2nd gears). We were stopped long enough that I could have gotten out of my car and gone back to have a conversation with him. Maybe ask who he was talking to, maybe find out if they would feel terribly good about themselves if he ended up getting killed in an accident while he was on the phone with them. I didn’t.

Time to go again, and voilà, he almost biffed it right there, as he hurriedly shoved the phone back into his neck-cradle and reached for the clutch, losing momentary control of his bike. Fortunately, he got off the hwy at 5600 and I didn’t have to see his freakishly imbecilic attempt at multi-tasking continue.

It’s unsafe to drive a four-wheeled vehicle while talking on the phone. Two wheeled vehicles are considerably more difficult to drive safely while intoxicated or otherwise distracted. In a four-wheeled vehicle you have the luxury of living in a protective box.

Friggin’ idiot.

By way of cynicism, let me express this thought: If you want to kill yourself, a bullet in the head in the privacy of your own home won’t result in a traffic jam, and will likely only traumatize those who love you most. Leave the rest of us out of it.