I was cresting a small hill on the rural road between 50 and Flemington. A pickup, driven by a man on a cell phone, is flying towards me in my lane. He swerves back to his side of the road. I yell, “Fuck you!” He locks up his brakes and comes to a stop in the road behind me. Oops. I flee with my Cancellara impersonation. It takes only a couple of minutes for the truck to turn around, catch and pass me. He locks up his brakes in front of me, forcing me to stop. With no hesitation whatsoever, the young man quickly gets out of his truck to yell phrases like, “Get a job!” “This road is for trucks, not bikes!” “If you want exercise, go to the gym!” “I’ll beat your faggot ass.” “Faggoty faggot!” I say very little because I can read the early Vegas line… I would be a 2-1 underdog, but while straddling a bike, wearing cleats, and in oxygen debt, I have no chance. After ~20 seconds (so hard to judge time in high-stress situations), I get on my bike and roll to the left of him and his parked truck. He menacingly cocks his fist back to punch, but does not. “Say another word, faggot! Give me another ‘Fuck you’!” Twenty feet or so out of the fire, I just cannot help myself, “Fuuuuuck. Yoooou.” I look back and see him quickly jump in his truck to pursue.
THANKFULLY, the rest of the story is anti-climatic. In a couple hundred yards, I see a very large man walking his dog. I stop beside him for a witness/protection. Man in the truck stops and yells a bit, but decides he has had enough. I thank the amused dog-walker, who has already memorized the truck’s plates and head home.
