» Juxt A Position

Juxt A Position

Author’s Note: This is fictitious. It’s wordy and unpolished, a brain dump. This is vulgar and probably hits too close to home for most of us. As cyclists, we constantly place our lives in the hands of complete strangers, many of which could care less about us. At the end of the day, I personally know cyclists that are spouses, children, parents, teachers, siblings, veterans, firemen, policemen, lawyers, businessmen, engineers, etc. Framing the situation as “drivers vs cyclists” is the easy way out. I’m not an advocate. I guess I’m making light of a serious situation that I hope I never encounter. I’ve been tremendously lucky. Most times, I’m just alone with my thoughts on my rides. I don’t apologize for being a cyclist. Be safe out there.


Whelp, I’m guessing it finally happened. One minute I’m blasting Assemblage 23 into my ear holes, and the next I’m, well, here–wherever here is. This just in: some self-righteous Marketing exec, hopped up on a caramel macchiato, was trying to get all Alpha on his interns by texting in ALL CAPS, and KABLAM! Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. One thing is for sure; I’m not lying broken up and bloody somewhere. I would be able to feel that, right? Crap. What if I’m so badly hurt that I can’t feel anything and I’m just waiting to come out of a coma? Hmmmm, seems I’m neither here nor there.

My best guess is that I’m dead and I’m just waiting for next steps in some spirit holding area. Where do I take a number? Maybe hell is just a huge waiting room with one crappy teller that’s always taking smoke breaks to snapchat her junk to her “lovers.” Ha, now serving 1,789,564. Sir, please return to the end of the line and complete form de-ad4765, legibly. That would be funny. Then again, my hell would be a place that offers cool bike rides. The only bike available will be 4 sizes too small and made by Sears. My tires will have 20 lbs of pressure and the only playlist I will have access to on Spotify is Skrillex’s Greatest Hits. The Lord works in mysterious ways. I know, this doesn’t seem possible, but it’s hell–where anything is possible.

Wait, am I in hell? I mean, yeah, I’ve done some shit but…HELL? Is this a genetic thing? Surely God isn’t going to hold my Native American heritage against me. I’m not even full blood! Maybe I can pass for Mexican, and by default Catholic? Calm down, Gil. Ok, I may not be in hell. I don’t feel hot; then again, I don’t really feel anything. I’m obviously in some holding pattern waiting for the control tower to radio me in for a landing. Runway 1, pearly gates with all the Christians. Runway 2, eternity in hell with all the heathens. Hmmmmmm. No. No. Don’t think that. Not now.

This just in: I was riding my bike on Mesa Blvd when I got plowed from behind. I can see myself lying in the street. Well, that’s my bike, but is that really me? Shit, my last bike ride and I wore that kit? That one makes me look gay. I hope I don’t have to convince God that I’m not gay; “THIS IS WHAT CYCLISTS WEAR, DAMN IT!” Ok, I’m not going to win that argument. Oh wait, there’s a witness. An elderly Latina is screaming something in Spanish, running with a white baby in a stroller towards my limp body. Oh…wonnnnderful. My only witness can’t speak a lick of Englich. Here I am dead in the gutter, and Fox News is about to play the exploitation card on my only witness: “I WANT THAT ILLEGAL BREAKING THE FUCK OUT OF ENGLISH ON MEGYN KELLY AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!” Get all the Nazi wing nuts nice and frothy; they’ll jump all over that shit. Ohhhhh man, my bike looks fuuuucked up.

What was that fucker doin’ in the road? Bike lane? This is MY fault? Ahhhhh, MAN! Ummmmm…stay? Great! There’s blood all over my fuckin’ car. FUCK! I’m screwed. Let’s see. No one over therrrrre. No one overrrrr…FUCK! What is she saying? SPEAK ENGLISH! Gun it, dude. No, she’ll get my plates. GUN IT, DUDE! No, no…NO, FUCK! GO ALREADY!

Yeah, he gunned it. How am I doin’? As far as I can tell, I’m fuckin’ dead. Thanks for asking. It was a beautiful day. I mean, before some asshole practically cut me in half, spilling my guts all over Mesa Blvd. MAN, I fuckin’ had tickets for STAR WARS IMAX too. Oh shit, my PowerPoint presentation. Oh, duhhhhhhh. OH SHIT! I’m supposed to pick up the kids from school at…Laura’s gonna kill me. I’m guessing they won’t show what’s left of me on the evening news…probably too graphic for TV. Oh, they’ll see that poor nanny on TV; that’s for sure. God forbid some soccer mom, wacked out on Sarafem, catches little Jimmy getting a glimpse of brains on the six o’clock. “ARE YOU CRAZY, THAT’S NOT THE KIND OF THING WE WANT OUR SON EXPOSED TO…” Oh, she’ll let him play Grand Theft Auto without any filters for 2 hours straight but the minute her precious boy gets served real guts on Mesa on the evening news, it’s all society’s fault for his attention deficit disorder.

You know, I’m just guessing I’m dead because I know a bunch of shit for no reason, but maybe this is just me in my coma THINKING that I know a bunch of shit. I know I was riding my bike; that’s for sure. You know, I hope this asshole doesn’t try to say that I’m one of those assholes that blazes through Stop signs. Only self-centered fucks pull that shit and it annoys the fuck out of me. If he tries to lie his way out of this, I guess he could get away with it. He’s kind of got the carte blanche power of a rogue cop right now; dead men tell no tales. If he gets a “good” lawyer then I’ll be the one at fault; you know, he’ll use the passive voice: “the cyclist failed to properly observe the stop sign when he succumbed to his injuries. People, we have laws for a reason…” Bullshit! But I guess I can’t say anything if I’m dead. Crap, if he wins then my insurance won’t cover. Wait? Am I covered? I hope Laura sent in our renewal. Let’s see, this is Novemberrrrr and the new policy starrrrrts. She wasn’t expecting ME to send it in, was she? Can you rent a nice suit for a funeral? The last time I wore my good suit was at Scott’s wedding, and it was pretty snug. I’ve gained a few pounds. I guess they could put me in that nice black Michael Kors shirt with a tie. I have to admit, I look pretty good in that shirt; that would look much better than the suit. I’ll barely be able to breath in that fuckin’ suit, very uncomfortable.

FUCK! FUCK! fuuuuuUCK! What was I thinking? Go back. Just go back. No dude. Lawyer up. NOW! She saw me. I know it. Why did I run? Just go to work like normal. Nooooooo. Yeah, dude. Hit Finish Line then go to work. Noooo. You idiot, you have to wash it yourself. Crap. I’m wearing my good Burberrys. WHAT WAS HE DOIN’ IN THE ROAD? Ok. Ok. Calm down. Think! The car was stolen! Nooooo. Does Craigslist have a section for clean-up men? You know, like Pulp Fiction? Maybe Joshua knows somebody; that asshole’s always in trouble. What a fuckin’ loser. Dude; is this a caramel macchiato? You know, they have one job. How hard is it to make a Tall Iced Soy Mocha no Whip? Fuck the machiatto dude, go BACK! Oh shit…a cop. Take it easy. It’s too soon. Surely he can’t be coming for me! Relax. Don’t look at him. I’m a good person! I worked on the Governor’s re-election campaign and I make six figures for crying out loud! Compose yourself! I got it; I didn’t see him!

Keep drivin’, you asshole. I’m pretty sure I’m already dead. I don’t want your help now. Thanks to you, my “Golden Hour” is only 20 minutes. When Laura gets a lawyer, you’re fuckin’ dead too, dude. If you’re lucky, our lawyer will get ahold of you before Laura does. Don’t be surprised if you’re Blue Steel blotter pic ends up on your timeline. You’re life is about to become hell. All of your self-centered life is right there on your phone and it’s all about to blow up on Twitter in a big way, #hitandrunasshole. You’re about 6 months away from trading in your Kinichi frequent flyer card for a good spot in the food bank line. You’re going to have to sell that Lexus to pay your legal fees. You’ve got about 6 minutes to live out your life of luxury. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.

Man, why did I ride today? It’s not even racing season. Why am I wired this way? Why can’t I just go home after work like a normal person and rewatch LOST for 4 hours or play Call of Duty? Why don’t I spend my Sundays throwing money at Draftkings? Fantasy Football? Really? Not only am I supposed to actually spend hours and hours watching someone else live their life, I’m now supposed to bet on it too? Jesus. This is how I’m supposed to ride out my life? Kill me now. Oh wait. Strike that. Sorry, God. I didn’t mean it. You know; this is the way I am…was…this is what I do–I talk to myself and I race bikes. But then, you know that God. You’ve gotta give it to me though, sometimes my conversations are pretty cool, but I can ramble. Is this it? Is it really over? Crap…my boys. My beautiful, beautiful, boys…fuck! You know, I’ve always said life isn’t about quantity it’s about quality…but…my boys. Oh well…my boys are going to do great things. I know it. I just know it. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do.