I do believe the root cause of my anxiety is due to the fact that I had to learn how to drive in Orlando, Florida.
Orlando is famous for leading the nation in the number of pedestrian deaths annually (and Mickey Mouse!) The tourists visiting bring their own rules of driving to the area and the locals are pissed the heck off about it, pulling JackAss level car stunts to avoid the lost tourist attempting to merge onto one of the sixteen laned highways or to punish the ones who fail to turn right on red.
My first time driving at night, I was meeting my friends at an ice cream shop (I went to a religious high school, this was the equivalent of going to a basement party). On my way there a man was honking at me so profusely that I had to pull over to find a safe place to cry, hoping to get away from him. He pulled up next to me. He screamed, “GET OFF YOUR PHONE!” To which I screamed back, “I WASN'T EVEN ON MY PHONE!” I was just that bad at driving.
But who could blame me? There were no “rules” or “laws” being instilled on the roads of Central Florida, home of the largest Meth bust in the country to date. People have bigger fish to fry than making sure cars are fully stopping at stop signs, they are busy! Busy trying not to get eaten by an alligator or a man on bath salts.
I drove a Volkswagen Punch Buggy, no punch back, that was eggshell colored. My car was signaling to drivers, “Please! Slow down! Baby on Board!” Behind the wheel, I was always the prey, the yolk protected by a very frail eggshell.
This anxiety lives in me. Before the phrase, “fight or flight” came to be, it was just, “fight”. The “flight” had to be added shortly after they (professionals) saw me, gasping for air with sweaty palms and a rapid heartbeat at the thought of picking what song to listen to in a car full of mutual friends. I avoid unwanted attention the way Orlando drivers avoid using their turn signals. I eat the wrong order at restaurants, I fake phone calls to get out of signing petitions on the street, and I say “Maybe I’ll meet you guys later” when I mean to say, “Actually, I’m going home and do not plan on leaving my house again.” I live in fear of getting honked at.
I moved to Chicago without a car, you are welcome everybody! Yet this city is where I have experienced the absolute most road rage I have ever known. It started shortly after I lawfully obtained a bike that belonged to my boyfriend's grandmas during her teen years. It’s a cute, vintage, unassuming 1950s school bus yellow Schwinn bike. I added a red bell and a basket because I choose to take pleasure in the simple whimsies life has to offer. It has two working gears and to shift in between them, you have to push or pull a giant metal lever that sits between the handles. It feels as unsafe to ride in a city as it sounds. If you were to drive past me on this bike, you would instinctively proceed with caution because I am like a giant yellow sign written in highlighter saying, “Please! Slow down! Baby on Board!”
When I was limited to being a pedestrian, I thought bikers ruled the city of Chicago, and I envied that. I was wrong. Unfortunately, we live in a car-eats-bike world, well everywhere except for maybe Amsterdam. As it turns out, all the bike lanes that Chicago brags about are merely suggestion bonus lanes and extra parking spots for cars. They serve as a lane for cars to drive though or a bonus parking spot outside of the Jimmy Johns on my street. My fun red bell stopped was no longer just a prop but a safety tool, the one thing between life and death.
Cars would cut me off, and all I would do was let out a scream so silent it could be mistaken for a sigh. A car would back out of a parallel parking spot without looking and all I could do was clutch my handles, embracing for the anticipated impact. I would fume to my friends after a ride, “I can’t believe this happened to me! I can’t believe people would hit a biker if it meant they could get around a bus faster!” If there is anything less interesting than someone else's dream they had last night, it's someone else's almost confrontation. I would even be kept up at night, full of anger, trying to conjure the numbers of the license plate of a car that wronged me, plotting some silent revenge against them.
June 5th, 2024, my life would be forever changed.
I got on my 100-year-old bike during the most atmospheric Chicago afternoon. I had a quiet moment to myself to think, “Wow, I am so lucky.” Until an ugly, nasty, rotten, no-good brown Nissan starts swerving into the bike line in front of me. I start ringing my bell an almost comical amount, and then they break! IN the bike lane! Where is a girl to go? I put my foot down, literally, to stop myself from running into their bumper. Then, it happened.
I flipped them off(!)
I have never done that in my life? And it felt… incredible! Wow! I get why people have road rage! If someone is about to kill or injure you, you should have permission to flip them off.
Did the driver even see me do that? I am not sure. Did they learn their lesson? Probably not! But did I go to bed that night, furiously replaying the scenario in my mind, wishing I had done something? Nope.
Now, I look forward to someone breaking the bike lane laws. I get joy from locking eyes with the driver of a white Hundi and shouting “Hey! Watch out!” I pedal away with a grin, like a 12-year-old who gets a kick out of pissing off the neighborhood adults by stealing their lawn ornaments. And isn’t that what this life thing is all about, finding the little things that make you smile? For some people that is volunteering, or going to the Farmers Markets, or selling handmade jewelry. For me, it’s reprimanding adults who literally could not care less about what happens to me.
Years of repressed anger are slowly getting released from my body one “Hey! I am biking here!” at a time. I have never been more relaxed or flexible in my life. I now sleep eight hours. My mind is sharper than ever. I think I have now developed a late-in-life photographic memory since my brain has so much more room without the replaying of bad driving taking up so much space. I am ready to give a mean glance to just about anybody that has a car. Drivers should always look twice for bikers, and then a third time for me!
The lesson I have learned is this: if you live in fear, you should just try screaming.
Comments