My tweet about #cycling was paranoia?

On the eve of Christmas Eve, yours truly took exception to some Twitter mini-screeds in which people who ride bicycles were slandered as paranoid #BikeZealot whiners who think every driver on the road is out to kill them.

This was fun.

Pixabay image

I said, “Assuming that motorists are often careless, drunk or otherwise dangerous and deadly isn’t cyclist paranoia. It is a basic survival skill for anyone on the road.”

My favorite response to that:

Your whole tweet is paranoia.

I was also labeled nervous, scared and more:

Bikers who are that scared of drivers and have preconceived notions like that don’t belong on the road.

Obviously a guy can’t let that go unanswered, so I politely observed that the difference between situational awareness and paranoia is difficult for many to grasp.

“Let me put it this way,” I added. “Don’t trust anyone driving a motor vehicle (me included), and also assume any nearby cyclist is about to do something stupid. IOW: Pay attention.”

The guys (an assumption, maybe a preconceived notion) liked that. They saw the light. They agreed with me and appreciated that I had called out “bike twitter,” who surely wouldn’t appreciate that. Clearly some preconceived notioning was going on.

The problem with bikers that whine on here is that they don’t believe in co-existence, they want cars gone for good.

Horrified as I was that someone might think I was on their side against people who ride bicycles, I tore myself away, turned out the lights, and got a decent night’s sleep.

If I’d thought it would make any difference to anyone, I might have gone on my own rant – not calling it that, of course – about motorists who whine when they have to share the road, about how our society is hopelessly addicted to driving, and about the enormous harm we do ourselves and others because of that addiction.

Driving a car has its place. I drive sometimes. Until working from home became a requirement rather than a choice nine or so months ago, I occasionally drove from Longmont to Boulder and back. More than 95% of the time, I rode the bus. I bicycled part or all of that nearly 40-mile, round-trip commute many more times each year than I drove.

I don’t want all cars gone for good. Just most of them.

Pedal on,

B.J.

Who can you live without?

Think about which of your loved ones you can do without before you deny the reality of a deadly virus and flaunt your selfish freedom.

Think about who will miss you when you’re dead and gone.

Snapshot: Election Day in Longmont

Line moving slowly at the Boulder County Fairgrounds voting location. Copyright 2020 B.J. Smith

Taking Election Day 2020 off seemed like the thing to do a few weeks ago and I had accumulated some paid time off, so here I am. At a keyboard, at home, just like every other day since March.

If I weren’t in what’s considered a high-risk group for COVID-19, I might have signed up to work at the polls, but here I am. Instead, I decided to take a look around. I set off late morning and drove by and/or stopped at four of our local voting locations to see if people were behaving and what the lines might look like.

Each place I visited was so quiet only the signs provided evidence that today was important. There was plenty of free parking near the St. Vrain Community Hub, the Moose Lodge, and at Front Range Community College. As I walked by the Hub, someone offered me coffee and snacks, which I politely declined. The few humans around outside wore masks, like all responsible people.

It was only as I pulled away from the building at the Boulder County Fairgrounds that I spotted a line. That it was just a few geese made me smile.

That’s how easy it is to vote when you get your ballot in the mail well ahead of time. You can mail it right back or drop it in a collection box, like Mrs. Smith and I did a few weeks ago near where those geese showed up today.

It’s still early in the day right now, and things could change, and I’m sure they’ll be quite different in Denver and many other places, but I’m happy with voting in Colorado for now.

It should that easy for everyone.

B.J.

Horror in two sentences?

Checking on his long-neglected author profile, the writer could not let the question go unanswered: Can you tell us a two-sentence horror story?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Conrad woke to a pleasant whiff of sawdust and the buzz of a blade tearing through floorboards. He rolled out of bed in the darkness, straight into the abyss.

Image by Alexander Antropov from Pixabay

Beer night in Pandemia

Good to see friends at a table in the covered beer garden 
on a cool October evening as sky darkens early
from the smoke of not-so-distant wildfires. 

The acrid, burnt-forest ambience thickens 
and ash begins to decorate the smart device
that sits next to my pint of craft lager, 
telling us it's time to put on our masks 
and go home.

More raw verse.