Carbon Trace

It was a dark and drizzly afternoon.

I left for the  STAR Team meeting at about 5 p.m. The meeting spot is slightly less than 3 miles from my house along residential and city streets — streets that were now filled with rush-hour traffic.

The drizzle made the streets slick and cut visibility because it hung there like a fog. All around tires sizzled on the street. And now and then the sizzle would slip as someone applied a bit too much gas following the annoyance of a stop light or the pesky obstacle of a pedestrian.

The mood? Evil.

I prepared myself. Helmet? Yes. This ride met my newly-formed (and still evolving) criteria for donning a helmet. Lights? Check. Front and back — and reflective tape on my bicycle and helmet. And a blinker on my backpack. And a blaze-orange hoodie. All I need now is a ghetto blaster blaring Stars and Stripes Forever.

No honks. But three disconcerting encounters in less than 3 miles.

On Cherry on the northern edge of the MSU campus, a driver darted from one parking lot entrance on the south side of the street to another on the north side — cutting right across my path. A little fancy breaking and steering — learned in an L.A.B. Road One class — kept me from smacking this idiot broadside.

As I approached the intersection of Walnut and Campbell downtown, I signaled my intention to turn right on Campbell by extending my right hand — an accepted alternative to the left raised at a right angle. I stopped at the light. And as I prepared to make a safe and legal right turn on red, a lady in a red SUV on my left rolled down her window and shouted at me because she didn’t like the way I signaled my turn.

Then, at the meeting spot, I discovered a tractor-trailer all but blocking the entrance to the parking lot. The driver had left a tiny chute through which escaping employees were pulling into traffic blind. Instead of easing out, they used the slick road to their best advantaged and peeled out. I’d be making a left turn into this lot past the semi. But I pulled to the side of the road and waited for these desperate people to peel out before I ventured into the lot through the chute.

I tripped going up the stairs to the entrance. Almost hit my head. Good thing I was wearing my helmet like a hat.

Oh, and this is important: This strange afternoon was not typical. Riding in Springfield is nearly always easy and free of conflict for me.

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