Questions

The animals scatter as the cloud of noise and machine darkens the sky. Everyone runs and no one makes sense, heels clacking the sidewalks and phones ringing, unanswered, throughout the city.

In this dream, my escape from Washington, D.C., comprises two stages as I cross the Potomac by kayak to reassemble on the other side my bicycle, which I power along 14th Street alongside other evacuees. Only then with highways jammed would I leave the comfort and convenience of my beloved automobile, the symbol of my freedom, the reality of my confinement.

Only then after the president kills the F-22, with the enemy in the sky, would I join the ranks of the pompous and pretentious, those who make their daily commute by bicycle, dressed as Levi Leipheimer in the third stage of the Tour of California. Only then would I seek brotherhood and comradery with those wearing the yellow jersey, commuters with sponsorships—worth multiple millions of euros—advertising the Spain-based telecommunication concern. Only then would I eschew my pirate costume and Lone Ranger cape for the tight shorts and matching jersey of the cycling commuter and the Weekend Warrior—only then.

Not too long ago, a commentator here calls the cycling community one of the last bastions of civility in our city, making me wonder:

Was he referring to the cyclist who punches a cab driver one day in Adams Morgan? Or was he referring to the cyclist racing behind a car along Florida Avenue, screaming to the city: “I’m going to kill you, you fucking piece of shit!” Or, rather, was he referring to the cyclist who runs red lights, only to harass the jaywalker for his crime against nature.

I’m not sure. You assholes tell me.