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ZEN AND THE ART OF ROAD RAGE: You’ve got to hit the ground running, we are told, often by very insufferable people.
In the spirit of CycleMAYnia and Bicycle Month — which some of us are now celebrating — I decided to take that advice up a notch. So, early this past Monday morning, I hit the ground riding. All I can say about the experience is “Ouch,” and “Don’t.” No matter how many times you’ve felt the wet, burning kiss of concrete — or think you’ve finally mastered the art of the flying dismount — the landing stings. And more importantly, you look ridiculous. Mercifully, no cars were involved. My bike, also most importantly, was unscathed and my appointment not delayed. It was “on with the show.”
Just to be safe, I checked myself into what used to be known as Sansum’s Urgent Care clinic, but now bears the name of the Sutter Health Care Intergalactic Empire. I didn’t especially feel like working and was looking forward to settling in for a very long wait. As I walked in, I was greeted by a floor-mount sign the size of well-fed adult human being demanding patients “conduct themselves with patience and respect.” By that, the sign elaborated, there would be “NO” physical assault tolerated; “NO” abusive, discriminatory language; “NO” threatening behavior or sexual harassment; “NO” weapons, drugs or alcohol; and “NO” photographs.
What did they think, that we were getting on an airplane?
When I got ushered into the exam room, I was greeted by smaller but similar code-of-conduct signs. During COVID, things, I know, got really hairy in the human comportment department. I remember meeting an ER nurse who felt the need to take special Israeli commando grappling lessons to feel safe when dealing with threatening, unruly patients. It was a thing. And I get road rage — as a bike rider, I know from experience that everyone behind the wheel of a Mustang is a registered psychopath — but I thought the COVID-induced variety had passed.
Obviously, I thought wrong. Road rage is clearly the mood of the nation.
Duh!
The Pollyanna part of my brain kicked into gear. The wildflowers are exploding. Haven’t you seen all the orange poppies and yellow mustard galloping over the hills, swarming the countryside? It’s what they call “a riot of color.” Well, of course, these days, we might need to dispatch the National Guard to quell such rioting. And “color”? What do we mean by “color?” Is that a DEI subterfuge? And by the way, doesn’t opium come from poppies?
For those crunched by time constraints — pretty much everyone I know — I was going to suggest the Botanic Garden as a great spot for a quick hit of nature. Lots of poppies there and irises of every imaginable variety. You can’t help but be softened in the moment. But then I just heard, the federal government — in its crusade against “waste, fraud, and abuse” — has cut funding to one of those four-letter acronym agencies that underwrites the cost of programming for libraries and museums.
The Botanic Garden, I am told, has done exceedingly well over the years with grants from this agency. But libraries and museums, being repositories of information gleaned from sources independent of the current administration — the most incestuously corrupt in all of American history — now qualify as waste, fraud, and abuse.
On the subject of road rage, I would point out that the bicycle is the single best antidote to this affliction yet devised. Bike riders — even those of us who on occasion obey the laws — don’t have to wait through five or six rotations at a stop sign or stop light to zip on through. Mission and Modoc at rush hour, anyone? If you’re on a bike, you are ipso facto at the head of every line. You wait for no one. The cumulative time saved from all that “not waiting” translates into millions of dogs that go unkicked by their owners at the end of every day.
Too busy for Buddhism? Ride a bike.
Yes, there are risks. Ride long enough, you will probably fall. Yeah, I took a spill. It hurt. (And no, I’m not telling my daughter.) But here’s the trade-off: Last time I went in for a physical, my doctor told me if it wasn’t for riding, I probably wouldn’t be here. And — while shaking his head in incredulous wonderment — he repeated it.
Here’s what I can tell you: Riding is good for the body. It’s good for the soul. And it’s cheap. Tell me something else that meets all three.
As for those waiting-room signs about no shooting, screaming, yelling, punching, drinking, cussing, or taking photographs? When Congress gets around to hacking $156 billion that would otherwise go to California Medicaid recipients — infants, elderly, disabled, poor, and other perpetrators of “waste, abuse, and fraud” — I have a hunch we’re going to need armed guards, German Shepherds, and Doberman Pinschers to keep the peace in medical waiting rooms throughout California. There won’t be enough poppies and mustard in the state to calm down our pineal glands.
Looking to see the zombie apocalypse up close and personal? Just go to the local ER. Or Urgent Care.
Good thing 12 Republicans in Congress signed a letter a month ago expressing hesitation and equivocation about such cuts. I had the good fortune of meeting a 91-year-old hell-raiser on the phone this week. “All we can do,” she said, “is work and pray.” I liked that. So much better than “Hope and pray.” I said so. “Work and pray,” she said again. “And if the sun is shining, we can enjoy that too.”
A bicycle seat is a pretty good spot to enjoy the view. Yes, you may fall down. But just remember what Einstein said: What falls down, must come up.
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