Cut Off
In the mile between the Iowa River and Summit Street, and depending on the block, Burlington Street is either four lanes or five. It’s a busy road—nearly all the highways in town touch it; it’s also the fastest route between downtown and the east side where I live.
Harvest moon rising over Burlington by Stephen Cummings, on Flickr
Mine was the first in a line of cars climbing the Summit Street hill one evening. Up ahead a bus was stalled in my lane. I checked my mirrors to make sure the left lane was clear, and switched on my blinker to merge. At that moment a motorcycle pulled out from somewhere behind me and sped up as if to pass. The rider was impatient. I was, too—if he cut me off, I would be squeezed behind the bus until everyone behind me passed it first. I pulled into the lane. I thought I was just in front of the biker; Kathy said I pulled in beside him. And maybe I did, because in my mirror I saw him swerve across the yellow line. But at the time I said I had pulled in front of him.
When I passed the bus, I returned to the right lane. The biker pulled up beside me and yelled, through the rush of the wind and the roar of our engines, something about how I had cut him off. I tried to ignore him. Soon after, he drove off.
Few activities invite fits of pique more than driving.
