The Morning Wacko

How many random factors came together to stop me at a particular intersection at a particular moment in time? [More than I can count.] The vagaries of getting up, getting dressed, assembling lunch and my gear, setting up the bike, pedaling on my way. Pausing for cross traffic, and another stoplight. Flying downhill, slowing to check for traffic merging from the freeway, and then rolling to a stop at a red light at a particular intersection at a particular moment in time.

I glanced to my left. The walk signal was flashing; this would be a long light. An old man in a light blue jacket, tall and robust, was crossing the street, staring at me. He veered out of the crosswalk to confront me, gruffly asking if I paid $3,000—or $4,000—for my bike.

There is no satisfactory answer to his question. He knows it's not a cheap bicycle. “Maybe,” I said; “it's old, I've had it a long time.”

It was 9:00 a.m. on Sunday morning and there was no one else in sight.

Nothing prepared me for the ugly question that next spewed from his mouth. A question with centuries-deep roots in ignorance and hatred.

“Are you a member of the Jewish clan?”

My blood froze. A storm of profanities raged in my brain. More furious than frightened, I summoned a reply. “No, I am not,” I said curtly. He continued on his way, rambling about the bike he got from Goodwill and suggesting that I should go spend more of my money on a new one.

How many random factors came together to stop me at that particular intersection at that particular moment in time? Thirty seconds, either way, would have spared me this encounter with the scum of the earth and this reminder that bigotry is alive right here in my own town, in the liberal Bay Area, in the twenty-first century.

Following this rude wake-up call, it is not hard to imagine that the rest of my day was considerably more pleasant. I biked to the start of our club ride, meeting up with friends old and new, with diverse national heritages and beliefs, from all walks of life. The morning gloom burned off sooner than my thoughts about the morning's sickening start.

Our ride leader insisted that we were welcome to picnic at Ridge Winery. After climbing to the top of Montebello we headed a mile or so back down and turned into their driveway. It was an unexpectedly lovely spot, but it is reserved for customers only. [That, I expected.]

A day of stark contrasts: 39 miles and 3,500 feet of climbing with scenic views, and one chance encounter with abhorrent views.