The Invisible Man, On The Invisible Motorcycle

He was an old white guy, driving a black BMW 528i just ahead of me, with a "Vietnam Veteran" license plate. So he had my immediate respect, because my father is also an old white guy (#AskRachel) who went to Vietnam and who drove a 528i back when you got six cylinders for your money. As we headed single file down the alley towards where I park my bike downtown everyday, he came to a hard stop. My CB550 couldn't stop like his Bimmer but I'd been giving him room so I ended up halted about five feet behind him.

Then he put the Fiver into reverse.

I did a quick 360-degree scan. To my right: the metered parking spot that he wanted to back into. I'd never seen that spot empty before. Mr. Bimmer must have good karma. To my left: half a lane's worth of alley. Behind me, someone in an Altima pulling up. I was about to be part of a sandwich.

So I beeped the CB's horn, which made a noise but caused no reduction in the BMW's reversing.

I then leaned on the horn, yelled "HEY!" and reached out past my handlebars to smack his trunk with the outstretched edge of my fingers. That produced the desired result. I backed the CB up around rode around him. He was looking down at his seat in what I dimly recognized as "shame".

shame: noun 1. a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior. 2. Some shit that people used to feel before we were all taught that we had the right to self-esteem no matter what we'd recently put in our mouths, as long as it wasn't fast food.

So I beeped and waved in what was meant to convey "No problem, thanks for not killing me!" But he didn't get out of his car even as I parked my bike and shut the fuel off and fussed with my bag. I thought that perhaps he was vaguely concerned that I, your typical Overweight, Long-Haired Biker In Excess Of Six Feet Tall, would have some kind of issue with him. But as I rounded the corner towards work, I looked back one last time. He was seated in the car still. His head was in his hands.

All of a sudden I remembered that my father is seventy years old now, and this man was probably around that age. Then I wondered if he, being of a different generation, didn't automatically blame me for having the nerve to be behind him on the road. I wondered if perhaps he wasn't worried about the fact that he looked in the mirror and didn't see me. I wondered if today was the day when he realized that he wouldn't be driving forever, if today wasn't the day when he had a sharp glimpse of his fast-arriving mortality.

Then, as I thought about the fact that I'd be sharing the road with him on the way here tomorrow, as well, I thought about my mortality, as well.