What It’s Like to Be a Magnet for On-Bike Harassment
There’s a man on my usual ride route I call “Iridescent Green Man.” Every so often, just when enough time has passed that I’ve stopped scanning the road for his trademark pickup truck on St. Peters Road, he strikes.
First, he passes me on the winding country road with a respectable amount of space. Then I round a bend and spot him ahead, standing in the middle of the road and waving his arms, with his car parked on the shoulder.
“YOU NEED. TO BE WEARING. IRIDESCENT. GREEN,” he yells, carefully punctuating every syllable and repeating those last two words as many times as he can before I fly past him out of earshot.
I’ve never stopped. It’s too unnerving—both the odd specificity of his message and the fact that he’s a complete stranger, screaming at me and partially blocking my path. If I did stop to endure his strangely emotional lecture, I’d probably ask him three things: What he has against my usual hi-viz choice of neon blue, why “iridescent green” is the hill he’s chosen to die on, and most importantly, WHY ME? Why have no other cyclists encountered this mysterious curmudgeon—except for the times they've been riding with ME?
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Oh, that’s right—it’s just another day in the life of a magnet for on-bike heckling.
When I recount my stories of cyclist harassment, I try to keep things light and just “play the hits,” so to speak, because most of the time I find it at least a bit amusing. There’s Iridescent Green Man, who really isn’t much of a problem. There are the unintelligible grunts from passing vehicles that make me think of the TLC song No Scrubs (Hanging out the passenger side of a best friend’s ride/trying to holler at me), which probably make up the bulk of these sorts of episodes. (I like to pretend they’re commenting on my impeccable pedal stroke.) There’s the occasional, faux-helpful command from a pickup-truck window to “GET A CAR,” or “RIDE ON A SIDE STREET”—which is extra-frustrating when I’m riding somewhere new and already in search of a quieter road. And then there’s the tandem-inspired commentary, which generally consists of one comedian per mile informing me that the rider in the back isn’t pedaling.
There have also been darker incidents, though: Big Gulps and empty beer cans flung at me from truck windows (the Bud Light “fan can” projectile is my bête noir). Cat-calling when my hair is long. Homophobic slurs when my hair is short. The time a guy got out of his car and pushed me off my bike. The time an SUV full of frat boys pulled up next to me at a stoplight, rolled down a window, and one said, “Nice gay bike, FAG,” then peeled out before I could inform them that I’m a woman, and having a basket on your fixed gear is very nice, thanks. I’ve never been too quick with the comebacks.
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I’ve tried to figure out why I seem to have such a tractor beam for on-bike harassment. Aside from the easy answers of gender and sexuality, my biggest suspicion is that I’ve spent the vast majority of my life without a car, commuting through cities, suburbs, and college towns that don’t have a lot of other cyclists. I’m an easy mark.
But I like to think maybe I’ve paved the way for other commuters on previously unridden roads—that every Big Gulp lobbed at me in Kansas in the ‘90s meant one fewer flung at the next cyclists who chanced down that same country highway. Or that more people will get used to seeing bikes on the road and realize their commentary isn’t warranted. And that Iridescent Green Man will grow tired of yelling at me and leave me to ride in peace. (Clearly you can see me, sir—you find me nearly every time I ride on this otherwise traffic-free country road.)
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I wish I had more advice for cyclists dealing with heckling and harassment—from the slightly amusing and eccentric, to the dangerous and scary—but all I can say is to get descriptions and license plates when relevant. Call 911 and report anything that crosses the line into physical harassment and violence, or even just physical threats. Support other cyclists on the road and provide witness testimony if you see them experiencing harassment. To the extent that you can, take the high road and don’t escalate the situation with a response. Politely laugh at a bad tandem joke or two until your soul dies and you just can’t bear it anymore.
The good news is, I think it’s already getting better out there—it’s been years since anyone has chucked a Busch Camo can in my direction. That might be a sad barometer of progress, but I’ll take it.
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