I was coming out of Grand Central the other afternoon on my way to Kamran’s apartment, crossing to the south side of 42nd Street, when I noticed a businessman on a bike yelling at the cab driver behind him. They were stopped at the red light, and the bike rider was turned around, one foot on a pedal and one foot on the ground, yelling over and over, “Get out of the car!” He had his suit pants rolled up to expose his dress socks pulled to mid-calf and his leather briefcase strapped to his back. The cab driver was leaned back in his seat, hands gripping the wheel, yelling out his open window, but I couldn’t understand him. A driver in a car to their right leaned out his window, looking confused. Everyone on the street watched them, waiting to see what would happen when the light turned green.

I stopped at the corner to wait, and as expected, when the cars around him started moving, the guy on the bike just stood still, foot still planted firmly, looking smug. After maybe five seconds of this, the door of the cab behind the bike rider flung open, and a blonde girl about my age leaned out and yelled, “If you don’t move, I’LL MAKE YOU!” But then, you know, she sat back down and closed the door. Evidently feeling as if he’d proven his point and knowing that plowing over bikers is an everyday occurrence for cabbies, the biker started moving, weaving in and out of cars as he made his way leisurely across town.

And that’s why I ride public transportation.

(also posted to Examiner)