Wednesday, February 2, 2011 |
Staines High Street, England, Summer 1959:
I pull up at the intersection behind a sports-Jaguar, roof down, driven by a man around forty. The lights are about to change. At this moment, a bicycle, ridden by a man around twenty, cruises by me, pulls in front of the Jag just as green appears. The Jag moves, and bumps the bike.
The cyclist adroitly puts a foot down, pirouetting as the bike spins under him. Both he and the bike fall. He gets up, looks at his buckled wheel, looks at the Jag and kicks it, scattering orange shards.
The driver leaps out. What the heck you doing? he yells, examining the smashed light.
You wrecked my bike! the cyclist yells back, and puts another boot to the Jag. More shards explode across the intersection.
It was your fault, you idiot! bellows the driver and boots the bike's good wheel.
Traffic comes to a stop. Horns blare. A crowd gathers. Go for it! someone hollers.
The cyclist jumps onto the Jag, jigs briefly, then caves-in the windshield with a colossal kick, foot hooking in the laminated glass. He falls and sits on the hood. Onlookers cheer. The car's driver stomps on the bike, fuming rage. Wheel-spokes entangle his feet. He stumbles and sits on the road.
At which moment, a British Bobby appears, pulling out pen and notepad.
Well, well, what have we here? he asks. Looks to me like a case of very bad behaviour!