Rollin’ Coal
I stopped along the way to fill bottles and get a snack. As I took my time eating outside of a gas station, a large red truck pulled into the lot and four teenagers filed out. As they saw me from across the parking lot, one of them snickered and got his friends attention, to which they all laughed, one of them calling me a “faggot” under his breath, to which the laughter increased. This certainly wasn’t the first name I’d been called standing outside of a gas station in a cycling kit, so I gave them a look of disappointment that they couldn’t be more creative and went back to enjoying my honey bun. As far as I was concerned, this exchange was over, and when I finished my snack, I hopped back on my bike and continued down the road.
About a mile or so outside of town, I heard a vehicle approaching from behind and, since I had a four-foot shoulder to ride on, it didn’t really affect me at all. In fact, I wouldn’t have looked back except that I could hear that the rate of speed was changing as it got closer. I checked for a crossroad that we may be approaching, which could justify their slowing, but there wasn’t one. I checked over my left shoulder to see the red truck from the gas station. My mind started running through all the scenarios that were likely to play out.
In my experience, rural white men who drive large trucks are absolutely the most offended by a demographic of people wearing Lycra and riding bikes. I’ve had things thrown at me. I’ve had them harass me by driving next to me at the same speed, yelling various homophobic slurs, almost always followed by some helpful advice about aquiring a vehicle. In some cases, which has happened to almost everybody I know, the truck runs you off the road and then speeds away. I didn’t know which of these I was about to get, but I was bracing for impact and reminding myself to memorize their license plate, if possible.
Luckily, as it didn’t result in any sort of physical harm, these teenagers were just looking to yell some more homophobic slurs until they’d exhausted their collective library of insults. This didn’t take that long, as by the time I looked over and again gave them a confused look, the driver hit the gas pedal and introduced me to a large plume of black exhaust to ride through. I held my breath and tried to get through the cloud of soot as quickly as I could. I was relieved to see that they kept driving and didn’t pull over farther up the road awaiting my arrival. My blood was pumping and I tried to calm myself down by remembering that this had happened before—and was likely to happen again.
This entire incident, including the parking lot of the gas station, was probably less than sixty total seconds of interaction with these clowns, yet it dominated my thoughts and spoiled the rest of the ride. As I thought about this, I grew a little upset at myself that I’d allow a sixty-second interaction to dominate the other seven hours and fifty-nine minutes that were filled with beautiful scenery and pleasant interactions. I was headed to yet another host family, who, out of the kindness of their hearts, was willing to let a stranger into their home. I was undeniably surrounded by positive experiences, so why couldn’t my mind, well after the incident occurred, lean on those experiences? Why was I letting this one bad thing overshadow all that good? I didn’t know the answer, I just knew it was happening and I wanted it to stop.
