- Not because it’s a liar.
- Not because it’s killing the planet.
- Because it’s a hatchback.
“You leave your bike shit in there and it stinks,” she has been telling me since 2012. “And you stink. You need a car with a trunk where you can keep all that shit.”
Ok, I’ll admit:
- I do leave my bike shoes, helmet, glasses and gloves inside the car at all times.
- I do sweat until “salt” stains cover every cloth or plastic surface.
- There are days, when to take a really deep breath, I do have to roll down the windows (but not every fucking day).
I didn’t know plastic could take on a smell, until one day I “lost” my cycling glasses… I found them in the house. I could smell them 4-feet away.
But I didn’t really believe that the odor ruined the nazi diesel.
In my moments of private bullshit, I just assumed along with her unpredictable Bear powers, she had the Bear power of smell (like she is some kind of fucking superhero on the Captain Planet show).
In the real world, I give other people rides and no one complains. So it’s just the opinion of my spouse — everybody ignores that opinion at least half the time. It’s the only way two people can stay together for more than a month.
Then one Friday evening, I’m driving back from Tucson to Phoenix. I get pulled over by AZ Department of Public Safety officer.
DPS walks up to the passenger side of the car, and I roll down the window. He doesn’t ask any questions.
“Step out of the vehicle and meet me behind the car.”
I’ve been pulled over before. Being a middle-age white guy, I’m not expecting a beating or cavity search. Why am I getting out of the car?
What the fuck? He didn’t say “please” and he didn’t call me “sir” or “boss”. Am I about to get my ass-kicked by a cop?
My expensive carbon fiber road bike is hanging off the rack on the back of the car. The cop asks me about cycling.
Ahhh… I can feel the white privilege washing back over me. He didn’t even put his hand on his pistol or baton, even though I was 6 inches taller and 100 pounds heavier than him.
Turns out I was going 22 mph over the speed limit — according to his radar. But that shit must be broken. I set the cruise control to 74 — 9 miles over what I thought was the speed limit.
“It’s only 55 through here,” he says. He writes a ticket for only 9 mph over. A small fine, no points. It’s good to be white.
“So… how come you asked me to step out of the car,” I ask.
“When you rolled down the window, there was a very ‘fermented’ smell,” he said.
Shit. I tell him about the Bear and her all-powerful smeller. He sort of laughs.
“Now I have to tell my wife, that the State says I stink too…. Instead, can’t you just hit me over the head a couple of times with your baton?”
He looked confused. Must be single.
I still haven’t decided what car I’m getting to replace the Lying Nazi Bullshit Diesel.
But the Bear and the State of Arizona insist I get one with a trunk.
I didn’t get a car with a truck — got a civic hatchback. The Bear says I still stink. But not as much — my fucked up knees have kept me from cycling.