The Iron Maiden

THE IRON MAIDEN

UP FRONT

Allan Girdler

One day when I had occasion to admit that yes, I had behaved in shabby fashion to those who didn’t deserve it, I tried to defend myself on the grounds that what I had done had been out of my character.

My listener was wiser than I. If it hadn’t been in your character, he said, you couldn’t have done it.

That’s background.

Rush hour doesn’t bring out the best in the human animal. On this particular morning I left home early, hoping to get a few minutes in the shop before office hours, and found I’d managed to arrive in time for the crowd. I’d barely got onto the Interstate than it became stop and go as far as the eye could see. Alert for sudden moves on either side, right hand poised on the brake lever, I moved into the slot between the first and second lanes and began splitting traffic.

After five or six miles I noticed another bike, in the fast lane but not going fast. A grown man, on a Honda Hawk. This morning followed days of torrential rain with more forecast, yet this rider was wearing a normal sort of baseball jacket and slacks. No helmet, only a pair of goggles and those were perched on his forehead rather than protecting his eyes. He was moving with the other traffic, stopping when they did, moving a few feet, stopping again, so I slid past with a nod.

As anybody in this office will affirm, I can build proof of summer with much less than one swallow. Leaping to conclusions is sort of a hobby. So without getting too deeply into the subject I analyzed the Honda rider. I decided he’d looked at me, full helmet, rain suit, gloves and boots, white-lining it and he'd decided that man thinks if he’s all decked out in safety gear he can take chances. I of course had concluded that the other rider believed if he took no chances, as in staying with the cars, that meant he didn’t need a helmet or even eye protection. In short, we'd each decided the other bikist had his priorities wrong.

And then I didn’t think about it any more. Traffic had thinned so I cruised along, in the righthand side of the leftmost, that is fast, lane, building myself a nice cushion fore, aft and to my right.

An odd flicker, just a blink and I glanced in the lefthand mirror to watch the Honda’s headlight, half or maybe a quarter-mile back, swing to one side and then the other as the bike veered violently out of its lane. Then the view was blocked by a nondescript sedan and I turned my attention to the front.

YARRGH! There was a burst of tire howl and engine thrash and I glanced to my left not six inches from my leg was a bumper fender door! On my left! A car had come barrelling up, two-thirds in my lane and one-third on the shoulder and was intent on jamming me out of its path.

A woman. Make that a young woman.

And I’d better be careful here. A car company once extolled its sports model by saying it wasn't for librarians and caught all manner of flack. Men librarians said they were as dashing and adventuresome as any other guy, women librarians said they were as sweet and sexy and adventuresome as any other gal and the car people said they were sorry.

So. This was a young woman, severe hair, correct make up, all business. She wore (odd the details one recalls) a buttoned-up blouse with a tiny pattern of flowers. Prim. Proper. Back rigid, chin up, eyes straight ahead with that fixed look people get when they are being especially careful not to look at you.

My first thought was that this was a classic case, driver attacks biker. I passed her back in the crush, I guessed, and now she’s out to get even by getting me.

But no. The other motorcyclist, the guy who’d been taking his time and not taking advantage hadn’t passed her. But that swerve I saw in the mirror was this woman, driving in off the shoulder and shoving him the way she’d shoved me.

As if to prove there was no anti-motorcycle motive, soon as her back bumper was two inches ahead of my front tire she cut to the right, moving from the shoulder across my lane and the next lane too.

This was worse than I’d thought. Splitting lanes is legal in some places. There are those who say it isn’t safe, and those who say it isn’t polite, but in no state are you allowed to use the shoulder as a passing lane nor can you shut the door on fellow travellers or jump two lanes at a time.

Next I heard another noise, from the right and farther away. It was the Honda, the man I’d judged as being meek and careful and polite and so prudent he didn’t think he needed a helmet. He came storming up in the lane next to mine, hot on the trail of the Ice Queen. As he came alongside he pointed, gesturing that she’d done him wrong, which of course she had, and indicating that he was going to get her.

Here the going gets rough. I mentioned character flaws. In the distant past I said on this page that I usually don’t shut off the fuel when I park. I heard from people who said, but that’s not right. I didn't say it was right. I said that’s how I do it.

In brief, no defense. When the Honda went in pursuit I went with him.

Traffic was packing up again and the woman found herself blocked by more cars than she could bully aside. She was six inches from the back of the car in front, making little feints with the gas, jabs with the brake. Because I was on the left I got to her window first. We’d slowed to a crawl so I kept alongside, tapping the horn and waving until she couldn’t not look.

I didn’t know what to say. Oh, I knew the lecture I’d have liked to deliver. Again dwelling on the impression she made, I ached to tell her that if I could somehow tell her father how she drives, he’d take away the car for sure.

But of course I couldn’t say anything. She was the Girl In the Iron Mask, her car. If we'd been walking she wouldn’t have elbowed me aside or tripped the lady who stood between her and wherever she was so eager to get. Here on the highway, though, isolated, insulated, falsely secure behind glass and steel she could with impunity put the rest of the world at the mercy of her impatience.

So I glared and threw up my hands figuratively—and used my mobility to get out of her way. Hopeless, the whole thing. Criminally stupid of her to drive like that, potentially painfully stupid of me to do other than protect myself and keep my distance.

But as I regained my distance I looked in the mirror.

The man on the Honda rode alongside, took aim, drew back and kicked in her door, leading edge to trailing edge.

I don’t recommend it.

I couldn't bring myself to do it.

And when she told dad I expect it was once again those crazed bikers, there oughta be a law.

But, good for you, bareheaded man on the Honda Hawk. Rough justice is better than no justice at all. 0