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To the Editor:

When we first moved to Boston, it took time to adjust to the driving culture here. Horn use is a part of the daily commute and an accepted form of communication. Rather than a warning of danger or call to attention, the horn—often accompanied by hand gestures and choice words—acts as the means of making a commentary on another’s driving. In order to drive here, awareness is paramount but you must develop a certain tolerance to the aggression of others.

Perhaps, that’s why I did not think too much of the initial honking of the black pickup last Tuesday September 29. Commuting on my bicycle, I try to stay focused on the road and everything ahead. On Webster Avenue, filled with construction, potholes, and intersections, there are plenty of obstacles for both bike and cars. Moreover, without a bike lane, cars and bikes are largely left to negotiate spacing. However, I noted it when the pickup truck driver demonstrated his continued frustration by honking a second time and calling for the “crazy f**ing cyclist” to “get off the road.”

Having passed a few other cyclists, I moved to the right. One car passed us. Then I heard the black pickup pulling next me extremely close and fast. As he proceeded to drive into my bicycle rather than around, I knew there was only one end to this.

As I came to awareness on the ground, I do not remember much. I do remember the other bikers asking if I was all right, the sudden realization that my wrist was bent in directions it should not be able go, my frustration at being late for work, my desire to call my wife, and my thankfulness of being alive all amidst a growing sensation of losing consciousness.

The blue pickup sped away without stopping. I was taken to MGH where I had surgery on my broken wrist. While many witnesses came to my assistance, no one got the truck’s license plate. Without this, the police made it clear the likelihood of finding the driver was minimal.

At first, I wanted to write and ask for help to find him. Angry and hurt, my desire was and is for justice. Justice for the fact I cannot hold my 7-week old daughter for the next 1-2 months. Now at eight pounds, she is above the weight limit for my wrist, so I cannot rock and calm her. Nor can I wrestle with her two older brothers.

But instead of a plea to help find this driver, I want to invite our community into a dialogue. Are these the type of incidents we want to characterize us? Road rage where hitting the horn escalates to hitting a person? Running from accidents where others are hurt? Being delayed as justification for reckless driving and hurting others?

We can and should think about ways to systematically make the roads safer. We should advocate for more bike paths and protected bike lanes. But we should also consider the culture of our roads.

In the end, while the driver has no idea what happened to me, I forgive him. I am thankful that it was only my wrist, and I do plan on biking again. But as we have started teaching our oldest son to ride a bicycle, I am lost as how best to prepare him for the danger and the anger present on our roads. As drivers, bicyclists, fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, sons, and daughters, can’t we do better than this?

— Geren Stone
gerenstone@mail.harvard.edu
Physician at MGH and Boston Health Care for the Homeless Program and committed cyclist