Remember that movie? Steven Spielberg's very first attempt at thrilling theatergoers in the early '70s? The one where the mysterious driver of a menacing tractor-trailer stalks Dennis Weaver in his Plymouth Valiant? It was freakishly horrifying, wasn't it?
I've been thinking about Duel a lot recently...using the movie as a way to compare a few similarly unsettling duels I've experienced lately between bike and car. You'd guess I've been "chased" by angry motorists because I'm an in-your-face kind of rider, right? But that's not me sporting the straight pipes, or cutting through freeway traffic at 120 mph, or wheelieing out of control toward your wife and kids. I'm an aggressive rider, true. I feel that when you light out on two wheels, you need to stay in control, be slightly defensive and never, ever passive. And with increasing skill you should be able to use your machine to stay out of harm's way. For example, I prefer to travel just slightly faster than the flow of traffic in any situation. Not wildly faster. Just a step ahead so that it's me negotiating my way through traffic, not traffic negotiating its way around me.
So yes, as we all know, getting in front of people, whether you're in line for coffee, on the moving sidewalk at the airport, or riding your motorcycle down the road, presents an opportunity for resentment.
But still, the three life-threatening chase scenes that have played out in my life recently are unprecedented. I'm not sure what's going on. Maybe it's a sign of the times. Maybe gas prices are eating at those car-driver's nerves, and knowing I'm traveling on pennies to their dollars just causes them to snap. Maybe it's just a fluke that I've suffered through three encounters with maniacs in five months even though my riding style is the tamest it's been in 20 years on two wheels.
So, here's how they went and how I survived (without causing my opponents to drive off a cliff, as Weaver does in the flick). It doesn't matter how macho you are, by the way. In this day of gun-drawing, rear-ending, poodle-tossing drivers, confrontation is rarely the best answer.
The first duel took place at night in the Sierra foothills on an incredibly winding road I know very, very well. It's six miles of nonstop 25- and 35-mph blind benders and huge elevation losses and gains as it dives into a big river gorge and works its way up the other side. I wasn't speeding, or wanting to speed, because this was deer country and it was already dark, but I was coming up on a short but useable turn lane, and so I downshifted in preparation to pass the couple of pickup trucks doddering along in front of me. The first truck in line swung left as it should while the second passed, but then the second truck didn't yield to let me pass even though there was lots of room. I wasn't happy, of course, and I did give him a little honk to let him know what a dork he'd been. I wish I hadn't. Midway through the next blind corner the idiot flips me off and then slams on his brakes in front of me. The only choice I have on this road leaves me in the oncoming lane (instead of in his bumper). So, once out there in the blind corner and already halfway around him, I continue to pass. And so, the duel begins.
I don't know what kind of day this guy had or how many beers he tossed back trying to erase it, but he seemed to think killing me might improve his mood. Of course he couldn't catch me when the road was clear, but as soon as I'd get behind a stack of vehicles, he'd race up my tail. I felt there was only one thing to do in this situation: Run.
Here's why. I knew the road like the back of my hand. Even in the dark I knew the sections where you could see the corners coming down the hillside. So after a couple of searing but relatively safe multicar passes over the double yellow, I was gone.