Road Tax

Like so many road cyclists, I've had my share of people who pull up along side me, roll down their windows, and scream at me to get off the road. I've had assholes get ahead of me, only to put two wheels onto the shoulder to kick up dirt and gravel.

I've had idiots tell me that they don't pay their "road tax" to share said roads with cyclists.

There's no such thing as a road tax, and if there is (provincial and municipal tax?), I pay just as much as drivers do.

These drivers are boneheads and for the most part, I can ignore them. But there are other problems that I face when I'm on my bike that are sometimes hard to avoid.

Potholes.

There are a lot of roads in the city and outskirts that are really, poorly maintained. Some have no paved shoulder, and that's okay as long as the roads themselves are in decent shape, though some have edges that are cracked up, to the point where the edges have crumbled into the shoulder. Usually, these roads aren't as bad for motorized vehicles, but if you're a cyclist, you often find yourself moving further out into the road and into the way of traffic.

Some roads do have paved shoulders, and I tend to seek these out. With a paved shoulder, I can easily put myself further out from the white line on the sides of the roads, which means that a passing car or truck does not have to move into the centre line to pass me. Good for me: good for them.

But there are some of these paved shoulders that are in really bad shape. Some are covered in dirt or scattered with bits of gravel, or worse—shards of glass and twisted pieces of metal. When I encounter this sort of debris, I'm forced to move out into the lane to avoid it, possibly putting myself in danger.

There are also some roads where the paved shoulders are riddled with potholes. And not just fist-sized potholes: I'm talking crater-sized potholes, that could easily hide furry animals or small children.

Take Fallowfield Road, in the southwest end of Ottawa, between Moodie Drive and Steeple Hill Crescent, near the village of Fallowfield. If you're cycling westbound, you have to pay close attention to the shoulder. There's a lot of gravel strewn along it. There are potholes so big that if they were on the main part of the road, drivers would be up in arms.

And, along this stretch of road, the posted speed limit is 80 kph, of which many drivers exceed.

On Sunday, DW and I were cycling along this stretch of road, on our way to Stittsville. DW was close behind me, and because she was so close, she had to take her cues of where to move based on where I put my bike.

I was weaving all over the shoulder, avoiding debris, rocks, and mostly, potholes. As I passed the turn-in for Monaghan Forest, I saw a lot of gravel on the outer part of the shoulder, so I moved closer to the car lane. But as I moved out, I saw a massive pothole directly in front of me, and the road-side of the painted white line was also in bad shape.

Because there were fast-moving cars coming up from behind us, I couldn't move further out into the road, so I tried to squeeze between the pothole and the scattering of gravel. And that's when I saw it: another large pothole.

At this point, there was little I could do: I stood on my pedals, lifting my butt from my seat. I pulled up on my handlebars so that my front wheel could jump the hole. I didn't have time to warn DW: I could only let out a yelp.

My back wheel hit the pothole hard. I could feel the sharp jar through my body. My upper and lower teeth smashed together and vibrated throughout my jaw. With the front wheel cleared of the hole and firmly back on the ground, I saw a small black object flying up in front of me and head toward the overgrown ditch. My trajectory was straight into gravel, and as I fought to slow down, down I went.

DW also hit the pothole, but because she saw my last-minute swerve and heard my yelp, she didn't seem to hit the hole as hard. She was mostly focused on me, making sure I was all right.

"My phone has flown off my bike," I said, getting to my feet. I was a bit shaken but was thankfully able to unclip a shoe from my pedal before I hit the ground, and I slid more than I fell.

I have a phone holder that is mounted on my bike. I've had it for many years and through three or four smartphones. As the length of newer phones have increased, the holder has now become stretched to its maximum for my current phone. It holds snugly, but as I had just learned, if my bike receives a powerful blow, the holder will launch my phone.

I put my bike down on the slope of the ditch, away from traffic, and looked back at the tall growth between the potholes and where the marks my tires had left in the gravel had begun. Somewhere, in there, my phone was hiding from me.

Luckily, my watch has a find-my-phone app, which pings my smartphone. My phone makes a loud noise, like a high-pitched radar blip. Immediately, I could hear the sound, but with the traffic moving, it took a few moments to pinpoint its location.

It's not our falls that define us: it's how we get back up and carry on that does.

With my phone back in its holder and myself dusted off, we continued our ride. DW, thankfully, was no worse for wear, though she did say that she nearly slammed into the back of me.

Our city really needs to maintain our roads. And that includes our paved shoulders. I have logged a report with the city, citing the location of these hazards.

There is no road tax. We all pay the same taxes. And because we do, cyclist should be shown the same consideration as drivers do. We deserve to have safe places to ride upon.