How to Legally Roll Through a Stop Sign

photo courtesy of thecrazyfilmgirl on Flickr

The answer: You must live in Idaho. Or possibly New Mexico.

On Tuesday, New Mexico's House passed a bill that would allow cyclists to treat stop signs as yield signs, almost 30 years after cyclists in Idaho won the privilege. The Santa Fe New Mexican reports that the bill's sponsor, Rep. Miguel Garcia, said once Idaho passed their bike law, the bicycle injury rate fell 15 percent. He also argued that passing such a law would help to prevent cyclists from getting rear-ended at stop signs. (A problem I have never heard much about.)

Cyclists argue in favor of the law for several reasons, including that we have better awareness of our surroundings and can stop faster than vehicles. Other cyclists argue that the law establishes cyclists as something "other" than drivers and might set a precedent to limit cyclists' road use privileges.  And that it's good for everyone on the road to be predictable.

In the meantime, New Mexican cyclists shouldn't party yet; Oregon's House passed a similar bill in 2003 that their Senate killed. Oregon's Bicycle Transportation Alliance tried again in 2009, to no avail. According to the now defunct cycling advocacy nonprofit, the Bicycle Civil Liberties Union, cyclists in California, Oregon, Arizona and Virginia have all tried to pass a similar law.

As someone who has received a $150ish ticket for rolling a T-stop on a rural road with nobody around except a cop who apparently liked to spend his Saturday mornings hiding in a bush, I'm all for the stop-as-yield law. And if you have the tenacity and connections to get it passed in CA, I'll buy you a beer. Or 20.

Getting To New Mexico: Apartment Armageddon

Long time, no write! Sorry!

I've moved to Santa Fe to intern at Outside Magazine and am currently sitting on a kitchen table I found on Craigslist that is covered in crusty paint droplets that is sitting atop a concrete floor that echoes throughout the place I found that has nothing in it besides me, a bed, and Gally (cat) because the movers don't come until Monday and coachubby works in Los Angeles every other week.

But let's back that up.

Act 1: Hermosa Beach, 3 weeks ago

I return from covering RAAM. My flight gets in late at night. Let's say 10pm. I go to bed around midnight ready to make up for 2 weeks worth of a zombie-like existence living in the back of a minivan filled with 3 boys (make that 2 men and one grandpa) chasing cyclists across the back roads of the United States.

(Me and the Media 2 RAAM men: Photog Jake North, Videog Brenden Martin, and driver Chuck Anderson. Photo by Jake North...even though he's in it.)

At some ungodly hour--before 10am--I find myself in the middle of a demolition. People are pounding on the roof. They're jackhammering the floor. Apparently, the crap apartment coachubby lived in all year while I was at school was sold to a new owner who decided to completely renovate--with the renters still inside. This can't be legal.

I am pissed. I have a story to write. I can't think. Gally is petrified. I go for a bike ride.

When I return, the front door is wide open and some electricians are standing outside.

"This yer apartment?" they ask.

"No, but I'm staying here and I'm going to take a shower," I say.

"Well we're doing some electrical work..."

"You know we have a cat!?" I say, realizing the open door.

I slam the door shut and start the hunt for Gally. He's not under the couch--why would he be, they're drilling the ground where the couch is (2nd floor apt.). We have boxes everywhere for the move to Santa Fe. I look in and around all of them.

No Gally.

Craptastic!

"Coachubby!" I cry into the phone. "I went for a PV loop and came home and these men were outside and the door was open and I can't find Gaaaaallllllyyyyyyy wahhhhh!"

"I'll come home," says the best husband in the world.

Coachubby returns to the beach bungalow from hell and searches for the fuzzball. No fuzzball.

I indirectly cuss out the workers by telling my mom on the phone a few feet away from them how stupid they are and couldn't they have just waited one freaking day because we're moving T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W. (Insert a few choice vocab words here and there for accuracy.)

Coachubby goes down more calmly to speak with the electrical men. Meanwhile I go back inside knowing my Gally cat is the most scaredy cat in the world and wouldn't have run out the front door. He's hiding somewhere, I know it.

I look under the covers on the bed. I lift up the mattress. I look in the closet, behind the couch, in cupboards. Finally, I kneel down beneath the bed (which was elevated a good 3 feet off of the ground so all of our junk could live beneath it) and start patting the box springs.

By hand thuds against a warm bump. I find Gally.

Kitty was apparently planning for beach bungalow armageddon by clawing away at the box springs in secrecy, creating an entry point, so he could securely hang in privacy from whatever that thin fabric is that's on the bottom of box springs.

I must now face the workers outside who told me they didn't see a cat run out and they're right and I was wrong but I'm still angry and just want to freaking sleep and take a shower but I can't because the bathroom has a skylight and there are strange men on the roof looking in.

And tomorrow, we're supposed to pack up and move to Santa Fe. In a car. Another 800-mile road trip. I just drove 3,000 miles I don't want to be in a car ever again just kill me now.

To be continued...