ARTICLE: Boston Tries to Shed Longtime Reputation as Cyclists' Minefield, By KATIE ZEZIMA, New York Times, August 8, 2009

True story: I drove a huge 12-gear Schwinn (weighed maybe 35 pounds, bought new in 1985 but a true throwback; I placed old-school double-side baskets on the back, reliving my newspaper delivery days) from Cleveland Circle in Brookline over to Harvard every morning (returning every night) in rush-hour traffic for three years. Many close calls and one beat-your-ass hill coming back every day, I dragged huge bound volumes of Deutsche Aussenpolitik (East German gov's official foreign ministry journal: German Foreign Affairs) along with those of Lumea (Romanian equivalent: The World) back and forth as I scanned through 20 years of each, tracking and recording every deputy minister and above (mentions) and their travels to Third World countries (yielding a proxy data base of support operations because actual aid numbers were classified on their side). I also made the same effort with over 5,000 daily Foreign Broadcast Information Service (FBIS) reports. In all, I captured about 6,000 trips and over 8,000 interaction points (visits by country). It was the kind of thing you do in a PhD dissertation--the big crank of data. Anyway, I'm biking in to Harvard about three days before I'm to be awarded my PhD and a young guy runs a red-yellow (a special double light that, at that time at least in Boston, came on after the red and signaled clear right of pedestrians). As the car broadsides my big heavy bike, I lift my closest leg, avoiding the blow. He was screeching to a halt at that point and was decelerating to a stop point about 10-feet beyond the strike zone of my bike, which was sent flying maybe 20 yards from the punch. By standing up on my left leg and hoisting up my right (almost like I was trying to vault myself, Fosbury style, over the high-jump bar--now we're back to freshman year HS instincts), I go up, off the bike, just as it's smacked away and I barrel roll my torso (counterclockwise), landing on the guy's hood on my hands and knees. I was completely unhurt, but it was the last time I rode a bike in Boston. And yeah, I made him pay, upon threat of a police report. I pocketed the money and did not repair the bike.