By: C.L. Miller
I spent a fair share of my younger, more flexible days on a motorcycle. There was a Yamaha dirt bike, a relatively more powerful Honda, and a chopped Harley-Davidson. (For the record, on the latter I was a passenger.) I learned that many motorists do not see motorcycles, somewhat understandable considering their narrower, lower, less-lit style.
Now that I am older and less-flexible, I spend much of my day in a truck. What I cannot understand is the continued failure of motorists to see me. Nearly every day I voice the same rhetorical question:
“I am thirteen feet tall and nine feet wide. I am painted in bright colors. I am festooned with amber lights. What part of that renders me invisible?”
Frequently I ask the question on behalf of the other trucks:
“You made a lane change to go around the vehicle in your lane and seem to be genuinely surprised to find yourself behind a big rig. It was there when you approached, a hundred feet in front of you with no barriers to your vision. It didn’t move out of your way. Now I will count the seconds that will elapse until you move back into the previous lane and proceed on your way. One … Two … Three … Yup, there you go.”