There exists somewhere a saying about the true curse of a thirst for punishment not being the punishment itself, but the fact that said thirst can never be satisfied until the punishment is ultimate. And at that point, you’re dead.

Am I making that up?

I think I’m making that up.

Anyway, you get the point. Dogs will always express loyalty to their owners, people who like to get spanked will always take pleasure in having their underpants slipped down just beneath their buttocks, moths will continue to smash themselves against streetlamps under a waxing crescent moon, etcetera. (I’m winning over readers everywhere with this stuff, I just know it!) But there’s a purpose here. And that is this: I’m going to extend my stay in the office.

It started on an evening bike ride through the hills, where I was almost hit by a car at the intersection of two mid-sized streets, at the bottom of one of the most exhilarating downhills in Los Angeles:

Approaching 30 miles per hour on a 5 year-old Trek with squeaky side-pull caliper brakes is one thing, but doing so while attempting to perfectly time a green light alongside a line of impatient cars at rush hour, well, that’s another thing all together. A thing I call “fun”.

I had pulled the stunt a hundred times before, pausing at the top of the hill, poised for the precise moment the last southbound-facing car took its left turn and the traffic signal transformed its tri-cyclops eyelids to an emerald glare. I’d push off with a “yee-haw”, shift into 7th gear, put my head down and hope for the best. It was the highlight of every round-trip ride to date.

And today seemed as if it would be no different. As I hurled myself forward from the taxing uphill approach and through the summit stop sign, I could see over the hill’s crest the red light in the distance, a healthy line of twenty or so cars waiting obediently for the bottom circle to illuminate. Coming to the point on the hill where I usually stopped, the light turned green. I rushed ahead, championing the rare hill-to-intersection opportunity to keep my feet off the ground.

I gained speed quickly, feeling the air sweep sadistically across my face as I passed a line of cars on my left, each commuter planted securely in his mobile metal pod. The cyclist can sense things the driver cannot, his body strapped to his cloth bucket seat, a six speaker Bose stereo system blaring the rhythmic, corporeal melody of the latest Gotye single. I, on the other hand, am one with my environment. Aware. Had I a working speedometer at this point, it would have read 20 miles per hour, a remote but instinctual thought as the tips of my fingers crept towards my handlebar brake levers. I was now less than ten cars away from the cross-street, the vehicles beside me halting patiently for a Mercury Mountaineer waiting to turn left in the single-lane traffic ahead. A brief polluted scent of an aging Dodge Caravan, an exhaust’s bitter perfume, flutters in and out of nostril’s range. My eyes squint, muscles tense.

Six cars now. The Mountaineer makes his left-hand turn. 25 miles per hour. Each detail of the road observed with adrenal focus. Discarded pack of Marlboro Lights. Armless Buzz Lightyear figurine. A nickel. Four cars now, their brake lights flashing on as a Mercedes without her turn signal flashing stops for a left turn. I anticipate, shifting closer to the curb. The Ranger Rover behind her sneaks to the right to pass. My bike comes level with the rear bumper of a Toyota Corolla, third in line, three feet to spare between its wheel and the curb.

That’s when the Corolla begins to position for a right turn, creeping along at just under ten miles per hour, feeling his way between the curb and the advancing Range Rover. He doesn’t see me as I pull level with his passenger window. He continues to turn the wheel. Gotye sounds from his speakers, too. Must be the radio. 26 miles per hour. I could brake and try to get his attention, but my reaction would inspire his one second too late and my face would splatter Pollock on his hood. I maintain speed and inch right to get by him, nearly rubbing against the curb, diving my head left like a gannet to get the driver’s attention. 27 miles per hour. Four feet from the intersection. Passing the front wheel as it angles toward me, its bumper grazing the hair on my left leg. I call out an inspired “Turn signal!”. One foot from the intersection. I make eye contact with the driver. His eyes widen in terror. He brakes before he straightens the wheel, and I ride past him. Alive. Unscathed. Triumphant.

“Yeah, motherfucker!” I yell. “Turn signal, motherfucker!”

I breeze through the intersection and into the curve of the boulevard, grinning madly when the driver of a second Range Rover pulls level with me and rolls down his window.

“I saw that back there!” he said, unable to contain himself. “That guy almost ran you over!”

“Fucker had no turn signal!” I yelled.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he replied.

“You know,” I said. “It was actually kinda fun.”

What makes us enjoy these moments of risk and recklessness? Is it the merciful and addictive release of epinephrine through the body? Or the thrill of discovering and defying the taboo nestled in the universally acknowledged routine? Or are we just so nauseated from the dizzying choreography of the middle class swivel–accepting a paycheck with one hand only to turn around and offer it back with the other–that we must flirt with destruction and impairment to remind us why life is really worth living?

This afternoon, I felt alive. I felt free to act, free to risk, and free to believe. And I’ve felt this way more often since I moved out of my apartment twenty-two days ago. Whether it’s the financial freedom or the emotional imperative or the intrapersonal scholarship, I don’t know. But I do know I’m not ready to throw in the towel. So I’ve decided to give it another month. Later this week, I will post my apartment up for another month of sublease. And tonight I will crack a beer to celebrate the month ahead.

Perhaps that will cure my thirst.

– TOH