Not long ago, I was run down by a stroller. It wasn't one of the heavy, double-barreled varieties, or one of the off-road jogging tricycles you see around town. It wasn't one of the deep carriages for triplets-on-the-go, or a Swedish four-wheel-drive with matching hubcaps and handles. This was just an average single stroller, but it hurt, nonetheless. The wheels and metal chassis had bitten into my ankles and were riding up my calves before the sleeping driver noticed what she was doing.

"Oh, sorry," the mother said, with utter disdain, and busied herself among her toddler's belongings, as if she had intended to stop her moving vehicle at that point all along, and not because her lazy driving had been interrupted by my loud -- but sincere -- shriek of shock as I was pushed forward off the sidewalk. I stumbled into the street, but caught myself before falling on the asphalt into oncoming traffic.

Valerie Block is the author of the novels Don't Make A Scene (Ballantine, 2007),...read more

The rear-ending by the stroller was an injury, but the mother's complete disregard for both my wellbeing and her responsibility for my pain was an insult. This assumption of impunity seems rampant among people pushing strollers, no doubt stemming from the Divine Right of Parenthood, which gives them priority in all things and in all places.

There are no laws about how these vehicles should interact with others, no tests to pass in order to get a license to use one, no punishments for operating one in a dangerous manner. No doubt that mother-at-large also drives a Suburban Assault Vehicle -- the kind that is in more accidents, and causes more accidents, than any other kind of automobile -- with a similar lack of attention to detail.

I had another collision with the large and entitled on a recent trip from Manhattan to New Jersey. It took nearly an hour to get from Ninth Avenue to the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel (note to out-of-towners: this is a three-block stretch), jockeying for position among the frustrated and the seething, the demented and the demoralized.

I approached the merge, advancing when I could, yielding when I had to, listening to the inexorable decline of western civilization on "All Things Considered."

I was within 50 yards of the tunnel when I noticed a large yellow bus bearing down on me from behind on the left, and was paused in open-mouthed astonishment as it continued its trajectory, cutting me off in slow-motion, first flattening my side mirror, then barreling by me in a slow, full-contact push.

I AM HERE! I shouted as I and my car were overwhelmed by the larger force. A traffic cop arrived, attracted by the terrible sound of metal on metal. He pointed me toward the far right lane right at the mouth of the tunnel -- the place where potential terrorists are directed.

The big yellow and gray bus stopped about 15 feet behind me. I put the car in park, and got out to take a look at the damage. The mirror snapped back in place when I pushed it: so far so good, I thought.

"GET BACK IN THE VEHICLE," the cop barked through a loud speaker.

"I was just looking at the damage," I called to him.

"GET BACK IN THE VEHICLE."

I got back into the car and waited in the problem lane while traffic jolted and bolted by me. I had two dogs with bodily needs at home, and I had bodily needs of my own to attend to. How would I ever get back into the merge?

Thousands of furious drivers who had endured the herky-jerky cross-town madness at rush hour were piled up in ragged lines behind me, steam shooting out of their ears. If I cut in front of a driver at the moment of final merge, I would be hit broadside with a molten-hot righteous rage -- and that would cause some very real damage indeed.

How was I going to return this car to the Toyota dealership at the end of the lease? If there were damage, it would have to be fixed before returning the car in two weeks time.

But I hadn't seen any damage, and I really wanted to get out of there, so when the cop returned, and asked if I wanted to file a report, I said, "No, it was just a bad merge."

"You sure you don't want to file a report," he said, cars shrieking into the tunnel behind him. A trip to headquarters for paperwork did not appeal. "I won't file a report, but tell that bus driver he's not the only person on the road. He has to look out for other cars."

The cop stopped traffic to let me into the tunnel, solving the mystery of how I would make it those last ten feet, and that was the last I saw of the bus. The following day, I saw the streak of yellow on my formerly black car, and the gash in the door, and realized I had made a very large error of judgment when I decided not to file a report.

Hundreds of out of pocket dollars later, I know there's some lesson I should have learned, but it eludes me. In the meantime, all I can think of is what a pity that sharing the sidewalk and the road has become a full-contact sport. ...read more blogs