On July 26, 2015 in the dead heat of a Doha summer, I packed my bike up in my old Galloper II and drove to Ceremonial Road for another ride. I was really starting to enjoy cycling in the desert. All of the members of the Doha Cycling Gang were still at home in Canada in much, much cooler climes, and I was on my own once again. I had what I thought to be a funny encounter with a man wearing army fatigues the week before, however, I had secretly applauded my quick thinking with my fake mobile number trick, written a blog about it, and laughed it off. So, off I went.
On that Saturday morning, I was again out of the house at 6:00 am, being a bit of a creature of habit, and was all set and ready to go at about 6:25 am (you can see a picture of Ceremonial Road above - I cycle in the third lane from the right when going north).
Within 5 minutes of departure I saw a white SUV parked in the lane in front of me on the highway. I huffed and puffed a little bit, thinking of how dangerous it was for someone to park in the lane on the highway heavily frequented by cyclists. So, carefully, I proceeded to pull into the highway lane to pass him. Success.
The next thing I know, the white SUV is following me. And...the driver of this white SUV is none other than the man in the army fatigues from the Saturday morning before! He is dressed in civilian clothes and is driving a personal vehicle, however, there was no mistaking him for the man involved in my "6:30 am Pick-Up Attempt" from the week before.
The inner, and outer dialogue that ensued at approximately 6:30 am on a road in Doha, while me on a bike, cycling at about 40 km/hour and him driving beside me in an SUV at about 40 kms/hour, went something like this:
Man (screaming): "Ma'am! Ma'am, what is your number!?"
Me (nervously yelling): "Ahh! You! You again! Umm, Agrhhh."
Man (screaming even more authoritatively): "Ma'am. You gave me the wrong number!"
Me (nervously, stammering while screaming): "Umm, Ahhh. Umm. I did?"
Man (screaming): "Ma'am! Ma'am, what is your mobile number!?"
Me (screaming even more nervously): "I don't have one!"
I am certain I am going to die. This man is going to hit me with his SUV either intentionally or unintentionally. I don't want to die. I am only 41! Why did I come up with such a silly idea as to give a man a fake mobile number and then come to the exact same place, at the exact same time, alone, the following week? What was I thinking?
Man (screaming, demanding): "You gave me the wrong number! I need your correct mobile number!"
Me (nervously, shouting louder): "No! No!"
Man (screams, stunned): "No? What? What?"
Slowly, very slowly, I start to realize I have to stop being so polite. Polite is getting me nowhere. There is nowhere to pull over. There is no place to hide. I realize that I just need to scare him off and keep my eyes on the road and keep cycling as fast as I can.
Me (fiercely shouting): "I am not giving you my number! This is dangerous! Get out of here!"
Man (shouts persistently): "Ma'am. I want to call you!"
Me (ferociously shouting): "No! This is dangerous! Get out of here now! Now!"
I put my earphones in and turned my music up loud and ignored the white SUV that followed me for the next 15 kilometers. He was persistent. He really, really, really wanted my number. I was persistent in ignoring him - I never looked his way again. Finally, satisfied he was not going to get my number, he left.
And I was left to curse myself in peace for my absolute stupidity for the remainder of the ride.
