Slowly the coot waddles into the bundle of my headlights. Aware of no danger, he puts his flippers perky flap-flap-flap one by one in front of them, on their way to the other side of that black plain that the people in Katwijk call Westerbaan. And why not? This is a 30 km road, with a solid line, so what can happen to a coot in the prime of its life?
I let go of the gas and slow down. I still have room enough for that, but my heart still creeps into my throat, because a train of three oncoming traffic is on a collision course with the animal, which has meanwhile passed the solid line. The bird is bathed in the light from the headlights, yet the car in front doesn’t even brake. The driver must either be completely blind, or busy with his smartphone, or be of the ‘oh, it’s just an animal’ kind of thing. Thank God he drives right over the critter so that the tires don’t hit it, but in my mirror I see the bird stagger and roll sideways with half-spread wings, hop in the tracks of car two that hit him. spletj dies. Car three completes the work and the bird.
Stomach turning, I avert my gaze from the drama in my mirror and hit the gas again. Only then do I notice that a dark crossover has come up behind me. The driver nervously masturbates his high beam and plays gabberhouse on his horn. I’m now back on track, but the crossover still makes a few furious feint overtaking movements. In mourning for what I’ve just seen, I’m even less in the mood for this kind of twitch game than usual, so I’m ignoring it. Then he shoots all the way across the solid line to really overtake me. As soon as he rides next to me, honking again, I look to the side. An angry head looks back, from behind a clenched fist where only the middle finger sticks out. He barks at me, but I can’t lip read, so I miss the message.
In his ecstasy, Mr With the Hat in the Hand sees the looming traffic island, which announces the next roundabout, too late. With another tug on his handlebars, he heads back to the right, only my brakes preventing us from filling out claims forms. After the brake test you knew was coming, my newfound friend takes the roundabout three-quarters into the Zanderij district, where he’s probably living his miserable life.
For a moment I consider going after him and following him home. I’d like to know why he got so furious at the one madman who slows down for a crossing animal. I decide not to do it, afraid that things will happen that cause hassle afterwards.
And the coot? He can’t reproduce it.
– Thanks for information from Autoweek.nl