Some would have you believe there’s a war raging in Toronto between automobiles and bikes, motorists and cyclists.

I, Pedestrian, am having a one-woman guerrilla war with both.

Frankly, those who drive and those who pedal can wipe each other off the face of the city’s streets in this mutual roadkill rush to attrition and Toronto would be better off for it, leaving behind an urban Shangri-La for ambulatory bipeds. As it stands, both are rivalling to land me in an ambulance, pile of broken bones.

Cars have always given me conniptions. As a downtowner who doesn’t drive, my antagonistic view towards vehicles is that they’re all variations of Christine, the supernaturally possessed ’58 Plymouth Fury in Stephen King’s horror novel turned TV movie — a homicidal maniac on wheels. Automobiles — and worse, trucks — have taken on a menacing dimension from the time I was first struck by a bread delivery van as a kid and, later, by a taxi whilst crossing Richmond St. trying to make last call at the old Toronto Press Club.

I have to remind myself that these are inanimate, albeit mobile, machines and not bots with a mind of their own. There’s a human being at the wheel, making those 1,500 kilograms of steel and aluminum and glass bear down on a poor, pitiful glob of flesh, playing Master of the Universe on a left-hand turn.

Lord knows I’ve done my best to catch up with the aggressors, sprinting down streets, shrieking on the run and pounding on windows like a crazy lady, kicking fenders, once even reaching in to twist a driver’s ear. This is road rage for the amblin’ man or woman.

But at least drivers don’t have the virtue that’s been invested on cyclists, arguably the most sanctimonious breed on the planet: I cycle therefore I am divine.

They have risen to No. 1 on my list of People Who Should Be Shot.

In its natural habitat — which I contend should not be any North American metropolis never designed for bicycle-right-of-way — the ped-aphile is a flat-bottomed creature with a stupid aerodynamic helmet (as if about to contest a pursuit race in the velodrome) and stupider Lycra shorts. Its distinctive mating call goes like this: GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY A--HOLE! It pays no mind to red lights and crosswalks, especially when in the employ of a courier service. It makes rolling stops at intersections. And it is hysterically confrontational with motorists. Pedestrians, by comparison, seem hardly to register. We’re not invisible, merely irrelevant, because we can’t hurt them like, say, a car door opening.

It is my misfortune to live on a main thoroughfare recently mutilated by bike-lanes north and south. The lack of consideration that went into this cockamamie scheme has resulted in the removal of bus shelters and not an inch of room left between curb and bicycle lane. Public transit users need to either squeeze up against buildings or stand in the bike lane — which will get you a blast of invective from the cyclists. Getting on the bus means taking your life in your hands to venture out in the designated bike territory as cyclists career past, entitled and oblivious. Even in Rob Ford’s car-worshipping Toronto, they rule, you see.

And God forbid you should try to hail a cab. Taxi drivers can no longer pull alongside the curb because there’s this honkin’ wide bike lane there and they can’t stop in traffic because motorists lean on their horns and likewise rain down a hail of curses — you know, like a five-second halt will make them late for a date with destiny.

This is the reality on the ground that psycho cyclists and their city council enablers would like to duplicate with bike lane extensions on Bay St. just north of Bloor, merely among the most congested intersections in the country.

But don’t try reasoning with the ped-aphiles. It’s their be-spoked planet these days. The rest of us are just along for the non-ride.

Last week, a cyclist who could clearly see me from a block away flagging a cab went ballistic when I opened the car door, even though he was still at least 50 metres distant and in no danger of taking a header over his handlebars. From Adelaide St. to Front St., he pedalled alongside, hurling profanities and even spat at the window. At that point, I jumped out of the vehicle and became the chaser instead of the chase, catching up with the git and shoving him off his high-horse seat. When I got back to the cab, the driver turned off his meter: “This one’s on me, lady.”

The other day, it was one of those hideous his-and-her cycle-sets, a middle-aged couple proceeding at a stately pace along the bike lane like they were the King and Queen of Old York and we, the great unwashed hoofers, should kiss the hem of their nylon pants. “JERK!” she bellowed as I zigzagged towards a cab. “BIKE LANE IDIOT!” he echoed. Yet again I was forced to get out and hold my ground, hands on hips, ready to go mano-a-pedo with the snarlies.

I phoned Cycle Toronto on Tuesday, an organization that has made martyrs out of bicycle accident victims, to inquire about cycle-on-biped collision statistics. They didn’t respond. And Traffic Services, at the cop shop, informed me that while those stats are kept, I would have to file a Freedom of Information request for the data.

Perhaps by that time I’ll be a statistic myself.

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There is indeed a war afoot in the city. We’ve been invaded by the Spoke People. But I’ll be damned if resistance is futile.