I’m trying to watch my mouth.

The other day, after another close call with an inattentive (at best) motorist, I found myself swearing out loud at the (bleep)-ing $#%&er.

And it dawned on me that maybe I should temper my tongue just a bit.

At home, I keep my potty mouth pretty well under control. Kids, doncha know. It’s not so much that I think they shouldn’t be exposed to foul words — we teach them, after all, that there’s no such thing as a “bad” word, only that some are inappropriate. So I have no qualms about telling my little darlings to shut the $%&* up and get their sorry #$@#es to bed.

But I don’t want to deny them the joy of discovery that comes with learning, um, inappropriate words the way most kids do: by reading them on the bathroom walls, looking ’em up in the dictionary or overhearing one of the bigger kids on the playground.

At work, we’re pretty free with the blue language, though we do have a co-worker we’re kinda careful around. See, the boss, sports editor Tom Keegan, is a bit of a — how do I say this? — delicate flower. We’re careful not to offend his sensitive sensibilities.

On the bike, though, I’ve caught myself spewing out profanities that would make a drunk sailor with Tourette’s blush.

So I’m making a conscious effort to tame my tongue, for a couple of reasons.

The first is simple self-preservation. I don’t want to get stomped, which is the same reason I might let fly during the day, but on the way home in the dead of night, when I encounter a much higher percentage of beery automobilers, I’m the perfect picture of nicety.

I’m not all that concerned about the example I set for other cyclists. But we have enough image problems as it is, so why contribute?

Further, like all middle-aged white guys, I hate to stereotype, but cyclists have a reputation for being all Zen: one with their machines, one with nature (wouldn’t that be two, with machine and nature?) A ranting, raving cyclist blows that image all to, er, heck.

And I also figure the guys who throw the biggest fits — I’ve heard of cyclists chasing down offending drivers, pounding on hoods, breaking off mirrors and antennas — are the guys with the biggest issues. And rather than actually deal with those underlying issues, I’d just as soon internalize and appear to be a guy who has his demons under control.

I have a couple of ways to cope.

The first is simple substitution. If I’m tempted to call somebody, say, an orifice, I’ll bypass the obvious. Thus: “Nice driving, nostril.”

Then there’s the no-name-in-vain approach. If I remember my Sunday school teachings, it’s bad — very, very bad — to invoke the almighty in invective. But I figure it’s OK to go mythical, hence: “Apollo on a popsicle stick! Where’d you learn to drive, by Zeus?”

The other is Pardon My French Day. Rather than curse in my native tongue, I have to go all European. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten all my spicy Spanish, and all I can recall is a little French invective. One of my favorite English curses loosely translates to “derriere chapeau,” a classic putdown if ever there was one. The only other French foulness I know is the word for, ahem, doodie. I’m afraid shouting that at offenders would get me run over for sure, as I’m not sure anyone other than a snooty French maitre d’ can pull that off without sounding like, well, a snooty French maitre d’.

Come to think of it, maybe I’d be better off just riding. Stony silence might be the best response to any slight, however real or merely perceived.

And if they don’t like it, $%&# them and the car they rode in on.