A funny thing happened last week during a routine ride home from racquetball: A guy tried to kill me.

OK, maybe that’s a bit melodramatic. But not much.

As I approached a four-way stop-sign-controlled intersection about a mile from my house, I noticed a car approaching from my left. I rolled to a stop and saw the car slowing as it neared the stop sign.

As I pedaled into the intersection, I noticed the driver of the car starting to roll through the stop. No worries, I figured; I should be clear in plenty of time.

Still, I made eye contact to make sure the driver saw me. He looked me right in the eyes … and accelerated.

In all the thousands of miles I’ve ridden my bikes, I can’t recall a time I felt I had been targeted like that.

I’ve had people buzz me and nearly clip me with their mirrors. I’ve had stuff thrown at me, more near-misses than I can count and, on a couple of occasions, I’ve felt drivers were trying to force me into the curb.

But never before have I felt as if someone were trying, deliberately, to hit me with a car.

Fortunately, he’s as bad a driver as he is a person, and he missed by what seemed like inches. I still have the picture in my mind’s eye as I twisted around to see his bumper passing precariously closely to my rear tire.

I was too startled to get much of a description of car or driver and too shaken — or incensed — to give chase, not that I would have had much chance of catching him.

I spent the rest of the short ride looking over my shoulder and pondering his motivation. Jealous boyfriend? Sworn nemesis? Negative. I don’t have any real skeletons, and it sure seemed like a chance encounter. Plus, I didn’t get a great look at the guy, but I sure didn’t recognize him.

There’s no question he saw me; he looked right at me, and his head turned as I rode parallel to his path.

Maybe he felt like punishing me for not coming to a complete stop, but I did. When you ride a fixed-gear bike, you’re acutely aware of when your bike comes to a complete stop. I didn’t put my foot down, but I stopped and popped a full microsecond track stand.

And there’s no doubt in my mind I beat him to the intersection and, thus, it was my turn to go. Otherwise, there’s no way I could have been far enough ahead to escape his acceleration.

So all I can figure is he’s a twisted soul, or perhaps his firstborn was kidnapped by a roving band of bike toughs.

I don’t find it hard to believe I’m not universally loved. Heck, I can even suspend disbelief enough to know some people might not even like me much. But there’s a huge leap from passive dislike — even passionate hate — to actively trying to run me down.

Truth to tell, I’d sort of like to meet this guy, maybe sit down over a cup of coffee or maybe a beer, because I’d sure like to know just why he wants me maimed.

Drop me a line. Let’s talk.