Okay, calling it a crash is a huge overstatement. Even calling it a bump would be a huge overstatement. Tap is barely appropriate.
The old man driving a red Alfa Romeo convertible in front of me was a little fast off the brake and slow on the gas on a slight incline at a stoplight. As such, he rolled backwards three feet, kissed my front wheel with his rear bumper while I yelled “Hey… Hey! HEY!!!” and let myself roll backwards before he accelerated away in a manner that presumably inflated his ego.
Speaking of idiot/asshole drivers, I’ve started profiling who tends to cause close calls. The results, if nothing else, confirm stereotypes.
The worst offenders (forcing me out of my lane, swerving around me into an oncoming lane, swearing at me as they drive past) are generally middle-aged men driving luxury cars, either a sporty coupe or convertible, or a Mercedes/BMW/Lexus sedan.
The ones most likely to yield to me, even when they’re not supposed to (I’m turning into a lane in which they have right-of-way), and therefore pissing off the aforementioned jerks behind them, are generally child-bearing-age women driving “family cars” such as minivans, small SUVs, station wagons, or Volvos.
Oddly enough, in both cases, I’ve never noticed other passengers in the car. I guess their secrets are safe with me.