MAR 1, 2010 – 12:00AM

Perched on the saddle of my bikes, I’ve been the recipient of many a hand gesture.

And, no, not all of the manual messages were of the vulgar variety.

Running the tentacle gamut:

I’ve had several thumbs-up. I assumed them to mean, “Atta boy,” since most have come during periods of especially inclement weather, and I assume the folks to whom the thumbs were attached meant to convey a sense of encouragement for the poor schlub on his bike. Or maybe they simply were channeling their inner Fonzie.

I’m a big fan of the index finger’s versatility. I have ’em jabbed at me and wagged at me, and once or twice I’ve had ’em tsk-tsked at me like a disciplining schoolmarm. I’ve had drivers use them to point out their direction of travel. (Note to said drivers: That stick next to your steering column, the one on the left? I know it’s tricky and unintuitive, perhaps, that down means left and up is right, but to those of us outside the car, the resultant blinky lights on the sides of your vehicle do a wonderful job of letting others know you in fact intend to turn. Just sayin’.) I’ve had them wielded by authority figures to make me head this way or that, and I’ve seen them thrust in the air after big Kansas University athletic victories. What a wonderful digit.

Next up, literally, the middle finger — by far the most frequently flipped in my direction. Curiously — and I’m not sure if it’s causal or merely coincidental — but I tend to see this particular appendage when I’ve performed a maneuver that, perhaps, could be construed as infuriating, such as riding to the right, stopping at traffic signals or actually taking my turn at four-way signaled intersections. I’d be offended, but every time I see the bird flying, I recall a phase my son went through a few years ago, when he, for some reason, waved at people by extending his middle finger and waving it back and forth. Naturally, his mother and I discouraged such atrocious behavior … except when we encountered a particularly loathsome neighbor and, in a sing-song voice, said, “Brooks, wave to nice Mr. Neighborman.”

That’s it for the individual digits — not much call for flying the ring or pinky fingers, doncha know — but there are all sorts of multi-fingered communications.

I’ve had folks throw the horns my way, signal peace, flash what I suppose to be a suburbanized gang sign or two, shake fists, quaintly thumb their noses, wiggle all four fingers in celebration of a KU Final Four berth and, in one odd instance, witnessed what had to be an expatriate Transylvanian peasant woman ward off the Evil Eye with a complex hand gesture I’ve not seen before or since.

I also saw one digital manipulation that sent me scurrying to the Interwebs to decipher its meaning. Turns out, it was a sign for a kind of sexual act of which — if my sixth-grade health teachings can be believed — I couldn’t possibly be the recipient. Had to clear out the ol’ browser history after that one, just in case. And wash my hands.

Then last week I, unfortunately, witnessed a hand gesture that went beyond obscene.

I was riding on Fourth Street not far from the hospital when I approached an intersection where a stopped minivan was waiting to turn onto Fourth. There was a car approaching from behind me when the minivan’s driver turned left alongside me and floored it. I figured she’d get up to speed before cutting in front of me, but a car was approaching from the opposite direction.

So the minivan’s driver — faced with a head-on with the car or simply crowding the nice man on the bike — chose the path of least insurance hassles and swerved abruptly in my direction. Tight-roping the bad driver to my left and a curb to my right, I slowed to let her in and pondered slapping the van or, at least, giving her half a peace sign to let her know of my dismay.

As I considered my options, I looked in the passenger seat and saw a teenage boy. His eyes widened at first, when he thought I was road waffle for sure, then narrowed to slits. I saw he had an index finger already in his schnoz, and as soon as he realized I had made a successful defensive maneuver and he wouldn’t in fact get to see me squashed, his knuckles-deep search for buried treasure turned from recreational to spiteful.

I best can describe it thusly: The kid was picking his nose at me.

He rammed that sausage casing in there with such deliberate disdain, I half expected to see a lump form on the back of his head. I mean, he was tickling the gray matter with impunity.

Though the van accelerated away, it came to a stop a block away at a four-way intersection, and I considered pulling alongside the woman and letting her know what I thought of her driving skills.

Then I thought about her classy companion and realized she obviously already had her hands full.