On my usual routes, I encounter three stoplights at which other vehicles may or may not be present. A few months ago, on a mission to undermine the oppressive stoplight hierarchy, I began turning my bicycle ninety degrees to the right. [hmm, never tried left... or sideways] I keep my front wheel turned to anticipate reengagement. Of the three stoplights, I can say that one probably does respond to this technique and one other probably doesn't.
Tonight, at one such stoplight, a car was parked entirely ahead of the stop line. Rather than take a sensor, I let the glorified chunk of metal reign in magnetism. But something strange was going on. After a few minutes of waiting, I pulled up beside the car and made some hand gestures. The driver lowered his window. I told him that he should reverse onto the sensors. In an ironic twist, he complied. With his helplessness couched in a voice of iron, he told me that he had lived across the street for twelve years, yet he could never figure this stoplight out. At first, I thought he was thanking me for the advice, but he made sure to correct this. He rephrased the language to communicate that he had already tried everything to no avail. But I still sat there with the expectation of a light change. After about a minute of waiting, I acted to cease his despair. I began to reorient into the special position as I explained the purpose to him. About five seconds later, the cross traffic's light turned yellow. He sped off, spewing exhaust into my face. [Okay, he didn't spew exhaust into my face. That was Hollywood.]