Picture the scene: last Monday at 6 pm, heading home, I am rushing to try to beat a particularly fast red light on a particularly short street. I almost made it when BRAAAAAAAAAAP! Some idiot in an ice-blue Ford Focus lays on the horn. He does this as the light is turning yellow, meaning that he's basically pissed at me for preventing him from doing something illegal at a particularly dangerous intersection.
I drive. I know how irritating it is to wait. But I also know that if I sit here at this intersection with this Burberry-clad twit, at some point he's going to say something. I mean, hell, the guy's sitting at an intersection and he's white-knuckling the steering wheel. My heart is pounding, and the only thing I can think of is wrapping the bike around his neck, except that it would be a waste of a good bike. But I can't let this go unchallenged.
Then I see that, alongside the sidewalk, there's a space where I could launch myself from. I (somewhat ostentaciously) pick the bike up, smile at him, carry the bike over to the curb, wait for a moment for a space in the traffic flow....and then I turn around and blow a kiss to him, waggle my fingers goodbye, jump on the bike and RIDE LIKE HELL.
That dude either needs to drive less or drink more. Or trade the car in for a bike. I hope that he has at least one euphoric moment driving his car because, canned up in a vehicle, he's hardly living the TV-ad life of a car owner.
Oh yeah, I blew by him at the following red, too.
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