Bikers Are Assholes, Part Two: For a Reason

Last night, on the first lovely evening of bike riding, I got to deal with one of those drivers that hates bikers. Like to the point that you wonder if there were not other people on the road if they would run you down. They drove where their lights hit my mirror and shone right into my eyes and stayed there for a good few long blocks. I finally put my hand to block it, then they pass me and get to red light and are sure to pull over close to the parked cars so that I cannot fit through. But I find a way around hit (hey, driver! my bike can fit through parked cars and go on a sidewalk). They must be getting really angry that they are wasting gas while being unable to get away from me and my bike. I totally figured that the driver was a 20 something dude. I finally yelled a name at them as I went up on the sidewalk (again) and got a glimpse: 50 something woman! Really, lady? Why are you activating my road rage? There is no need. We can share the road. I know, I’ve done it before!

Three Word Muse: lonely, cracking, bootstrap

She got up that morning to cracking knees and a sore back; seventy years of mornings leaves an audible story in your bones. The coffee was already brewing; her daughter had gotten her a new machine that you could set up the night before and wake up to that unmistakable and wonderful smell. She liked that, but she also missed the morning task of making her coffee because it made her move around a bit before she sat down to read the paper and eat her breakfast. At this point in life, once seated, standing started to seem like a lot work. Continue reading