It is morning. You are slow-rolling off the exit ramp, nearing the end of the long-ass commute from your suburban enclave. You have seen the rise of the city grow larger and larger in your windshield as you crawled through sixteen miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic. You foolishly believed that, now that you are in the city, your hellish morning drive is coming to an end.
Just then! I emerge from nowhere to whirr past you at twenty-two fucking miles per hour, passing twelve carlengths to the stoplight that has kept you prisoner for three cycles of green-yellow-red. The second the light says go, I am GOING, flying, leaving your sensible, American, normal vehicle in my dust.
You seethe in anger that is righteous and right and patriotic.
I am a cyclist. I am here to fuck you up.
Here’s how I’m doing it: I am squeezing between your passenger…
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