I Am A Cyclist, And I Am Here To Fuck You Up
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.