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.

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 side door and the curb. I am riding a hill slower than you would like me to. I am taking a second to gain momentum at the stop sign. I am doing all of this on purpose, to make you hit me, so you will be late again and it will be my fault. That is my goal, dream, purpose, the thing for which I was thrust from the womb and into this blinding sunlit world. I will only be happy when my bones are ground to dust in the road and my flesh has adhered to the asphalt…