Daily life holds scores of minor frustrations that you, as a
mature college-pseudo-adult, handle with patience and grace. If you’re me, all
of those minor frustrations are people who ride bicycles through sidewalks. Also, patience is as likely as those bikers are to make it to class without hitting a
pedestrian (UNlikely! Ha!).
This morning’s dramatic, well-rehearsed attempted public
shaming of the seventh biker to crash into the back of my legs, however, took a
surprising turn.
“Omigod! Omigod! I’m soo sorry!” she said. Like a jerk.
I launched into what my roommate and my mom said were some
well-written insults, gesturing widely at the crowds rushing to class so that
they knew that this was about all of
us, our society, our way of life.
When I asked “why would you do this?!,” which I imagined to be a pretty sweet
rhetorical closing remark, she answered in a way I didn’t expect.
She leaned in conspiratorially. “The street”¦. Is lava,” she explained, grinning.
I blinked. Twice. Buying some time, while I processed this
information. “You’re all ““ everyone biking on the sidewalk is playing a
well-organized game of “the floor is lava,’ essentially?”
Ridiculous.
“Yeah!!” she shriek-whispered excitedly. “And sometimes,
just riding the correct direction on the street is lava! And other times,
talking on the phone when you’re not biking is lava. It’s so fun.” She informed
me I’d missed all the signups for this semester, but could play in the spring
if I wanted to.
Dazed, I think I muttered something in the neighborhood of
“no.” Then something dawned on her.
“Omigod! If you didn’t know about it”¦. You must have thought
we were all such dicks!” she laughed. “Biking down the sidewalk when there is a perfectly fine street right next to it. Of course there is a reason. Thank god we talked.”
She sped away, over the sidewalk and through a freshman. I
hope she’s losing.
