Icy Glares
So I'm riding along the Lakeshore bike trail, fresh from Arizonian warmth, hating every minute of the ice and snow and sleet and dogshit. The trail becomes a sheet of ice; I'm forced to walk/ride it until the next intersection so I can get back on the road. There's a good 500 metres of ice-covered trail, with less than a centimetre of "pavement": I push my bike along that by taking my feet out the pedals and push on through the ice flinstones-style. Halfway along this sheer stretch, I see a female jogger, running directly towards me. By directly, it's not just that I mean opposing direction--I mean *right* at me.
I'm precariously trying to keep my bike upright on this centimetre of pavement, (which, with every second, is rapidly decreasing) making sure I don't slip--and she is coming right at me, scowling. Finally, she almost brushes against me, and I'm stupified.
"Are you going to move?" she grunts.
"Are *you* going to move?" I laugh back, incredulously.
"You're supposed to move out of the way!" She glares, running by.
This is where I stop, and look around. It's -5, and we are both running on a trail that is covered in ice. This isn't hyperbole--it really is ice. Complete ice. Ice, ice, ice. Practically unrunnable, definitely unrideable. We've both just landed on this ice by happenstance and I'm sure she will take to the road once she can. I can't believe that she's ready to knock me over in a territorial fight for the millimetre of "trail" that is left.
"I'm supposed to move out of the way?" I say, "Where, I say, where, is the sign that says `Please yield to bitchy slow-moving yuppy joggers on the Lakeshore Sheet Of Ice Trail?' Where is that sign?"
And I look around, gesticulate a bit, shrug my shoulders.
She stops, opens her mouth to say something but instead all she can do is shake her head in a way that mimics Scarlet O'Hara saying, "Well, I nevah!"
"Is there a sign?" I repeat, "Maybe it's covered in ice?"
p.s. I was smiling the whole time through this incident. Please don't arrest me for road rage.
I'm precariously trying to keep my bike upright on this centimetre of pavement, (which, with every second, is rapidly decreasing) making sure I don't slip--and she is coming right at me, scowling. Finally, she almost brushes against me, and I'm stupified.
"Are you going to move?" she grunts.
"Are *you* going to move?" I laugh back, incredulously.
"You're supposed to move out of the way!" She glares, running by.
This is where I stop, and look around. It's -5, and we are both running on a trail that is covered in ice. This isn't hyperbole--it really is ice. Complete ice. Ice, ice, ice. Practically unrunnable, definitely unrideable. We've both just landed on this ice by happenstance and I'm sure she will take to the road once she can. I can't believe that she's ready to knock me over in a territorial fight for the millimetre of "trail" that is left.
"I'm supposed to move out of the way?" I say, "Where, I say, where, is the sign that says `Please yield to bitchy slow-moving yuppy joggers on the Lakeshore Sheet Of Ice Trail?' Where is that sign?"
And I look around, gesticulate a bit, shrug my shoulders.
She stops, opens her mouth to say something but instead all she can do is shake her head in a way that mimics Scarlet O'Hara saying, "Well, I nevah!"
"Is there a sign?" I repeat, "Maybe it's covered in ice?"
p.s. I was smiling the whole time through this incident. Please don't arrest me for road rage.
2 Comments:
See, shoulda brought back some of that fine Arizonian sand for northern situations such as this one.
Coulda sprinkled it on the ice for traction, or just thrown it in joggy-bitch's eyes -- what ever one would have yielded the most desirable result for you.
get with the program matt....she just thought you were cute and wanted to stir up a chat.
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