You're the lady in the fancy cycling gear who rode past me and my kids on the bike trail and yelled right in my face, “Where's your helmet?!” The two matching comrades at your sides thought it was so funny they actually wobbled a bit on their perfectly balanced, ultra-impressive racing bikes. You people consume the roadways and paths of Irvine every weekend, so I already have waning patience with you. On top of that, I know what I look like: I'm a fat guy on a purple girls' bike that I borrow from our oldest daughter so I can ride with my two smaller children, who both have bicycles and helmets to go along with them. I'm all the way over to the side, so the only way a crash is going to happen is if you aim for me and run me over. Perhaps you're concerned for me more generally, in case—oh, I don't know—a coyote leaps out of the bramble and attaches its pearly white teeth to my bare head, mistaking my ear for a chewy piece of bacon? Rather than harass me because I'm not a member of your fucking pack, why don't you slow down a bit as you zoom past my little kids, or would that interfere with the big race that's going on inside your head?
