A Squatter

 Riding home from Hanna Park, I was stopped by a man in a very large white pickup truck who sat on the pedestrian crosswalk and glared at me. I smiled behind my kitten mask and just hoped he has something very, very important to do.

Three is the Magic Number

 
 
It was a good commuter cyclist's day. Two people did NOT try to kill me ONE DID. I was biking to a Master Gardener Training about 8 miles from home. I confess, I was paying more attention to my speedometer than usual. Why? Well, I had just read a study that said a speed between 8-12 miles is ideal if the cyclist is dealing with bad atmospheric conditions. I was. The 92 wildfires that are burning in Florida are putting a pall over my ocean edge cycling route. \

Anyway, I missed a stop sign and looked up to see the grizzled driver of a ditch witch slamming on brakes so as not to t-bone me. A little while later two roofers in a Silverado swung wide and didn't force me into a sidewalk full of surfers

So who was the biggest threat? Bizarrely enough it was a fellow cyclist one of the spandex tribe. He sped by on the wrong side and did not even yell RIGHT. I swerved into the oncoming traffic lane which thankfully was not full of oncoming traffic.

Once again the abyss yawns between those of us who employ two wheels for transportation and those who  employ two wheels for transcendence.....of the adrenaline rush variety.