So here I am, out at seven in the morning on Thanksgiving, happily riding my bike down to the Gowanus in the lovely, quiet, crisp air, not a soul other than me on the road.
The honk at my left shoulder comes as a bit of a shock, then, like the only car in Brooklyn hunted me down for the sole purpose of hassling me, and I pull over despite him having the entire road, and motion him past with an irritated wave.
One year ago: Suburban Apocalypse
Two years ago: Karma Leaves a Mark
Three years ago: What's Eating You?
Four years ago: "Repent, Harlequin!" "Yeah, no, I'm good."
Seven years ago: crossing paths