Since I stopped at the grocery store on the way home from work, yesterday, I took Cary Street instead of the highway. I hate taking Cary Street, because you can only go twenty-five miles per hour, and that can be unpleasant when you have no air conditioner and it's ninety-eight degrees outside. The coolness of the grocery store was nice, but I was sweating again by the time I pulled out of my parking spot.

The drive down Cary is always slow, because there are so many stoplights. Once in a while, there's something that forces you to slow down even more - like an old lady driver, or some stupid teenager changing the radio station in his car. This particular day, it was a bicycle rider.

I had been cruising along, block after block, each traffic light staying green, thankfully. I must admit I was speeding a little. I guess I was doing about thirty, which is okay in a twenty-five mile per hour zone, if you ask me. Something resembling a breeze came through the open windows, and that made me happy because it dried the sweat on the back of my neck.

About two miles from where I needed to turn, this skinny little tan guy rode his bicycle off the sidewalk and onto Cary Street, right in front of my car. He was far enough ahead that I didn't need to slam on brakes, and since those I-ride-my-bike-in-traffic-for-my-health people are a common thing in my neighborhood, I thought nothing of it. Until he started to ride in the middle of my lane.

Most of the bicycle riders stay on the edge of the road, next to the row of parked cars. (I wondered how many of them slam into doors just being opened.) Most of them also ride slower than the cars traveling down the street. Occasionally, one will be a little too far into the street and you have to swerve around them, but rarely do they ride smack in the middle of the road.

He impressed me at first, because I had to slow down only to the speed limit. He was about one car length ahead of me and he maintained his speed, but only for the first few blocks. Then he slowed down. My first thought was to get into the left lane and go around him, but when I looked over my shoulder, I saw a line of cars blocking my way.

I got exasperated, because my breeze went away, I had ice cream in my grocery bag, and I had to pee. I wanted to be at home right then. It irritated me even more that he wouldn't move out of the way, not even just enough for me to get by. I made my way down three more blocks, going only fifteen miles per hour. Sweat poured off me. Each time I saw an opportunity to change lanes, a car behind me would switch first.

I slammed my hands on the steering wheel and yelled out the window, "Get out of the way, you moron!"

He turned his head briefly and looked at me, but he didn't move. He just grinned. This infuriated me. I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge to just barrel into traffic and hope they got the hell out of the way.

The bicycle rider pedaled along, and I knew he was going slow on purpose. I felt like exploding, but I kept my cool, so to speak. I was soaked with sweat, and I stunk. I thought I would pee on myself if I didn't get home soon. So I sped up a little, until only about a yard of space separated my car from his bike. I hoped that it would scare him into getting off the street. It didn't. So I blew my horn.

I saw him jump. Then, both bicycle and rider tumbled into the street. I heard the metal of the bicycle scrape the asphalt and felt the bump-bump bump-bump as I ran over him. I don't think I heard him scream.

I had to pull over, because the bicycle and, I think, assorted rider body parts were tangled underneath my car, preventing me from going much further. The satisfaction of running over him soon disappeared, though, when I realized there was no way I would get my ice cream home before it melted.

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