Life is driven by coincidence at times. For example, the highly useful word “wanker” keeps popping up in my life. I had the opportunity to use it perfectly.

Because I’m out and about frequently, I’ve become accustomed to seeing certain people and knowing their behavior and eccentricities. Sometimes I see an older man who has difficulty walking fast. It doesn’t stop him from going out and enjoying the trails. He’s cautious.

I watched as he waited in the grass near the crosswalk, looking both ways multiple times and doing the math of velocity in his head so that he wouldn’t be a needless encumbrance on traffic. This particular crosswalk is at the bottom of the hill and people frequently drive 70 mph down it.

As I approached from the other direction, he started walking. A low flying plane disguised as a sedan flew down the hill. The pilot of the car began honking his horn quite a distance from the crosswalk. Which of course startled the elderly man crossing it. He froze and turned. Anyone who understands mobility issues knows that it’s difficult for some to turn quickly because it increases the risk of a fall. The airplane sedan slowed some in response. Instead of coming to a halt, he crossed over into the wrong lane and sped toward the traffic light as the older man stood a couple of feet away from the center of the crosswalk.

Sometimes I do things before I realize my feet are moving. I turned and sprinted toward the light. Standing on the sidewalk I made the international symbol for “roll down your window.”

The man did so. At which point I screamed, “Wanker!”

The man knew he was being insulted but didn’t understand how.

“Eff you, buddy!” His eloquence should be noted.

“I’m going to take a picture of your license when you go through the light.”

He continued his eloquence, cursing and what I would describe as True Alabaman. I watched as the light turned green and the man struggled to decide what to do. In perfect synchronicity, the light turned green.

I was delighted when the car behind the man honked furiously for him to move it.

As he pulled away, I pretended to take a picture of his license plate.

I’m hoping he’s stresses badly for the rest of the day. That he expects a call or a knock on his door asking why he’s flying his plane at more than twice the speed limit and failing to yield at a crosswalk.

Wanker.

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Another good example of misadventure… I could change the language to not be so onerous, but why? 

I had a couple of interesting social interactions before heading toward the creek. Good ones. I kicked off my shoes and left them in the car. I stood a couple of feet away from the trail edge. You’d have to be drunk and riding a bicycle with 2 ft handlebar extensions to make contact with any part of my body. 

I was putting my phone in my pocket as a man dressed as a summer sausage pedalled toward me. I won’t explain the comparison. Suffice it to say, it’s more than apt. 

“Get out of the effing way,” he shouted. I looked behind me confusedly and then turned my head as he passed me. 

“Johnsonville,” I said, and laughed. It couldn’t be offensive to him because there’s no way he could have understood the thoughts going through my head when I first saw him with that angry look on his face. 

He came to a precarious stop. “What did you say to me?” He half-shouted.

“I recommended both a hearing aid and an optometrist.” I couldn’t stop myself. Even though he did not understand my wit, I did. It seems fair if someone’s going to be out in public with anger issues, they better be prepared to eat the plate of creative sarcasm and buffoonery that I love serving. 

“Stay off the trail!” He sounded so unreasonable that I wondered why he didn’t have a part-time job with the White House as a peace negotiator. 

I had a flash of movie inspiration. “He’s already pulled over!” I tried mimic the dude from Super Troopers. For those who’ve seen the movie, you can picture the absurdity that I was experiencing.

Summer sausage was about to say something. 

But I had another flash of inspiration. I tossed my headphones to the grass and then began running. 

Summer sausage tried to pedal forward so fast that he was going nowhere, like a cartoon character hanging over a cliff with his feet frantically pistoning. 

When I said I took off running, I actually ran in place by frantically flailing my arms as if I were running the hundred yard dash without moving. 

Summer sausage did not look back as he finally started riding on the trail at an appropriate speed for exercise. In a way, you could say I had become his personal trainer by motivating him to speed up. 

My suspicion is that for the remainder of today’s bicycle ride, he kept his anger to himself. 

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