Some Cyclists Live In Their Own Little World

            I heard a sophisticated sounding voice like that of an Indian or Sri Lankan woman who’d been educated at a British school. Her voice was firm but not urgent and she only called out, “Christian!” once. In my head I responded, “Yes?” and then I woke up and looked the time on my phone. It was 4:59; one minute before I wanted to get up. I like a woman who’s a minute early.

            Nick Cushing had said he would be coming by early Tuesday afternoon, but since I had to leave for class by 16:30 I wanted to get in an hour and a have siesta beforehand, so I told him I’d have to be on my own by 14:30. When I found out that he’d first be doing something at Cad Gold Junior’s place, I figured that there was a fair chance that he wasn’t going to make it to my place at all. Just in case he did make it though I cleaned up my place a bit. I vacuumed the kitchen floor and cleaned the sink, the toilet and the floor in the bathroom for the first time in a few months.

            Nick didn’t make it after all so I took my nap.

            It rained all day in a strange coincidence with the Tuesday before, which was also a very wet day, though then it was because of rapidly melting snow and later rain. I was really hoping it would let up before I left home, and it did a little bit, though it was still splattery when I headed for campus. I got a slightly dam on my behind but it wasn’t too bad this time.

            On my way east on College there was a woman ahead of me riding her bike pretty hard, though I was gradually catching up, but her behaviour was strange. Whenever she was about to pass cars that were parked on the right hand side of the bike lane, instead of just veering to the left enough to avoid getting doored, she moved all the way out into the center lane and then once she was past the cars she went back to the bike lane. Meanwhile I was almost close enough to pass her but when she looked back and saw me she threw her left arm out and then followed it back to the middle of the road. At first I thought she was going to cross the street but then she edged back into the bike lane again. At that point I began to pass her, giving her a wide berth, but she called out to me that I couldn’t do that because she needed to (I couldn’t make out whatever crazy thing she said she needed to do). I got ahead of her but she protested from behind, saying, “Excuse me! Why did you do that?” I asked, “What are you talking about?” At the lights she edged herself past me again. I inquired, “What is wrong with you?” though it was a useless question because she was obviously mentally ill. From this point on she was so desperate not to be passed that she started going through red lights. At St George she was out in the middle of the street on the other side of the red light and while she waited for cars to get out of her way she was signaling to them almost like she was directing traffic. I felt bad about asking her what was wrong with her but at the same time I felt frustrated by my encounter with her.