I know it’s fashionable for you to ride in the “Hell Week” here in the Hill Country.
(This is where bicyclists from all over Texas converge on our county in March for a week of long-distance rides. The highways are lined with cyclists huffing and puffing up inclines while 70 mph traffic blasts by in an intricate ballet of sudden lane changes to avoid sideswiping a wobbling rider.)
I know local folks have been told to be nice and “share the road” with the roaming packs of togged-out poseurs and Lance Armstrong wanna-bes.
But when I come down my road and slowly and carefully approach the stop sign at the highway, please get your bitchy asses out of my way.
Don’t stand in the middle of the road, fully aware of my presence, chugging out of your designer water bottles while giving me the stank eye because I’m inconveniencing you in some way.
(And I thought hunters were bad.)