He rolled up in front of me at the intersection at the bottom of Camino Alto grade in Corte Madera.
“Excuse me, would you mind telling me what all that commotion was about?” he said.
“I was asking you to stay to the right, so I could get around you safely,” I said, because you were cornering with your inside foot down and you were all over the road, and if you crashed, it’d be disastrous for us both, I didn’t say.
I did get around him, but I am guessing that he did not appreciate my comuniques. Or the blond pony tail or that my voice is four octaves higher than his and that I love my cat and I love getting my toenails done. There are certain people who do not like to be passed by people who like getting their toenails done, and you can tell who they are because they lecture you with their own made up rules about riding etiquette at intersections.
“Okay, let me explain something to you.” he said, nose flaring. “I don’t ride for you. So that’s your first problem right there.”
I did not feel like explaining the whole concept of slower traffic staying right, and basic cornering principles, because it would mean having to converse with him, and, since we’d be sharing the same road for who knows how many more miles, that would not be optimal for the end of what had been a spectacular ride with some good friends to Pt. Reyes Station and then down the coast through Muir Woods, before heading home for ice cream and a nap.
Before the light turned green, he had already sprinted across the intersection, a manuevre which I guess was supposed to indicate his swiftness.
At the next light, he almost fell over trying to unclip his foot.
I wouldn’t have helped him if he did.