In the bike lane on the Foothill Expressway,
it was the same thing: I'd see
giant swarms of lycra-clad bicyclists
in anonymous, single-minded flight.
They ignored me, blew right by me.

They made me want to become a terrorist,
tipping over the ones who balanced
butts in the air, feet fastened to pedals
at the red lights.

But what I really did was:
Pulled up alongside a man clad like a praying mantis
(Black-and-green lycra shorts, neon green jersey, black almond-shaped helmet)
and said, "Does your mother know you go out dressed like that?"


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