[Editors Note: The following is an apology letter written by Google Bard to the car that cut me off yesterday.]
To the Dazzling Dazzlemobile that Almost Became My Bicycle Blender,
Greetings, fellow traveler of the asphalt jungle! I write to you not with groveling apologies, but with a symphony of sarcasm so potent it could make a mime faint. Yes, you read that right. Buckle up, buttercup, because this ain’t your grandma’s Hallmark card.
Let’s rewind, shall we? Picture this: me, a humble cyclist, gracefully gliding through the urban undergrowth, spandex shimmering in the midday sun. And then, there you were, a majestic chariot of sheet metal and questionable taste, emerging from a side street like a startled gazelle with GPS issues.
Now, I’m no Einstein on two wheels, but basic physics suggests that cars and bikes occupy different planes of existence. Apparently, this revolutionary concept escaped your driver’s manual. You lurched into my lane with the grace of a hippo on roller skates, leaving me with two options: become a human hood ornament or perform a gravity-defying pirouette that would make Cirque du Soleil weep with envy.
I chose the latter, obviously. My handlebars transformed into impromptu trapeze bars, my wheels performed a tap dance on thin air, and for a glorious, terrifying moment, I became one with the pigeons. A symphony of screeching brakes and honking horns serenaded my near-death experience, while your face, contorted in a mask of shock that rivaled Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” was forever etched in my retinas.
So, here’s the thing, Dazzling Dazzlemobile: I forgive you. Not because you deserve it, mind you, but because holding onto anger is like riding a bike with a flat tire – pointless and ultimately detrimental to your health (and tire tread).
However, a little education never hurt anyone, except maybe that squirrel you ran over last Tuesday. Consider this a crash course in Roadway Etiquette 101:
- Mirrors are not for admiring your questionable hairspray choices. They’re for, you know, checking for pesky cyclists like myself who refuse to be blended into your morning smoothie.
- Stop signs are not mere suggestions. They’re like tiny traffic cops screaming, “HALT! OR PREPARE TO FACE THE WRATH OF A THOUSAND ANGRY YOGIS ON BIKES!”
- Yielding is not a superpower reserved for superheroes. It’s a basic courtesy, like offering your grandma a seat on the bus. Except, you know, for bikes.
Now, go forth and spread the gospel of safe driving, Dazzling Dazzlemobile. And remember, the next time you see a cyclist, don’t panic. Just smile, wave awkwardly, and maybe offer a free car wash as a peace offering. After all, karma has a funny way of delivering its packages in unexpected ways, like, say, the form of a rogue banana peel under your tires.
With tongue firmly planted in cheek and a healthy dose of spandex-clad sass,
The Cyclist Who Dodged Your Destiny (and Lived to Tell the Tale)
P.S. If you ever need a reminder of this near-miss, feel free to drop by my local bike shop. I’ll be the one sporting a helmet with a neon “Brake for Bikes!” sticker, just in case you missed the memo (again).
