To The Man in the Red Corvette, c/o The Internet

Dear Man in the Red Corvette,

Hello. We met only briefly, but you might remember me--I was the person on the bike that you buzzed with your side-view mirror! Again, I know it was short-lived, but I really felt the connection--didn't you?

At the risk of sounding cynical, Mr. Man, I'll begin by saying that I know you. Or, at least, that I know your kind. You're kind of old, but not that old; your hair has begun to gray and you typically have a little bit of a belly paunch. You think an awful lot of yourself; dropping $80,000 on a car isn't much of an indicator for self-loathing. You probably work someplace that picks at the human parts of your soul like a scab. You, like so many of your generation, have been taught to dump everything into something that means nothing. But they pay you well enough--and this, in turn, has left you empty.

In my experience, limited though it may be, people like you need to drive like you do, taking to the streets with your racing stripes, engine screaming; you dare anyone unlucky enough to choose your route to delay you. People with mattresses strapped to their cars, "Baby on Board" stickers--nothing slows you down. Because to you, Mr. Man, your car is the one place where you may beat back the forces that bear down on you. It is your limp answer to all the impotences of your own life. You sink into your leather bucket seats like a god-king usurping the throne, pumping the gas like the horsepower gushing out had anything at all to do with you.

Mr. Man, I will not judge you. Indeed you may remember, were you paying any attention at all, that I did not shout curse words at you, or raise my middle fingers in some kind of epic farewell salute. Because, really, if you kill me--what do I care? I will be dead, and that will be that. I only ask that you consider the fact that I, the bicyclist that it takes all of fifteen seconds to pass, am somebody's kid. I am somebody's sister, and I am somebody's friend. Killing me will make a terrible mess and definitely require weeks, if not months of duress for people who had no hand in my street-faring activities. Someone will have to come spray me off the street when you cream me going 70 in a 45; did you ever think of that?! How annoying for them. And...gross.

I suppose I am asking for understanding. Whether you are capable of such a thing, Mr. Man, well--that is for you to know, and me to wistfully wonder forever. Maybe the next time you saddle your valiant beast, the whole four thousand pounds of plastic and fiberglass, you will take a deep breath, put on some classical music, and let someone merge in front of you on the highway.

Also, maybe I am a cyborg fueled by rubbing alcohol and butane. But what can you do.

With much love and concern for your human spirit,

The Lizard