Used to be this was my primary source of aggravation, the fucking 아줌마 scofflaw who couldn’t take a hint no matter how many times I passed her with a scowl that her animated stride didn’t entitle her to be an obstacle any more than it would on the highway, but the stakes have been raised, weren’t they, in the last six months. They shut the lights off at the track and with gyms closed, the parks seem busier than ever, with no more adherence to road-sharing etiquette. Every so often I’d hop off the sidewalk, despite running on the right side of the street—but I understand, the bigger ones can have gulfs between them and be inefficient to cross—and an approaching couple would continue side-by-side, requiring me to risk my life further out to maintain our distance, just because they’re too god-damned lazy and inconsiderate to go single file for a moment or doing so would jeopardize the sexual liberation they moved to this country to celebrate. Cunts.
So something I kick around in my head while trying to stave off hypoxia is how I’d prioritize us based not only upon our direction of travel, but also the presence of pavement and intended-use signage; for instance, a cyclist following the arrow in his or her bike lane shouldn’t have to accommodate an oncoming pedestrian who could more easily step onto the curb, because spreading out to avoid transmitting the virus shouldn’t subject others to a traffic hazard. And I swear that same lady is now hugging her left to avoid walking along the steep edge of the creek, bitch.
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