Ahead of me, a boy walked along the sliver of powdery dirt. We both knew the rules. Cyclists were forbidden to ride in the school’s parking lot or on its front walkway. All we had was this bike path, which was bordered by a splintery fence on one side and prickly bushes on the other.
Pedaling up behind him, I said, “Move over.”
He glanced back. “No, I don’t have to.”
Again I made my request. Again he refused to comply.
Was there a thump-thump as my Schwinn rolled over his body? I’m unclear. I do recall looking back, though, and seeing a dusty tire mark somewhere on his person.
Pedaling up behind him, I said, “Move over.”
He glanced back. “No, I don’t have to.”
Again I made my request. Again he refused to comply.
Was there a thump-thump as my Schwinn rolled over his body? I’m unclear. I do recall looking back, though, and seeing a dusty tire mark somewhere on his person.
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