“F— you, b—-,” a man shouts at me from the rolled-down window of his silver sedan.

We’re at the intersection of Fifth and Mission. I’m stopped at the light in the right lane, astride my bicycle, and the angry silver sedan man is right behind me. He wants to turn right on red.

Under most circumstances, an obviously hurried driver such as this one would simply weave around a cyclist, scooching within inches of the bicycle to shave a few seconds off his drive time.

By Michelle Robertson