I was walking around Davis Square, doing—not running—some errands in no particular order, and certainly not in any hurry. One thing life in the city does is sweeps you along with it, and it takes some willpower to resist and find your own pace.

We negotiate this all the time in various ways, but a lot of the "negotiations" involve some degree of bullying, I'd say. Take the example of the Minuteman Trail. There was that piece in The Globe about "rage on the bikeway" a couple of weeks ago. And some of the letters to the editor brought the point home.

One reader wrote: "[trail-ragers] seem to have confused the bikeway with the autobahn, where fast traffic indeed has the right of way." The same reader then revealed that he was a speed demon, too. He went on to advise his speedy brethren: "Those of us who are faster owe it to the slower traffic to accommodate."

Now, I can't complain about the tone or the content of the letter. It was measured and mature. But the assumption that slow traffic should be accommodated is flawed, especially on a trail that was obviously not built for speed.

The assumption common among geared-up cyclists is that the proper use of bicycles entails high speeds, but this is like automobile drivers claiming that cars are only for racing. Cars are for commuting, and carrying kids to school, and delivering packages, and a lot of things that don't necessarily involve and might actually be hindered by high speeds.

One use of the bicycle is racing. People commute on them, carry their children, deliver things, and enjoy the sights on them, too, and none of these purposes has primacy over the others, absent a context.

When I bike to work in the morning, I go at a moderate pace. I recognize that if I go slower I will not get to work on time, but if I go faster I will not be capable of spotting jay-walking pedestrians, careless drivers dooring me, or other dangers I encounter daily on the city streets.

If I were at a velodrome I would ride differently.

To a one, every rider who blows through a red light on my commute is in racing gear. The more geared-up the fewer road rules they'll obey. That's not to say that there aren't serious cyclists who obey the rules, but there are a lot of asshats out there who seem to think they're serious cyclists who blow them off.

Fast cyclists on the trail are basically using the law of the bully. It's like someone in an SUV saying, I guess I'll have to accommodate all these Mini Coopers. Who's accommodating whom here?

Enough about that, though. My point is everyone on the road and on the sidewalk has to negotiate his or her pace all the time. People are rushing you or slowing you down all day. You're rushing them and slowing them down all day, too. We're not automatons. Sometimes you want to get where you're going in a hurry, other times you want to take your time. Each and every encounter does not have to be a challenge to your very existence. A walk in the park should not be an existential crisis.

So, I was ambling along this morning, in no particular hurry when I came to the entrance to a parking lot. There was a middle aged man in a sedan with what looked to be his wife. He wanted to pull in to the lot. I stopped and waved him on. I didn't feel like scurrying across in front of him. He hesitated, and I waved him on again.

Up to now, no problem. There are drivers who wave cyclists and pedestrians on irritatedly even when the latter have the right-of-way, as if they're doing them a favor. And while it's true, in this case, that I had the right-of-way, I also have the right to yield it, which I felt like doing this morning.

Well, he screeched into the lot, apoplectic, mocking my little wave indignantly with wild gesticulations and bulging eyes, cursing and carrying on (I could not hear him, fortunately, since they had their windows rolled up and the AC on). But it was like, Why, you ungrateful little... How dare you think you can wave me on! I am in the car! I say who gets to go!

Now, to go from zero to apoplexy in .05 seconds over a pedestrian yielding for you on a little side street on a lazy Saturday morning—I don't know quite what to make of that. Pretty tightly wound, is all I can say.

I did my best to ignore him as he passed, but ended up quickening my pace so as to get to the main street before he got out of his car. If he was capable of blowing up over a polite gesture, he might beat me to death if I smiled at him. I fully expected to hear him shouting after me, calling me all sorts of names.

I got to Elm St. safely, though, and ducked into a record store.

On my way out I picked up a Phoenix, which I usually don't do, but there's a picture of that spunky Daniel Radcliffe on the cover with the words "Puberty Power!" underneath. Finally! I hate to say it, but Harry is hot! Always waving that big wand in your face: