So I was on my way home tonight, and decided to ride up Mass Ave (I know it sounds faintly sexual, but trust me, it's anything but). I usually avoid that whole rush-hour scenario, but I'm a little bored with my other routes.

It's always pretty much a clusterfuck up around Central Square, and to add to it tonight the fire brigade was trying to make its way through heavy traffic. It's always a quandary for motorists, isn't it?  Should I let the fire engine pass? I mean, you're not supposed to let people pass you, right? That's in the driving manual, isn't it? And then if they do you're supposed to "tailgate them and blare your horn until they flip you off." That's what it says here on page 54 anyway.

I have mixed emotions myself whenever I let another cyclist pass me. On the one hand, as I've said, I don't want them on my ass, on the other, I don't want them thinking they're all superior because I graciously allowed them to pass. The problem is, while for me it's a morning commute, in their fantasy it's the Tour de France.  And no one likes being the loser in someone else's fantasy Tour de France.

But whatever.

Back in Central Square the fire engine approaches a crosswalk. There's a middle aged Cantabrigian—a tall wiry woman with frizzy gray hair dressed in batik, probably fresh from Whole Foods—on the sidewalk contemplating crossing. It seems like a bad idea, you know, with that big red fire engine approaching.

I pass her and then pull to the side of Mass Ave, and look back to see what she'll decide, and damned if she doesn't decide to cross, right in front of the fire truck. With all the lights flashing and the sirens blaring. And, the kicker is: she doesn't hustle across. She crosses in the true Cantabrigian style, something between a snail's pace and a saunter.

The fire engine actually had to stop and wait for her.

And that, my friends, is Cambridge in a nutshell.