Rollerblading is akin to running in strenuousness, and by this point I am tired. I get to the end of the long street only to realize that I've somehow looped back on myself and am at the park again. "OK," I think, let's really go home now. I am very tired and my feet are dragging a bit, I try to focus on my stroke but can only keep it up for a minute or two at a time. I finally get to the end of St. James and am making my way up Elmwood when a car goes by and I hear faintly, "that dude's on rollerblades, hahaha." I think oh shit someone wants to mess with a dude struggling on rollerblades, and sure enough, I hear the squeal of tires and the car is turning around in my direction again.
I reflect now on my situation, I am very tired and wearing devices which, if I attempted something so foolhardy as defending myself in,would surely result in me landing on the pavement with a sore ass and a menacing attacker to boot. So they pull up in front of me and ask me, "where's the fag on rollerblades going?" I, very politely of course, hastiliy cross the street and strain towards the, now visible, home-base, and hope that they're just guys fucking with the rollerblader and not guys wanting to kill the rollerblader. Needles to say, as I am currently typing and not dying on Elmwood, I made it back, but still the point remains that why in the fuck do you need to fuck with the harmless rollerblader, who is having a hard enough time keeping his own ass upright and has no intentions of hurting anyone besides himself? Yes, I look like a dork with them on, but does that give someone the right to fuck with me? At least I feel a little thinner, running (or rollerblading) from sure-death beats the hell out of Atkins!
