Where do we get our ideas? This is the number one question asked of an author at one time or another. The answer is everywhere, while doing the most mundane things.
Yesterday my husband, whose dedicated to getting me ready for our bicycle ride vacation, dragged me out of bed at the ungodly hour of eight am for a short twelve mile ride on Fall Creek Greenery Trail.
The trail lives up to its name. Lots of shade trees, birds and insects for soothing background noise, and of course Fall Creek. On the plus side there are very few other idiots exercising in this early morning.
Did I mention I hate to change my routine? My idea of a perfect Sunday is to venture out at noon, an appropriate hour, after a leisurely cup of coffee, yogurt and the morning paper.
Back to the story, still sleepy, I pedal at a moderate pace. Twenty yards in front of me is some middle-age guy, holding a cell phone to his ear hogging the middle of the bike path.
Normally one says something to the effect of passing on your left, or ringing their bell and the other person moves over. Not this guy. He keeps talking and riding in the middle.
He’s now officially irritated me in so many ways and we haven’t met. Doesn’t take much to twist my knickers in a knot does it? First, he isn’t wearing a helmet. What if he falls, cracks his head, and has to be treated? Does he have insurance? Probably not, even if he does he’s stupid for not wearing a helmet. It’s those kind of accidents that makes everyone’s premiums go up. Not a very good citizen.
Second, pick a side of the pathway to ride on, preferable the right. Basic rules of the road follow them. This guy is riding on the edge of the good citizen envelope and is about to fall off.
Third, hells bells get that cell phone out of your ear, put both hands on the handlebar and pay attention. Why would somebody want to exercise and talk on the phone at this hour?
Did I mention he was a middle age man? The only logical reason I can come up with is he’s cheating on his wife and calling his girlfriend. What a lout.
That’s it; he’s fallen over the line. My ‘Jack Reacher-essence’ has bubbled to the top. He’s using too much air, he’s got to die.
So I tell my retired cop husband, I think I need to kill this guy.
He humors me and plays along? Wants to know what I’m going to use for the murder weapon.
Simple, I ride right up next to him and shoot him with my 38 snub nose revolver.
Hubby always ruins my plans. Your 38 don’t have a silencer, nor do I have a plastic water bottle to improvise needed silencer. Besides, he reminds me, the next mile is sunny and he’ll see the shadow from raising my gun hand.
Okay, I’ll wait till we get to a shaded area and then shoot him. Everyone will think it’s a car backfiring.
Now he reminds me I’m a klutz, can’t ride, aim and shot straight. Further he adds salt to the wound by informing me I would actually need to be slightly ahead of him so I don’t get any blood splatter. And how I’m I going to do that when I can’t get the guy to move over?
Why am I still married to this guy who takes all the fun out of my morning project? At this point my cranky pants hubby puts some bass in his voice and says “passing on the left”. The guy pulls over to the right, unbelievable.
Next Sunday, I’m coming prepared.
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