They don't want to be my huckleberry

I actually yelled at someone today ... out loud ... in public..

It was less than satisfying because I immediately thought of 10 things I should have said.

I was on the bike trail and just ahead was a guy with a dog. He was standing off to the side to let me by so I was going around him. In the distance, I saw bikers coming toward me. They were about 15 yards away. Bikers are clearly told to yield to others, but as Mom says, "They are a law unto themselves."

As the lead biker approached, without any visible slowing, he said "watch it."

I yelled then. "Hey jerk, it's my trail," but it's not: It's the bike trail. After all the various retorts I thought of, I wish I had said "You yield to me."

I mean really. Who the hell doesn't yield to a wheelchair?

I am proud of the "jerk." I am glad I didn't say worse because then the old man with the dog might have been startled. As it was he did nothing.

I have been trying to calculate who would be hurt worse by a collision: me or a biker. Claren is the big wild card. If she got hurt while I was playing chicken with a biker I would never forgive myself.

I feel like Wyatt Earp in Tombstone. Like Wild Bill, Johnny Ringo, Ike and the other Cowboys, the damn bikers are goading me. They best watch it: If they call down the thunder, I'll be coming after them and Hell will be coming with me.