The Hill

My route starts by gently climbing a large hill. Like traversing a terrace, I zig zag back and forth along neighborhood streets avoiding all the steep inclines until I reach the top. Then, like a roller coaster, I plunge down the hill on a one way street and into the river valley.
Hollywood taught me parked car doors are always opening just as a guy on a bike drives by, so I keep to the left side to avoid being abruptly stopped by one. I’m no fool. I pay attention.
This puts me in a difficult position. In avoiding one obstacle, I complicate another. The cars that are mobile must drive in between me and the parked cars which isn’t a problem in and of itself, but at the bottom of the hill, I have to cross back over to the right side, and to do this, I have to look behind me to see if anyone is there.
The loud balding fat man that taught drivers ed in high school warned me that whenever you look over your shoulder, you tend to pull your hands, and the car, in the same direction. That applies to bikes too, and as I glanced over my shoulder this morning, I veered into an oncoming car, quickly jerked the other way, and, all while speeding down a paved hill, wobbled as a weary driver sped past.
Experience has taught me I don’t want to die. My arteries filled with adrenaline, I slowed the bike down, cautiously looked over my shoulder again, and veered to the right side. I pulled up on the sidewalk and briefly consider purchasing a mirror.