Without Key or Lid

In keeping with this summer's theme of bicycle related mishaps, last week I was riding home from work when I was egged.

Egged for fuck's sake.

There I was, just mosying along around midnight, minding my own little world from the safety of the bike lane, and out rushes past this black car, pulling up along side me just long enough for:

whack, whack, WHACK!

Three impacts along my side; then the gutteral staccatto of young male laughter before they gunned their way off down Harbord.

I've decided I don't like being egged. You'd think, after all the abuse I suffered growing up, that it would have occured to at least one of the malignent geniuses torturing me as a child to give it a try, but no, this was a first. I do have to hand it to the Drive By Eggers, they were a good aim, hitting a moving target from a moving vehicle. Practiced, one might say.

Thanks to physics (ah, handy physics), my shock did not result in my catapalting into the sidewalk and breaking my arm. Centrifical force kept me upright and wobbling. Stunned but on the move.

I've come a long way. Now, at least, the abuse I suffer in life is random.