Objects in mirror are higher than they appear

Last night's evening commute really showed San Francisco at it's best. On my ride through Golden Gate Park's Panhandle, I caught the unmistakeable scent of marijuana.

"That's odd," I thought to myself, "it didn't look like the men on that bench were smoking." A quick peek over my shoulder confirmed that they weren't smoking (though by the looks of them, it was in their evening plans.)

When I turned my head forward, I spotted the culprit — the cyclist in front of me. Mint-condition Paul Frank meshback, wicked tight jeans, and a short Diesel-ish jacket. He was the clean-cut, hipster cousin of all the downtown bike messengers.

Humid clouds of pot smoke billowed behind him and right into my face. He was riding no handed, working his lighter with one hand and pinching the end of his joint with the other.

Then I noticed his bike: an Italian-framed fixie. Cause nothing kills a good buzz like handlebar tape, a jammed derailleur, or, say, brakes.