That one f'n block.

Every time. Every. Single. Time. On my way to the lakefront from home, I ride down this long block of Argyle street and, regardless of time of day, there is always someone doing something half-assed with their car. This is "that one f'n block." 

They might be backing their car up the f'n block, window down, smoking a cig, yelling at a subordinate over speaker phone. Maybe it's a simple, but really poorly executed u-turn on a f'n block that's too narrow for that. Maybe it's two cars deciding to do both of the preceding ass-hatting simultaneously. More than any other stretch in my commute or regular rides, this f'n block never fails to deliver. It's a bummer too, cuz it's a slight descent with some speed bumps to hop. 

Over time though and in stark contrast to how a cyclist might otherwise react to aforementioned jackassery (spitting fire, throwing boulders, etc.), I've become enchanted by the very real possibility that this f'n block exists in a different dimension. Like a visitor from another world, I take my time, curiosity peaked, ready to thumbs-up any driver doing anything on the far side of logical. This is that block, after all. That f'n block.