I hate them all. Mile after mile I ride on, seething with hatred and contempt, ever-vigilant and wary of every mechanical monster that comes within my sphere of awareness. Watch and hate. Listen and hate. I have to hate THEM, or they'll scare me out of my shorts.
Hate is a strong emotion.
Stronger, even, than fear. Last spring I dropped into a local sporting-goods store to pick up a supply of those terrycloth sweatbands that vanish without a trace in the laundry. It was perfect. Small and easily tucked away in a jersey pocket, it could be drawn and fired in a split second without having to fuss with a safety catch or a receiving bolt. You could keep one hand on the handlebars to steady your aim.