I caught up to him, stared into his closed, tinted passenger window, and relayed a number of unflattering thoughts about his driving. In response, he repeatedly revved his engine. Had he been driving an actual truck I might have felt a bit of fear. As it was, the tinny whine of his Ford Ranger was more pathetic than threatening.
“Stop!” I cried out. Fortunately, he eventually did. When he rode back to me, scowling, I explained that I needed something warm to drink—and maybe something small to snack on. Paul shook his helmeted head no, sending water flying and for effect also shook his hand that he had extended my direction.
Less than a heartbeat later the slow motion aspect was gone and everything, particularly the ground, was coming at me all at once. The item that troubled me the most is my rear tire, which was now leaking seriously to the left as I descended.