We head to the Mission for our hangover breakfast. It being mid-January in California, we decide to sit outside. During a pleasant lull in the conversation an older man zips by on a motorized cart. Our heads turn in unison to follow his progress up the sidewalk.
The cart is surprisingly silent, and quick. He stops short, two inches from the heels of a sleepy hipster who is waiting for a table. We wait for the older man to clear his throat, or murmur “excuse me.” Instead he reaches angrily for his handlebar:
Of course, he has a bike bell.