This is because of the subtle backpedaling you can do with every pedal stroke while riding through lanes of cars. Having to only think about your legs moving while zipping between two buses is a lot less to think about than “should I press the right, left, or both brake levers?”
Poetry
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This is Africa, 1943. War spits out its violence overhead and the sandy graveyard swallows it up. Her name is King Nine, B-25, medium bomber, Twelfth Air Force. On a hot, still morning she took off from Tunisia to bomb the southern tip of Italy. An errant piece of flak tore a hole in a wing tank and, like a wounded bird, this is where she landed, not to return on this day, or any other day.