Dear Cyclist Whom I Will Be Beating

I am not certain of the circumstances that will lead to you, the cyclist, being beaten by me, the pedestrian, because I am writing this letter in advance.
First off, I would like to offer my apologies for the beating, and say that when it occurs it will be a spontaneous event, not pre-meditated or in the First Degree of any sort. You and your lawyers will have to understand this.
You should know that this behavior will be unusual to me. I prefer diplomatic resolution over violence. In fact, even when presented with a blessed opportunity to ruin a wee Frenchman for purposely drinking my beer, I instead chose a non-combative approach. I sought the path of enlightenment. I also didn’t want to ruin my honeymoon by getting tossed in a foreign slammer.
But unfortunately for you, the frenzied beating you shall receive will be an anomaly. It will be uncontrollable, and frighteningly furious. It helps that I am 6′ 3′, but more importantly, the appearance that I have completely lost my mind will be amazingly alarming to you — regardless of your physical build and potential self-defense skills. You will be paralyzed by my personal shock and awe campaign. I will proceed, undeterred, until I have sufficiently proven my point. My point will then be followed by the Grand Finale, which involves a lot of jumping on your spokes.
You will have to understand that this has been a long time coming. Not coming at you personally, as I can not say that I know you since I am writing this in advance of beating you. Rather, this has been a long time coming towards cyclists in general, as I have felt a growing animosity towards the Cycling persuasion. This is the end result of countless near-death experiences at the hands, or wheels, of your kind. These near misses could have been avoided if you were to use the roads the city has to offer, rather than the sidewalk path that leads to my crotch. Your behavior has rendered the sidewalks and streets more lawless than a Somali flea market. You will reap a juggernaut of vengeance.
The most recent pre-cursor to your future beating set my nerves on edge for the umpteenth, and possibly last, time: I crossed a street — looking the correct way — only to have a two-wheeled bullet traveling the wrong direction graze my head and scream ‘Watch out!’
That took two years off of my life, no question.
By the time my heart stopped racing and I was able to collect myself, I knew it was only a matter of time. I know the feeling. It’s the same one I had when I knew I would kill Scott Yarman if he kept making fun of my mother’s breast cancer. He kept it up. I tried to strangle him to death. We both got suspended.
As I am writing this in advance, I can not tell you of the exact circumstances that will lead up to this horrible event. I imagine it will be fairly simple. I will be walking on the sidewalk, as pedestrians do. You will be riding on said sidewalk, which is illegal. You will strike me in some way. I will completely freak out. The bottled up rage will overwhelm my conscience and self-restraint. My adrenaline will go off the charts, like an ex-con strung out on PCP. Presuming you are not well armed, I will then beat you to within an inch of your life. Two centimeters if you prefer metric.
Take note, my cycling friend.
I’m not sure what you’d call a person who hates people on bikes. You certainly can’t call them Cyclists. Perhaps Anti-Cyclites? Bikeots? Schwinnzis?
Whatever you call them, I am now one. You have made an enemy, sir.
Tread carefully,
A Pedestrian