Aren't we done with (cigarettes?)

friends, all geared up and ready for riding

Today I finally braved the outdoors on my bicycle. It's been a long time coming, but with clear skies and unseasonably warm weather, what else could I do?  Here we are, convening at the corner before our ride, in which I would of course get dropped along the way but it's always nice to show face and see friends for the send-off and first hour or so of riding.  Believe it or not, this pedestrian was standing right here, smoking and smoking and smoking, with about 30 lycra-clad cyclists at seven in the morning on this gorgeous day.  As I've always said, Illinois auto license plate should read: "Kill me now." When the weather changes, we suffer the onslaught of whatever is right around the corner.  Today, for example, I inhaled smoke from "how many" other peoples' cigarettes?  Indeed, driving up Harlem the other day I was convinced that every other driver except myself was a smoker.  My lungs can hardly handle it, in fact, it's been documented that women suffer upper respiratory illnesses and sensitivities at a greater rate than men, perhaps because our little cilia in our respiratory system are more fragile, thus less capable of keeping all those harsh toxins out of our interior self.  Whatever. All I know is that I hate smoke, and have hated inhaling other peoples' smoke for about forty five years. Aren't we done with these things?