And then there is the matter of "sidewalk rage." Not everybody runs into this, at least, quite the way I do. But if you happen to be in a wheelchair. . . .
I have an electric wheelchair. I use a regular manual wheelchair around home and when I go someplace in the car (because the electric is too heavy to lift in and out of the car), but I use the electric when cruising the neighborhood. I have a shopping area a couple of blocks to my west and another one a couple of blocks to my east. Grocery stores, book stores, restaurants, a small shopping mall, etc. And I can also make use of the local transit system because the buses all have wheelchair lifts (the manual says that on a full charge, the chair has a range of up to twenty-five miles—I also have a cell phone in case I get stuck somewhere; the only reason I have a cell phone).
Okay, with that established: Seattle has been really good about putting wheelchair curb ramps in most areas. But skateboarders! You know: acne bedecked kids with permanent scowls, nose rings and a tongue stud, T-shirts bigger than most circus tents, their pants so low that the crotch is down where their knees are, with about six inches of butt-crack on public display—and an attitude. They rumble down crowded sidewalks at breakneck speed (if they would only break their own damned necks!) knocking children over, terrifying old ladies, and endangering everybody. They are under the impression that wheelchair curb ramps are there for their benefit, and more than once I have been sworn at for having the bad grace to be going up or down one when they wanted to use it, forcing them to break their flow. Why they don't outlaw sidewalk surfers, I don't know. They're a menace.
Cell phones. Oh, yes! People walk down the sidewalk with cell phones plastered to the side of their heads, and all the usual distractions that apply to drivers using cell phones also apply to pedestrians. I frequently encounter people striding blithely down the street, lost in conversation, completely unconscious of their immediate surroundings, and have had to yell loudly at them to keep them from winding up in my lap. It amazes me that they don't walk right into lamp posts more often than they do.
Dicing with drivers while in the wheelchair. The light is green and I'm about to zip down the curb ramp into the crosswalk. But just then, some numbskull pulls up to the red light just far enough into the crosswalk to block the curb ramp. And they just sit there. They see me sitting there with a scowl on my face, but it just doesn't occur to them that they're blocking the curb ramp. Other pedestrians can step off the curb and walk around the front of their car, but I can't, because the curb ramp is only about three feet wide, and if I were to proceed, I would ram them amidships.
Normally I'm a peaceable guy, dedicated to non-violence. But I remember the Aston-Martin DB5 that James Bond drove in "Goldfinger." It was equipped with .30 cal machine guns mounted under the front fenders. I sometimes look at my electric wheelchair and wonder about the possibilities. . . .