They say exercise is good for you, but no one mentions the dangers of a rogue traffic cone.

It all started when I, Paul Aron, decided to dust off my old bike and go for a ride along the riverside path. Things were going great—birds singing, a light breeze, me feeling like a Tour de France contender. That is, until I noticed a bright orange blur in the middle of the path.

A lone traffic cone, just sitting there like it had important business blocking my way.

"No problem," I thought. "I got this."

I swerved to avoid it, feeling smug about my bike-handling skills—until my front wheel caught a patch of gravel. Time slowed down in that ridiculous way it does right before disaster strikes. I flailed, trying to stay upright, but gravity had other plans.

Next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the ground, tangled in my bike like a very confused pretzel.

"Wow, graceful," a voice said, barely containing laughter.

I looked up to see a girl standing there, wearing leggings and a hoodie with "I Love Chaos" written across the front. Fitting. Her eyes were wide with amusement, though she tried to look concerned.

"You okay?" she asked, biting her lip to keep from laughing outright.

"Yeah, just testing the laws of physics," I muttered, trying to untangle myself.

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Newton was right. Gravity's a jerk."

She snorted, reaching down to help me up. "You're not the first victim of the Great Traffic Cone Ambush. It's practically a rite of passage around here."

"Good to know," I said, brushing gravel off my shorts. "Do they give out badges for surviving it?"

"Only if you stick the landing better."

I laughed despite myself. "Noted. Next time I'll aim for a gold medal performance."

"Or maybe just steer clearer of cones."

"You're full of good advice," I said with a grin. "Do you give traffic cone survival classes too?"