For weeks, one man had turned our quiet neighborhood path into his personal racecourse.
He sped through without a second thought, leaving frustration and chaos in his wake.
He acted like he was the only person who mattered and everyone else was a distraction and annoyance.
But shortcuts have a way of catching up with you, especially when you ignore the signs.
The Shortcut Scourge
The shortcut wasn’t much to look at—a winding path of cracked pavement cutting through the heart of the park.
But for the people who lived nearby, it was a lifeline.
Kids played tag there, joggers found their stride, and Mrs. Malone, the sweetest woman on the block, shuffled through with her walker every afternoon.
It was our little sanctuary, a pedestrian-only zone where life slowed down just enough to enjoy it.
Until he came along.
He flew past me, the blur of his neon cycling jersey bright against the dull green of the trees.
A man in his fifties with a graying buzz cut and legs that moved like pistons, he rode with the confidence of someone who thought everyone else existed purely to get out of his way.
“Watch where you’re going!” he barked as he tore through a cluster of kids playing hopscotch.
Sam and Ellie, no older than seven or eight, barely had time to jump aside.
“Sorry, kids!” I called, trying to console them. Ellie clung to her brother, her face crumpling.
The cyclist didn’t even look back.
It wasn’t just the kids, either.
Mrs. Malone was ahead, her metal walker glinting in the sunlight. She moved steadily, taking careful steps, her small Chihuahua trotting beside her.
The man barreled toward her, his face a mask of irritation.
“Move!” he shouted, swerving at the last second.
The draft from his speed made Mrs. Malone wobble, her walker tipping slightly before she caught herself.
I ran over, steadying her as she shook her head.
“Thank you, dear,” she said, her voice soft but trembling. “He’s going to hurt someone one of these days.”
I glanced down the path where he had disappeared. A knot of frustration twisted in my stomach.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him cause trouble, and it wouldn’t be the last.
But something about that day felt different, like the park itself was growing tired of his antics.
Warning Signs
The next morning, I noticed the construction crew before I even reached the shortcut.
Bright orange cones lined the entrance, and a sign stood in the middle of the path: WET CEMENT – DO NOT ENTER.
“Morning,” one of the workers said as I approached. He was young, maybe late twenties, with a friendly grin and a clipboard in hand.
“What’s the project?” I asked, nodding at the cones.
“Repaving this section. The cracks were getting bad.”
He glanced at the freshly poured cement, its surface smooth and unmarked. “It’ll be good as new once it sets. Shouldn’t take more than a couple hours.”
I smiled. “It’ll be nice not to trip on the old cracks.”
He laughed. “Yeah, just hope folks actually follow the signs. Can’t tell you how many times people ignore them.”
As I walked away, his words lingered in my mind.
Would the cyclist take the hint?
It was hard to imagine him slowing down for anything, let alone a bright orange sign.
That afternoon, my answer came.
His bike tore past me once again, the chain rattling as he shifted gears.
He didn’t even pause at the warning sign. If anything, he seemed to speed up, a flash of neon against the muted tones of the park.
“Seriously?” I muttered under my breath.
I watched as he disappeared down the path, his head low, his focus unshakable.
The cement hadn’t even been dry for half a day, and already he was ignoring every barrier in his way.
Nancy, a fellow park regular, approached as I stood there shaking my head.
“What is it this time?” she asked, her arms crossed.
“The cyclist,” I said, jerking my thumb toward the path. “Wet cement didn’t even slow him down.”
Nancy sighed. “Figures. Someone ought to teach him a lesson.”
I didn’t say it aloud, but part of me wondered if that lesson was already in the works.
Stuck in His Own Tracks
He hit the closed-off section of the shortcut at full speed, his tires humming against the pavement.
Then came the sound I’ll never forget—a sharp squelch, followed by the unmistakable scrape of tires sinking into wet cement.
The momentum carried him just far enough for the real spectacle to begin.
His front wheel sank deep, grinding to an awkward halt, while the back tire skidded sideways.
He let out a startled yell as he pitched forward, his feet flailing in a desperate attempt to stay upright.
It didn’t work.
With a loud, wet slap, he landed in the cement, arms splayed and legs kicking, his bike half-submerged beneath him.
The scene was almost too absurd to process: the self-proclaimed king of the shortcut, stuck like a bug in amber, floundering helplessly in a sea of gray.
A small crowd had started to gather at the edge of the restricted area.
I caught sight of Nancy, who had been walking her dog nearby. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
“Guess he didn’t read the sign,” she whispered to me, her voice thick with amusement.
The construction workers emerged from a nearby truck, their boots crunching on gravel.
One of them, the friendly guy I’d spoken to earlier, surveyed the mess with a mix of disbelief and grim humor.
“Seriously?” he said, hands on his hips. “You couldn’t wait two days?”
The cyclist, now coated in cement, tried to claw his way out, but the wet mix clung to him like quicksand.
His neon jersey was streaked with gray, and his shoes made horrible sucking noises every time he tried to lift them.
A Lasting Impression
The next day, the shortcut looked like something out of a modern art exhibit.
The workers had decided to let the cement set as it was, figuring it was better than starting over.
The result was an unintentional masterpiece: two deep tire grooves, a tangle of flailing footprints, and a mangled bike-shaped imprint forever etched into the path.
It didn’t take long for the locals to turn it into a landmark.
Parents pointed it out to their kids with wry smiles, calling it “The Shortcut Monument.”
Teens made it a challenge to ride as close as possible without stepping in the grooves.
Even Mrs. Malone, slow but steady with her walker, gave it a satisfied nod as she passed.
“About time he got what was coming to him,” she muttered, her Chihuahua yipping in agreement.
As for the cyclist?
He was nowhere to be seen.
Nancy and I sat on a nearby bench, watching as the sun dipped low over the park. The air felt lighter, the usual hum of joggers, children, and casual walkers filling the space where chaos had reigned.
“Think he’ll ever show his face here again?” Nancy asked, tossing her dog a treat.
“Not unless he’s wearing a disguise,” I replied.
We both chuckled, though part of me doubted he’d even try.
For weeks, he had treated the shortcut like his personal track, a place where rules didn’t apply and people were just obstacles to swerve around.
Now, the shortcut itself bore his mark—a permanent reminder of what happens when arrogance meets a little wet cement.