An apologetic young girl helped me up, dusted me off and zipped off, whistling. More embarrassed than hurt, I was trying to look nonchalant when I saw Roller Blader II bearing down upon me. Male, white and very, very young, it seemed to me that nothing short of a collision was inevitable. Instinctively, I took back when I heard the shrill peal of alarms. I just knew I was the cause of it. Two cyclists, crash helmets et al, nearly nicked me as they whizzed past with their fingers firmlypressed down on their bells.

Curses, incantations and invectives, followed.

What, no apology?

Then it occurred to me that not only had I stumbled on to a walkway. I was also in the direct path of oncoming traffic. An influx of people that from a distance looked roughly like the rush hour build-up on Peddar Road. I had heard that the people of the US were always on the move and it's a fact.

Come morning, noon or night they are walking, running, roller blading or cycling. That was fine. I have no problems with fitness fanatics. In fact, I think it's great. What began to irk however was their unerring aim when it came to plowing me down.

During my three weeks in the US, I think I must've involved in almost 100 hit and run cases with people on foot. I am not exaggerating. And I am not being paranoid.

Try this for a reality bite. I was nearly mowed down by a pram. Rather far-fetched you think. But what if the pram looked like a Formula One car, sort of like the ones designed by Ferrari or Mclaren?Low-slung vehicles, hugging the ground for better grip, they come with huge nearly two feet in diameter wheels and 10-speed gears. Propelled by new mothers determined to fit into their pre-fat clothes. Try making it past one of these, worse still, try being a walker in the way of an oncoming four-wheel drive perambulator. You are knocked down, pushed over and chances are, instead of an apology, a dirty diaper flung your way.

Lake Michigan (Chicago's monster lake that would give any river and some seas a complex) was no better. The impatient whirr of pedals or the thundering pace of lycra legs brushed me aside like a fly.

I dashed off to San Francisco hoping to evade this constant bruising and scraping of knees (and ego) but my luck had run out. Day One, Hour Two, in San Francisco's downtown area and I was black and blue. People even run in the Bay area office district. The only difference being that they are so immaculately groomed and sculpted you would think they had just stepped out of the pages ofMen's Health, GQ or Vanity Fair.

What really got my goat however, was not their plastic perfection; it was the Roller Bladers. I am certain they chased me all the way from the mid-West to the West Coast. You see, by then I had become a Roller Blade magnet. They drove in to me, knocked me down and skidded past my toes. But most of all they screeched to a halt inches away from my nose just to see my hair stand. Finally, I fell on my knees and screamed surrender. I had to. Imagine a regular skate; take away the two rows of wheels on either side.

Replace it with just one row of wheels running down the centre. Imagine the problem you would have balancing. Then imagine the speed you would require just to remain standing. Add that up and it equals hell on the streets.My personal hell. Because time is running out. The Roller Bladers know I am leaving soon and I've heard that they are taking to the streets enmasse. The word is out: They have to get me.

And, no, I am not being paranoid. A Roller Blader told meso. Just as she knocked me off my feet.

Nonita Kalra is the features editor, The Indian Express.