Hurricane Executive!

The other day I was at the corner of Bay and Bloor.
I was patiently waiting my turn to use the revolving door at the TD Bank.
The reason I was patient, was my mother always taught me to respect my elders. And one of my elders was at the power position within the revolving door. The door was moving like the hour hand of a clock.
But I was patient, out of respect.
Even though it was cold outside.

Inside, an elevator opened, and out fired a pinstripe bullet. The executive clearly respected no law above the GO Train schedule as he roared toward the revolving door.
Laws that he lay ruin to:
1. Do not run in leather shoes on a polished surface.
2. Do not run in a suit.
3. Do not run if the last time you ran was in Grade 8, because you will look stupid.
4. Respect your elders.

There I was, patiently waiting for the inevitable. The tortoise was about to meet the hare, head on, and there was nothing I could do.
Or, at least, very little.
Aesop never made the story this much fun.

The Suit either didn't see, or didn't care, or didn't care to see, my most revered senior plodding through the revolving door, and powered through the door like it was his job. He was so quick that I am sure my father would describe the event thusly:
"Like shit through a goose!"

It was just that fast.

As I gathered from eavesdropping on my three scientist roommates in university, for every action there is a reaction, which was traditionally related by the example 'lifting Labatt 50 to mouth will lead to Bruce Springsteen on the record player'.

This poor darling, my elder, having been caught in the cross-hares of the suit in sprint, found that she was no longer pushing the door, but the door was pushing her. Most times this would be helpful (ie. i am walking on the sidewalk/the sidewalk is doing the walking for me) but only if you're expecting such kind assistance. The senior, who I am most deferential to, was not expecting the help.
How she stayed on her feet is a wonder, but she did.
I hurried in behind; the door was still spinning like a hurricane, so I didn't have to exert myself. I did, however, have to approach the door like a little girl waiting her turn at double Dutch.
My elder galed at me, "Someone should tell that man he shouldn't do that!"
That 'someone', according to the lady's wagging finger, was apparently me.
I said, "Yes" and carried on my merry way.
I'm a fit enough guy, but he was moving pretty fast.

Let's not forget that I had, like, wasted half my lifetime waiting for her to creep two feet.

Besides that, what part of the expression 'rush hour' had mystified her? Led her to believe that it was the perfect time for her to do some cherry picking? I respectfully ask her to answer me that.