Bicyclists

To all of the Evian drinking, Nature Valley bar eating, ball-suffocating lycra wearing, rearview mirror-on-the-helmet having, anti-car commuting, bicycle riding motherfuckers, this is for you.

The great city of Portland, Oregon is well-known as a bicycle friendly town. Makes sense, navigating through some of the narrow neighborhood streets in a car can be a pain in the ass, having to wait for someone coming in the opposite direction to pass by because two cars won't fit side by side, let alone all of the yuppie hipster dickwads who need to park their overpriced, under equipped SUV(or sport-ute, for all you weirdoes) in the goddamned street instead of their perfectly constructed driveway, but we'll save that rant for another time.

I also understand the other reasons; gas for instance. It's expensive, you can easily spend 300-400 bucks a month, and that's being very conservative. So, riding a bike to and from work or wherever else you guys go keeps a comparable chunk of cash in your bank account. Exercise. If you grunt to get in and out of your vehicle, it may be time to hop on the 'ol manual two-wheeler. If eating gets you out of breath, perhaps a little pedaling would do you some good. God knows there seems to be an exponential number of fatsos stampeding the grounds of America at a disturbing rate.

I suppose I should exclude the group of responsible riders, so to those who read this and get their panties bunched up, saying, "hey, I don't do that stuff, fuck this guy!", disregard and read no farther. The last thing I need is some prissy little piss-pants filling my rant-bubble with tears of anger because they misunderstood my blog, but just in case, fuck you.

Now that all the disclaimers are out of the way, let's get started. You. You ride your little 10-speed with no regard for anybody else. You use the same road I do in my car, yet you believe you have special privileges of not stopping at light controlled intersections or stop signs. You force us to slam our brakes on, letting you by as you throw us the finger like we were at fault. Most of the major roads now have a designated bike lane. It's about 2 feet wide, plenty of space for you to ride in, hell even swerve around in it if you wanted to. Yet, time after time, you find it necessary to ride on the fucking line. Not the outside line closer to the curb, no. You ride on the line closer to motorized traffic. If you wanted to be that close to the road, perhaps you should drive a fucking car. Makes no sense. How about the roads with no bike lane? Stay the fuck off of it. Take a street that's not so busy, or hop on the goddamned sidewalk for a minute. It isn't going to kill you, and the sidewalk police aren't going to confiscate your precious and imprison you. You ride on curved highway stretches in large groups, forcing the drivers to wait behind you until you decide to get the fuck out of the way. We are driving more than 50 mph, and you apparently think that's too fast.

Lycra. Spandex. Moose knucklers. Camel toers, whatever you want to call them. Are you in a race? No. Is the skin-tight apparel going to keep your core temperature down enough to stabilize your energy levels for better endurance? Probably not. But, for your daily commute, you insist on wearing them. Fine. That's your choice. If you really have the nagging urge to "inadvertently" display your nether regions, go for it. You're gonna be the one with superman syndrome, not me. Superman. He flies around, kicking ass, saving babies, and shooting shit with his laser eyes. When they see him, they praise him. When he leaves, they make fun of his tights. So, you show up at work, still in your "cycle gear", and Bob from accounting is like, "hey, buddy. How was the ride? It looks like you've lost more weight." As soon as you leave, Bob let's everybody know that the spandex bandit has arrived, and everybody laughs at your expense.

Well, that about sums things up. Until next time, fuck off, fuck you, and fuck it all.

Vince