Now, if you run out of smokes, and send your kid pedaling to the corner store for a pack of Kools, I’ve got no problem with that. If you’re on your Huffy riding to 7-11 to rent Beaches staring Bette Midler and Barbara Hershey, I’ve got no problem with that either. (Other than your taste in films). If you’re trying to evade a pursuing rapist…Again, I have no problems with this. As Tony Danza’s bicep proudly proclaims “Keep on Truckin'”
What I do have a problem with is the pimple on the ass of America’s roads and highways; The Cyclist (which sort of sounds like a possible name for a future Kevin Costner film). I’m speaking of the guy with the little saddlebags on his wheel hubs. The guy with sixteen water bottles attached to his bike frame. The man clearly wearing a boys-sized shirt, spandex pants, and a funny pointy helmet. You my friend, are a pain in my ass and couldn’t carry Lance Armstrong’s jock on a good day.
Everywhere else in nature, mammals know the rule of “Get the fuck out of the way, or get run over.” Fish swim away from boats. Birds fly away from planes. Deer, which are stupid, get caught in the headlights and you’ve seen what happens to them.
However, knowing these natural laws, makes no difference to the cyclist prick. He sits idly in front of my car waiting for the light to turn green while I ponder how I can run him over and get away with it. I would, if I could. I’m seething as I look at empty sidewalks and open road in front of you, waiting for your sorry ass to go from zero to thirty in 12 blocks. You… are not… a car! Get the fuck out of the way! Beep! Beep!
You can’t find another way to exercise? Bicycling on city streets while you piss off one driver after another is the only way you can work up a good calorie burn? Riding on the sidewalk doesn’t let you fly your I’m-a-Dickhead flag high enough? Honestly? Cycle or die, huh?
I understand folks like to get outdoors for recreation time. In the mountains I see people camping, rafting, kayaking, mountain biking, motorcycling, hiking, and enjoying outdoor intercourse. However, there’s one thing that separates these naturalists from cyclists. They’re all smiling. (The guy getting the hummer is really smiling.) The cyclist is huffing and puffing, dripping sweat, vein in his forehead pulsating like it’s about to explode; disgusting.
Why can’t you jerkoffs just drive and do a few jumping jacks when you get there…. I don’t get it.
brentallica 