Cyclists Are Dicks

Posted by admin on April 8, 2014 Blog | Tags: , , , | No comments

Douchebag Cyclist

I am a casual cyclist. I have a functional, middle-of-the-road hybrid bike. It does the job. I only say this to make sure you understand, I’m not out there straddling a banana seat with my streamers fluttering in the wind off my hand grips in an ill-fitting, pink My Little Pony bike helmet. Shocking, I know, but I don’t have any aspirations of pedaling through the Pyrenees in search of my first yellow jersey. I ride with purpose. I ride for fitness and quite honestly I ride so I can eat pizza and consume copious amounts of whiskey.

I don’t have padded bicycle shorts or fancy road pedals that require fancy cyclist shoes. I don’t have a multi-colored, sponsor covered, micro-polyester dimple-patterned racing jersey. I’m not racing anyone. I am simply going for a ride. Yet, I am shunned by the cycling community.

A “cyclist” approaches. He’s got the bike, the racing glasses, the racing gloves, a helmet glistening in the sun. I casually throw up a hand; a gesture of comradery, solidarity of two men on a similar mission. I am ignored. The simplest of expressions to acknowledge each other’s humanity, a wave, is denied.

Through my own comprehensive study, while riding the highways and byways of South Summerlin and the Western Beltway Trail, I’ve discovered one indisputable fact: Cyclists are dicks.

You look ridiculous. Seriously, is that costume truly necessary? Look at me! I ride a bike! Yeah! I have well-developed calves. Bro, you could get the same workout and save, like a thousand dollars, if you just wore some gym shorts and a comfortable tee. Yes, I’m sure it’ll cost you .000056 of a second on your ride, but, you do know, that Trek Factory Racing isn’t calling, right? Oh, and by the way, the helmet you wear makes you look like a penis. Yeah, it’s for safety, I know. It doesn’t change the fact that you look like a pretentious erect penis…on a bike. Oh yeah, one more thing. Take of your friggin’ shoes when you go into a business.

You don’t always have the right of way. As much as you complain about motorists, you are worse. You ignore traffic signs, as if the word STOP printed on a giant red sign was a suggestion rather than rule. You can’t be bothered with a four-way stop, you have the Alps to conquer. We even go to the expense of providing you with your own, personal lane. You ride in it or you don’t. Then, while swerving outside the line into the car lanes, you get honked at. Of course, then you acknowledge another’s humanity…with a much more crass gesture. Hey, jackass. You do know that in a battle between that Hyundai Accent and your bike, you and your bike loses 1,000 out of 1,000 times? Wise up, bike boy. Know your place. Respect the rules of the road. Learn the proper hand signals, besides the one involving your middle finger.

You ride in packs. Lame. It’s like you’re some sort of healthy living, non-threatening biker gang. Like “Sons of Anarchy” for the eco-friendly set. Instead of peddling Oxycontin, you’re pedaling wheat grass, kale smoothies and natural plant-based protein bars. Of course, there’s the leader of the pack. He has the most accessories on his bike, which by the way, cost more than my car. He’s out front. He’s proud like a peacock and he takes this bike-thing waaaaaay too seriously. He’s like the dude on your co-ed softball team that wears baseball pants, stirrups and likes to throw out girls at first base from left field. Dick.

You’re probably a communist. You know what country has the most bikes? They, like, ride everywhere. That’s right, China, ya commie.

Your other transportation. Don’t tell me. Prius? It’s either that or a Subaru. Either way, you’re a dick.

Your idol is a huge doucher. Cycling’s greatest hero, Lance Armstrong, is a lying, cheating, deceitful, doping, egomaniacal dirtbag. In short, your sport’s greatest athlete is a dick.

Don’t believe me? Click here to hear Lance on “60 Seconds with Spence”.

Life is a long bike ride. You will encounter miles of challenging climbs, moments of downhill exhilaration. Sometimes you’ll win the stage…other times you will finish last. You’ll crash. Sometimes it won’t even be your fault but you crash nonetheless. Slow down, Tour de Fred. Smell them roses. It ain’t all that serious. And while you’re at it don’t be a dick.