Sunday. High noon. I was nipping a no cream/no sugar sarsaparilla at a convenient saloon when a hot breeze whistled in and I heard the clinking step of another rider in town. Music seemed to stop and tired men raised their tired gaze to the imposingly large person darkening the doorway. A depthless shadow striped my eyes, and its darkness afforded me the chance to size up the stranger obstructing the exit with his audacious mass. He was a giant. Wide-shouldered and unusually muscular. Tan. Square jawed. He was a gallant everyman, a John Wayne, a Man With No Name. He looked my direction and in the glare of his greater masculinity, I flinched and turned away. Men across the place did the same.
The rider stepped into the Starbucks and what I had taken for high plains drifting spurs became the staccatoed pitter-patter of dainty bicycle shoes. He shuffled past my table with the Geisha stride of a brawny man unaccustomed to having a sharp bicycle saddle wedged into the crack of his ass. He scanned the café behind the flare of his cyclist-trending sunglasses while the science in his colorful neck-to-mid-thigh leotard muted his swooshing legs as soundlessly as a pirouetting Russian. The bulbous mass of aerodynamic Styrofoam strapped atop his big head, unjoggleable. I held my cup of coffee suspended before my confounded expression, registering this individual as a new genre of people to regard as idiots.
Christ, I hope Lance Armstrong gets nailed for doping. He was back in the hot seat a few months, wasn’t he? That guy’s singlehandedly created this ridiculous bicycle culture here in
that, among a scrolling list of things, irritates me. Armstrong has turned otherwise rugged men into painted clowns that shrimps like me feel proprietorship in ridiculing. All because he only has one testicle. A lot of men only have one ball, Lance, and dressing your minions like peacocks isn’t just emasculating them, it’s exposing the insecurity in your abusive power and not growing your junk back. Finding drugs in Armstrong’s piss would dislodge a pellet of nurtured superiority from Austin ’s megalobutthole, and because I’m malicious at heart, I’d adore the flailing identity crisis that would likely ensue. Bicycles have infiltrated the scenesters here too, but they’ve managed to own their style and when Lance Armstrong inevitably falls from stardom, they’ll be able to continue their existence without the stinking smear of a messiah’s disgrace. Austin
I had earbuds lodged into my head so I couldn’t hear what our tall drink of electrolytes was ordering but I’d bet foldin’ money it had the words soy, espresso, latte, and cinnamon and/or vanilla in it. What an asshole.
I like bicycles. Don’t get me wrong. I’d rather ride one than drive a car but the gear? The clothes with the names of sponsors who aren’t really sponsors of anything more than their own opportunism? Man that’s unoriginal.
Addendum: After rereading this post, I’ve come to the biting realization that I’m a judgmental prick. But, I’m okay with that. At least I’m self aware enough to turn the magnifying glass on my own deficiencies for condemnation or celebration. Celebration, in this case.