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My interpretation of a Lance Armstrong quote ********************************************************************************************************************************** I have to admit that while this is a complete reworking of a combination of thoughts that I put down on paper several years ago, it is possibly more relevant now than when I originally wrote the post. And since 75% at least is new material, I would almost say it qualifies as original. And why should I decide to revisit this particular area that “harshes my mellow”? I had a trip to Fred Meyer this morning that re-affirmed that cyclists should be placed in the same criminal class as evil, mass murdering dictators and con artists who steal little old lady’ (and men’s) savings. So there I was this morning, the green machine idling at just the requisite RPM count, waiting to turn left on to Cornell Road. The light turned green and I started to make the turn. Just as I was turning into the correct lane to then turn right, I caught just a flash out of the corner of my eye. Some imbecile on a bike had decided to ignore the red light and use the “crosswalk” move to by-pass traffic (a particularly vexatious move that is all the rage in this part of the world). He then invoked the Divine Right of Cyclists to blast right through the turning vehicles. In his endorphin addled brain, the fact that there was a bike lane sitting between the two straight running lanes and the two right turn lanes meant that he was completely in the right. And of course, the fact that this ran counter to all of the rules of the road being used by the two lanes of left turning vehicles meant nothing to him. And he had the gall to then flip off everyone and yell shit at them for not slamming on their brakes and creating a huge wreck. I had to do it, I had to … I could not help it. As he came abreast of me I rolled down the window and looked him in the eye and yelled at him “You dumb, fuckin’ cunt: how the fuck ain’t you dead yet?” (Not a particularly witty, or wry, use of the English language, I have to say but then again I wasn’t in the mood for BBC English.) Then I had a green light and wended my merry way down to Freddies. It is true to say that I have a bit of a blind spot when I drive: cyclists bring out the ‘orrible cunt in me (strictly in the Donald Logan (Sexy Beast)kind of way). Let us all be perfectly clear, it is not the little happily racing around in tricycles, adolescents riding two-wheelers with pink streamers and little white baskets stuffed with teddy bears and Barbie Dolls, or even little old ladies on their 50 year old bikes with three Sturmey-Archer gears and little hand bell (ding, ding) that get to me. But, line up a<b> spandex </font></b>wearing, 10-speed riding, Power Bar inhaling, Intel engineer fixated on winning the Tour de France, and all I see is a (relatively) slow moving traffic violation in motion, a pedal pushing train wreck of epic proportions, and a charter member of the Future Road Pizzas Of America (FuRPOAs). To put it all into perspective, if I drove my truck the way that these particular cyclists ride their death racks, I would lose my license within the week and, in all likelihood, be put in stir for a long stretch of porridge for vehicular manslaughter or some other crime against humanity. Living in an area that has some very narrow roads (English style narrow roads rather than American style narrow roads, even), I am daily faced with the hazard of the modern fantasist/cyclist combination. These Walter Mittys have all bought into the fantasy that they are world class athletes and me, in my 2500 pound (plus) vehicle is expected to buy into this fantasy and cater to their every whim and caprice as they meander in front of me as I come around a corner at the speed limit. It is not my refusal to enter into the fantasy of these cyclists believing that they are a world class athlete competing against the best that makes me hate them. I had such a fantasy as a soccer player. And, very importantly, the player I was going against was equally fantasizing. I did not, however, play soccer in heavy traffic, believing myself to be Glenn Hoddle dribbling against oncoming SUVs. I did not constantly use my fantasy to place the lives of everyone around me in jeopardy. It could be that I just have a hatred of spandex; definitely a hatred of yellow spandex; and absolutely a pathological hatred of fluorescent yellow<b> spandex </font></b>that lights up the half light of early morning like a giant cheese explosion. Or perhaps it is their cute little helmets that are expected to save their lives as they get sucked off the bike seat by a logging truck hurtling past at sixty miles an hour and smashing them upside down into a tree. The helmets my daughters wore when they were seven offered better protection. Maybe it is those fuck-off nasty, unpadded racing bike seats that still give me bad (bad, bad, bad, bad) memories of flaky and chafed inner thighs, a severely bruised arsehole, and an incredibly sore and swollen nut sack. However, it just might be the giant bumblebee-like swarms of cyclists that I encounter every weekend, and lunchtime, wending their way down the local roads between where I live and the various and sundry Intel facilities that dot the local landscape. These poor, deluded fools who believe themselves to be part of the peloton ‒ yet not realizing that the real thing travels far in excess of local speed limits due to the incredible fitness and amazing capacity for steroids, HGH and re-oxygenated blood of the modern professional race cyclist: and of course, their amazing capacity for Power Bars. Or could it be their complete disregard for the rules of the road. No, I don’t think it could be that, could it? Well, thinking about it in a Zen-like state of meditation, it just might be. Fuck me. That’s it. Many of these cyclists have no regard for the drivers around them. Of course they are more than happy to point out everything automobile drivers do to endanger them. I have seen groups of cyclists clog up one lane of a road and force vehicles to pass them in the oncoming lane. The fact that onrushing drivers are coming around blind corners or up hills really isn’t a traffic safety issue (is it?) And getting stuck behind a cyclist wobbling his/her way up Germantown Road or Barnes Road or some other narrow, country lane complete with switchbacks, reverse gradients and 15mph turns (for cars) is about as painful as one can imagine: especially with a stick shift. The moving impediment barely moves forward, and should the cyclist rest for even a moment then reverse momentum will be achieved. There is, of course, the de rigeur side wobble from standing on the pedals. And if you are in the vehicle directly behind the cyclist, there is a danger of the vast quantity of salty sweat flying off the quasi-athlete taking the finish off of your vehicle. And, once again, isn’t failure to maintain adequate speed a moving (if barely) violation? Riding in bad light or near darkness without lights, riding against traffic, blocking traffic by pedaling up a hill in the middle of the road at five miles an hour, spitting on passing vehicles (really stupid when you have no protection what so ever), riding a bike and using a cell phone: I think I have dealt with pretty much everything over the years. Nothing surprises me when it comes to cyclists. They truly believe themselves to be bulletproof, immortal even. What I would love to see is a cop stop one of these arrogant arseholes and give out a ticket for some of their reckless and stupid behavior on the road: that I have yet to see. Who knows, one day perhaps, I will see such a thing. There is a certain bemusement to watching cyclists gleefully ride through red lights. Of course these same cyclists would be suffering road rage should a vehicle run a red light when they were watching. It is just different, if you know what I mean? My immediate solution would be to say that cyclists should have to carry insurance just like a motorist. And I also maintain that the rules of the road should be enforced on cyclists. If they continue to interpret them in such a way that it places those around them in jeopardy, then they should forfeit their right to share the road, just like a motorist. And they should forfeit their bikes. In the meantime, I will continue to drive with great trepidation whenever I crest a hill or swing through a second gear corner and find myself staring at some spandex-clad arse pointing to the sky as the cyclist pumps the pedals and sees himself as the great Lance, fighting it out against L’Alp d’Huez and its 7000 foot vertical climb. I will exercise extreme caution running up West Union Road (which is my main access road) since it seems to exert some sort of siren song to every FuRPOA within a 30 mile radius. Saturday morning on West Union is a procession of sky high arses peeking out from under fanny packs and Power Bar confetti. Think of me, friends, wrecking second gear in my transmission as I go 15 mph for a couple of miles. Think of me fighting off the urge to go PBA on the<b> spandex </font></b>warriors. Think about me, but not too much: you might miss that dumb-fuck cyclist that just pulled out in front of you. ********************************************************************************************************************************** And I have to admit that this does bring to mind another recent traffic delight. So just a moment while I wax poetic about the recent misadventure of a motorcyclist. Travelling Hwy. 26 in rush hour out where I live can be rather interesting, to say the least, since there are several Pablo Picasso inspired on, and off, ramps that while designed to facilitate traffic flow actually create something akin to one of those braided pretzels. I should/could/would make a snide comment about engineers at this point: but why bother? Anyhoo, on a recent Friday afternoon, a motorcyclist decided to create his own route through the traffic on his junior crotch rocket. It looked like one of those 250cc or 350cc designed to look more like a 750cc or superbike; but not perform like one. So our little Suzuki warrior was cutting between traffic lanes, creating an extra lane for himself where necessary and generally making a nuisance of himself in every way possible. One his special tricks was cutting over into non-existent space and forcing the vehicle he cut off to slam on the brakes ‒ always entertaining where one is going from five to four to three lanes and already watching what is going on to the left of you. So when “Barry Sheene” left the freeway at 185th Ave, he had to stop at a red light at the end of the off ramp. Rather than stop in the middle of the lane, he stopped on the edge of the lane: big mistake. One of his victims, in a very nice silver Ford truck, (but “I saw nutting, nutting at all”) stopped in the lane next to him, and I was two cars behind the truck. What I did (not) see was a giant fist shoot out of the driver side window and slam into the motorcyclist’s helmet and knock him and his bike over: instant karma. Then the light turned green and the truck drove off.  |
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 ... *pissing my pants -- forget the Kegels* ... DEEP THOUGHT FOR THE DAY Some people are like Slinkys, They really don't have a purpose; But they still bring a smile to your face When you push them down the stairs ... [image] ~*~Slinky Love~*~ This is my blog - [blog _Safira]. There are many like it, but this one is mine. RECOMMENDED READING: A F F The Only Site For Me
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Selene, As I quoted Sgt. Schulz above, so I quote him again, "I saw nuttin'" L
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PRINCESS D says ... 20-something men on crotch rockets should be put in the same category as bumblebee cyclists! =) This is my blog - [blog _Safira]. There are many like it, but this one is mine. RECOMMENDED READING: A F F The Only Site For Me
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You said "ain't".....giggle (living at the beach I know and understand your pain...bike paths EVERYWHERE...but where do they choose to ride???? In my fucking lane...idiots.) I make mistakes, I am out of control & at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best. ~Marilyn
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... *pissing my pants -- forget the Kegels* ... DEEP THOUGHT FOR THE DAY Some people are like Slinkys, They really don't have a purpose; But they still bring a smile to your face When you push them down the stairs ... [image] ~*~Slinky Love~*~ Please don't forget the Kegels. I love those little elves and their cookies. L
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1/29/2009 8:03 pm |
I so feel your pain... as you know, I drive in downtown Portland every day - another lovely mecca of PNW bicyclists - often barely missing smashing into one when they suddenly veer out of their bike lane and into my fucking CAR lane to pass someone biking too slowly for their tastes... or blasting through their red light (my green) and about ending my life as I cross the street... or flying across three lanes in RUSH HOUR FUCKING TRAFFIC in front of REAL MOTOR POWERED VEHICLES FOR WHICH THESE FUCKING ROAD WERE ACTUALLY BUILT and that are traveling twice as fast, in order to make their turn... yesterday, I'm making a LEGAL right on a red, bike does not stop, flies out into the intersection and not only cuts me off and almost ends his life, he also makes the turn and SLOWLY begins pedaling up hill in the middle of the lane while I'm slamming on my fucking brakes and swearing I will pay any mechanic any amount of money to fix the damn horn on my car so next time I can get his attention and make sure he doesn't miss me flipping him the fuck OFF.  Apparently the depth of depravity here is bottomless... don't you feel right at home? ~~~~~
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_Saf, Please don't forget the Kegels. I love those little elves and their cookies. L This is my blog - [blog _Safira]. There are many like it, but this one is mine. RECOMMENDED READING: A F F The Only Site For Me
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