Fat Biker Problems – Talking

When I first started cycling, I had no idea it was “social.” Now I can’t get some of these skinny fucks to shut up.

I don’t mind that they are talking — some of them are even interesting. I try to talk on the flat ground. But after 1 min of any kind of a climb (no matter how gentle), I’m out of air and can’t focus or form words. And they are spinning and grinning and chatting away – – it’s fucking annoying.

In bigger group rides, I find myself sliding to the back to avoid conversation. But when it’s just 1 or 2 people, you come off as a fucked up weirdo, if you don’t at least try to talk — just a little.

A few years ago (because he has since quit riding) I was on a ride with skinny-fuck, douchebag-millennial, Julian. He’s going on and on about some damn thing that I can’t remember, and we come up to a little rise near Las Sendas, the only hill in Mesa, Az.

“Can’t talk – hill,” I puffed out between pedals.

“You’re funny,” skinny-douchey-fuck said. He kept spinning and speaking the rest of the way up the hill.

I go all Joe Pesci on his ass (in my head).

“I’m funny to you, like a fucking clown? What’s funny about not being able to breathe? Should I laugh if you ever have to work hard at anything in your spoiled little life?”

If I had a plastic fork on me, I would have stabbed him in the arm.

This fall, I was doing a ride with Mark in Flagstaff. 7000 feet elevation, and I was having a bad day. We ride around Mormon Lake and it’s pretty flat.

We overtake this Fucking New Guy on the way back. FNG jumps on my wheel. Soon I’m in front, and pedaling pretty hard on slight rolling terrain. I can tell they have stopped pedaling and are letting the suction from my fat ass pull them along. You ever get right up close behind an 18-wheeler in your car? It’s like that.

Turns out they are both retired and ride this route all the time. It’s “Mr. Happy” and “FNG go-lucky” just laughing and coasting – not a fucking care in the world. It’s getting warm, and my lungs and legs start to hurt. I don’t think I’m sweating as much as I should.

Ohh look. Here comes a fucking hill.

They roll around me and keep on rolling (and talking) and I’m sliding back like my car ran out of gas. Their voices taper off, just as my panic sets in.

“I think I have 20 miles left… It’s getting hotter. I think I’m out of water… I know I’m dehydrated. Is this an asthma attack? If I could scream could they hear me?”

A couple miles later FNG pulls off, and Mark stops pedaling so I can catch him.

“I gotta stop,” I said as we crest another small climb. He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. My brain is not working very well — there’s only so much oxygen.

Just more proof intelligent design is bullshit. A fucking intelligent designer would let those fatty parasitic cells die first and send all the air to the brain. Not our fucking moron — it’s share and share alike for fat cells and brain cells. Commie bastard.

I borrow Mark’s last bottle of water.

We finish the ride and I realize I never looked at my second bottle of water. It was completely full, and I never opened it. Brain didn’t have enough air to look at the spare.

Maybe that’s what I should do on these climbing rides. Take all the talker’s water. Hard to talk with a dry mouth. Maybe that will shut these skinny fucks up? Or I could just go all Joe Pesci on their ass — Where’s my plastic fork….