Something that has nothing to do with Covid-19. I’m getting sick of news about this pandemic, and hope this provides two-minutes of a silly escape for you — even if you are a Michigan State fan.
I was struggling to get up the hill at Las Sendas in Mesa Arizona, when these four 70-something, fat ass, snowbirds from Michigan floated passed me like they were riding on a cloud.
I stomped the pedals. My heart jumped into my throat and pounded into my head. I was in my tight-ass, stupidly colorful cycling clothes. I could hardly see out of my aerodynamic glasses because the sweat had dripped and spilled on both lenses. It was February…
They smiled and waved and rode past me. No helmets, no glasses. They were in jean shorts, green Michigan State hats and sandals. JEAN shorts, and Fucking SANDALS.
The last one slowed down for a chat.
“It’s so much easier on one of dese her’ bykes,” he said. Is it just me, or does everyone with a Michigan State hat look and sound like they need more time to finish the test.
I looked closely. The down tube was extra thick — a big “E” on the side.
Fucking electronic bikes.
These two retired couples rented these god damn bikes and were just out for a little spin in the “neighborhood.” I have to ride 15 miles just to get to the base of this little 700-foot “Las Sendas.”
“Its a great vieeewww at the top,” my new-found Spartan friend said.
The women slowed down and stopped. The men faded back to see what they are doing.
It’s Me and the Blue Bull
I passed them all. That’s right fuckers. It was Paul Bunyan all over again. Except this time, legs and lungs were “winning.”
Fucking cheaters. I hate these e-bikes, or motorized bikes or magical machines that pull power from the sun.
Sure, sure, motors are the new steroids in the Tour de France. Sure, 200 watts would make cycling more “fun” and accessible to the “masses.”
Fuck the masses.
Cycling is about suffering.
If your legs are not cramping and your lungs are not about to burst, are you even riding a bike?
If you are smiling, you might as well buy a Harley to drown out the flushing sound of your worthless life going down the shitter.
I measure my success in pounds. A good ride I come home 5-10 pounds lighter. I’m pretty sure that wet cloth, body odor and soaked shorts are the breeding ground for bacteria… My used cycling shirt is 10 pounds of impending infection.
Those 5-10 pounds (and then some) come back as soon as I start pounding beers. But I’m going to drink those anyway…
The snowbirds stayed back. After a couple of curves, I could see they had started again, but they purposefully did not try to catch me. Smart. I might have tried to kill them if they caught me on this hill.
Pissed Off Pedalling
Road rage and oxygen depravation don’t mix. (That’s right, there’s a big fucking difference between an “i” and an “a” in depravation. The “i” is for the runner’s high. The “a” is for the criminally insane.)
I got to the top of the hill. Rolled through and barely looked at the view. My legs were hurting, my ear, nose and throat were burning. I had 16 more miles to go. I was out of water.
The wind kicked up — right in my face. God damn it — no coasting. Now I’m going to have to get low and grind all the way home.
If only there was some way to make this ride easier. If only I could go into the wind without pedaling — without all the work and suffering and sweat and spit and occasional accidental shit…
How much are those E-bikes again? $600 at Walmat… sounds doable.
Maybe these fuckers from Michigan State are not as stupid as they look after all…
Categories: Fat Biker