It’s an instinct that probably goes back to our days chasing mammoths over a cliff. Cyclists see another rider ahead and do everything they can to pass that bastard.
How can you spot a happy bikers? Count the bugs in their teeth.
I know that’s an old terrible joke… but it sort of applies to bicycles too. I’ve swallowed my share of “free protein” — especially riding at night.
For more than half a century I took breathing for granted. Sure I would get out of breath on a mountain climb or a sprint, but then… hit 55 years old and dun, dun, dunnnn: exercise-induced asthma.
Ohh God it burns, when these little balls of salty sweat roll or drop right into the corner of your eyes.
It doesn’t happen every ride. Sometimes it happens when it hot, sometimes when it’s not.
I once went cycling up a giant mountain with a drug lord from South America.
Sure, sure Angry Ed denies he is, or has ever been, a drug lord. But if ever there was a witness protection name for a cartel double agent, it’s “Ed Vegas.”
Being a fat biker (pedaling not Harley) with no pigment leaves me little choice. I have to ride at night or risk Satan’s kisses (sunburn all over).
I’m a night person anyway. I put on two motorcycle power headlights, a flashing red tail light and head out once the sun turned off.
Most cyclists are your basic MAMIL’s (middle-aged men in lycra) — you know harmless, masochistic skinny fucks who enjoy burning muscle pain and oxygen deprivation.
But occasionally out of a pack of MAMIL’s, one douchebag will pop up like burnt toast. There’s a few different types of douches, but the worst is the wheel-sucker.
My clueless riders, didn’t ask and didn’t know those things. They just assumed that everyone thinks it’s OK to endanger and maybe kill other people who don’t look like or sound like you.
It’s been 30 years of political battles to get cities to build bike lanes. And then the god damn cyclists ride right next to the white line.
One of the worst parts of being a fat cyclist is the clothes.
Cycling is supposed to be some crunchy-granola-zen shit — but it’s not…
The worst part of road biking: flat tires. And I get a shit ton of flat tires. The last two were annoying little piss ant slow leaks
I used to wonder how all these bicycle shops on every corner stayed in business. Then I got into cycling. Mystery solved
One day a driver in Tucson is going to kill me with kindness — under the wheels of her white sedan with a big fucking Be Kind sticker on the back.
When I first started cycling, I had no idea it was a “social” activity. But sometimes I can’t get these fuckers to shut up.