I never thought it would happen to me. Riding on the flat dirt path next to a canal, I got passed — by an even fatter biker.
“I bought this bike, so I could ride it. I don’t want to learn how to fix it.”
Ducks should run like chickens. But not the fucking gaggle on the Western Canal bike path south of Baseline Road in Mesa, Az.
I was as happy as a school girl on heroin pedaling through a residential neighborhood in San Diego — when I got screwed. Hundreds of times. That’s how many drywall screws were lying about the bike lane pointing every which way. Gray screws against gray pavement. Almost impossible […]
One of the few joys of road biking is dominating the bike lane — easily passing runners, beach cruisers and mountain bikes.
I’ve spent thousands on a good bike. Hundreds on shoes and clothes. I spent $1.29 on a snickers bar that fucked up a perfectly good ride.
Fat Bikers are hell on wheels.
For years I wished the town of Gilbert would pave the canal path from Guadalupe to Warner Road. Sometimes it’s better for wishes not to come true.
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.
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.
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.