The Saturday Night Cyclist



He’s approaching the four-way stop at a speed indicatitive of a man who means business, a man who has somewhere to go and the clock is ticking. Our bicycle-borne subject comes to a stop mere feet from my open driver’s side window and we lock eyes. There are no cars behind me, and we are the only two vehicles at the intersection. Being the considerate type, I decide to wave him through despite it being my turn. He stares. I motion for him to go, again. His expression turns to one of disdain and he sneers ‘It’s your right of way’ as though I’ve just arrived on this planet and lack the requisite decision making skills to properly pilot a car. Well, thanks, friend, for confirming my theory that most people are just mobile, talking piles of excrement. You try to do something considerate and, yet again, end up looking like a chump. So, I shake my head and exercise my right of way, resisting the urge to yell ‘fuck you too!’ and continue on my way.

But the rage builds.

What nerve. Perhaps he’s one of these militant cyclists who demands to be treated like any other vehicle in any and all situations. Newsflash: you’re not like any other vehicle; you’re small, two-wheeled and dependent on a means of propulsion more archaic than the horse. You’re an ill-tempered Stanley Steamer with none of the collector’s appeal, a pugnacious helmet-wearing dork with freakish calves and a patchy beard. If I wave you through, goddammit, you proceed.

So I hang a right at the next intersection, another right at the next and there he is, huffing and puffing his way down the street, fanny pack swaying left to right in the hypnotic strain of overexertion. It’s early on in the biking season yet, son. No need to ruin yourself this early.

I weigh my options in a flash… then cut hard to the right and launch him onto my hood, over the windshield, airborne onto the unforgiving tarmac as the contents of his fanny pack — loose change and playing cards — spill into the street while his crumpled chariot glances off the curb, end over end, coming to rest on someone’s still-greening lawn.

Braking hard, but not so hard as to leave any telltale skid marks, I slam the car into reverse and back up to where he lay, moaning and groaning like a wimp. Not so tough now, tough guy. But I’m nice about it, courteous as such. I look down upon this twisted pile of lycra, smile and say ‘sorry friend, I thought it was my right of way’ before continuing on in search of burgers, fries and cherry pies…

The good things in life.


3 Responses to “The Saturday Night Cyclist”

  1. Oh, bugger… I dont think that worked…. anyhow….

    go see this.

  2. 3 arsebundren

    Heh heh… ‘Oi, my dog!’

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