In a rare turn of events this weekend past, I actually went out and socialized with other people!
Three bars in two nights, check.
$150.00 of bike-stuff money spent on booze instead, check.
Splitting headache both Sunday and Monday mornings, check.
Seems like it was a pretty fun time, unfortunately I can't seem to recall the last and middle parts of those evenings. Since I typically stick with beer and am frequently broke as a joke, going to a bar or saloon (which only occur in the Southwest US and are marked by their double acting entry doors and unsavory clientele) is for me a rare opportunity to remind myself why I don't drink liquor.
I wouldn't go so far as to say I get blacked-out, but I definitely wake up in the morning panicking that a lamp shade may still be affixed to my noggin, or wondering how many people I offended with my tomfooleries. Since I'd consider myself fairly mild-mannered, the answer is likely none, but that doesn't stop me from ruing my decision to down that fifth or tenth shot of Jameson and shakily ride several miles home after reassuring the pensive crowd that I am actually quite skilled at handling a bicycle (that's the booze talking, just to keep you up to speed... And the "crowd" was probably just one disinterested stranger).
At any rate, I went out for a ride in the park Sunday afternoon and as usual, after five or so laps I noticed I had four remoras in my slipstream. I don't really mind if people want to subvert their workout by letting me work out for them, but I do find it pretty irritating when those guys (female cyclists, I find, are much more docile) decide it's alright if, after sucking my wheel for a few laps, to start yelling and generally ruining my nice, Sunday ride.
This particular instance really got me pissed:
As I crested a minor hill, remoras all still attached, I saw, about 100m ahead of me in the road, a couple lazily pedaling along on heavy looking cruiser bikes. I gave a friendly whistle and they turned, noticing the five of us bearing down on them from behind. Being gracious park-goers, they attempted to move to the left to allow us to pass on their right, which unfortunately is the wrong side for passing. Since I was already well to their left I called out, "on your left!" which caused the lady to wobble a bit and frantically veer to the right (well out of our way, mind you).
At this point the dickhead sucking my wheel decided to verbally abuse the poor woman who was only trying to be friendly and lend us some road space. I can't remember word-for-word, but I think his curt tirade went something like this: "GAWDDAMMIT! STRAIGHT LINE! AWWW JEEEEZ! FUCKIN BITCH!"
The reason I'm relating this unpleasant experience here is that it typifies precisely what happens every time I happen to be deeply interested in a given sport, hobby, profession, etc...
When I was a skater in my more youthful years, this same shit happened. Invariably I'd go to Southside Skatepark or the local spot, and there'd be a bunch of archetypal skate-rats fucking up a good time for everybody by living up to our negative stereotypes of malfeasance and anarchy.
When I decided to pursue the trade of architectural design, I likewise found that If my colleagues weren't metrosexual, sophomoric, orange-shoe-wearing, ninnies; they were likely to be of the bribe giving/taking, hooker-employing, government-bureau-cheating, architect-way. (that's right, I just called you out)
Now having to deal with this crap in cycling, I'm getting fed the fuck up.
Fortunately I'm not alone, someone called Steevo recently cobbled together this humorous tete-a-tete between two hipsters looking to break into the cyclocross scene with their haughty sense of entitlement and fixed gear bicycles:
This reminds me of another alarming subcultural phenomena, hipsters ultimately destroying other esoteric activities like cyclocross.
Though I take solace in the fact that where I want to go in cycling is where hipsters are unwittingly coming from; namely, track racing. I guess actually using an object or tool for it's intended purpose is against the hipster code of ironic conduct, so I can feel confident that they will be delightfully absent from the velodrome come springtime (fingers and toes crossed, I don't wanna be lumped in with anyone anymore, least of all noobs or freds, even though technically I am one).
Hopefully these territorial conflicts will be resolved more civilly than are rear end real estate disputes on the subway.
Speaking of track cycling (and of sitting around waiting to be accosted), I was delighted in the past few days to see that "TC" over at Fyxomatosis posted some sweet pics of the UCI Track Cycling World Cup in Melbourne, just at the time when my patience for roadies was wearing to it's thinnest yet.
If you're like me, and require your computer's desktop-way (which one never really sees any-way) to be cool and ever-changing, these two images are in super large format for just such a purpose. Check out the rest of the eye candy here, here, and here.
At any rate, it seems as though the anniversary of my birth is a mere seven days away, so if you feel compelled to congratulate me on being that much closer to death, please e-mail me directly or send a self addressed and stamped deep-fried turkey (ironically, deep-fried turkeys have a longer lead-time than 14,000 cubic feet of concrete, so good luck).
Until next time friends, steer clear of the zealots.
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