Bike Season

A beautiful Spring day draws out the cyclists.  As I cruise through town in my rolling dumpster, I watch riders emerge from backyard sheds and cellars with their bikes. The first cyclists out are the serious types, the ones who hover-balance at stoplights. On their feet are tricked-out shoes that click into stubs where pedals should be. The riders sport yellow jerseys and tight shorts. People say that dog owners and dogs often resemble one another. Well, the same goes for cyclists and their bikes. With their cool Euro logos and slender frames, it’s hard to tell man from machine, or to resist hoisting them over your head.

By contrast, it’s easy to resist hoisting up another type of cyclist. No need to wait for Spring, he and his buds are out year-round. In the Tour de France, they’re called Team DUI. Actually, they’re called that everywhere. You know the ones..the guys with no helmets, chain-chomped pant cuffs, and Sealtest crates carrying their stuff. Bob Roll is their leader. As part of their rigorous training regimen, they regularly hump-it down sidewalk curbs in order to run red lights. Sometimes the heavy thud of the back wheel launches a treasure out of the crate…a sock, a pretzel, a toddler. If they notice, they’ll yell “Hey!” and keep going.

Now don’t hate on the Coconut Girl for speaking the truth. I’m all about sharing the road. I didn’t even own a car until I was thirty. I’m allowed to make these observations because I’m one of you. (Or I should say “them,” if you’re not one of us.) As with most areas in my life, when it comes to cycling, I’m a monstrous hybrid of two extremes. I embrace both butt-hugger shorts, and the racked back wheel. The Specialized water bottle, and the squealing brakes.

Wherever riders fall on the cycling spectrum, they face the same friends and foes. Wait, are there truly any friends to cyclists? Respectful drivers are rare, and even in bike stores, the shaved employees make you feel like a chump. “So…just the reflective cuff strap, then?”  Cyclists most definitely share foes: the pothole, the trolley track, the car door, the wet stripe up the back of the pants, the rabid dog. Then there are the insults. “Whore!!!!” a guy yelled at me once as he passed me in his pickup truck. Must have been my suggestive sweat pants. My husband, who also rides, once had a quarter thrown in his face by a motorist. In college, a clever prankster came upon my parked bike and bejeweled the seat with a slice of cheese pizza. Face-down.

It’s all right, though. As long as there are warm days and sobriety checkpoints, cyclists will endure. While I shuttle my kids from school to sports practices in our station wagon, I’ll keep my quarters and pizza to myself. Before I know it, the kids will be driving, and I’ll be back in the saddle again.