But aren’t I a cyclist too? Simply put, no, I am not. I just ride a bicycle. What’s the difference? Well, let’s just say sometimes the difference in question grows stark and vivid.
That’s what happened today when a dummy cyclist almost ran over my dog as we waited for the bus at the edge of a bike lane. Yes, technically we were breaking the rules, or the law, if you want to be a formalist pussy about it, but that’s only because I had no idea the lane lane was populated by cunts.
Here’s the thing: Rules don’t mean you stop using your brain or your eyes or, hell, your heart. But no, here is that motherfucker on his fancy-ass mountain bike, wheezing down the lane like there’s no tomorrow. And he’s so sure of himself, he rings his stupid-ass bell at me, or at my dog who, again, almost got his back mauled by that fuck. The ring comes when I can do absolutely nothing but stare like a deer in the headlights.
So here he is, ring ring ringing inches from the poor dog’s ears. You see, he will ring but he won’t slow down. He’s not even thinking about slowing down. Like, not even if a blind, deaf granny on one of them walkers crawls in front of him to get to the bus stop will he pull on those fucking brakes.
Why not? Because he is in the right. He has the law on his side. Which to his stinking ass means he can break the backs of dogs with his tires. And why? Cause he is a fucking cyclist on a fancy mountain bike, in his stupid shades and helmet with a camera on it and all the useless Spandex his ass could stretch across itself. And he is on his fucking bike lane. It’s his lane, man. It’s his lane.
You don’t fuck with a cyclist on a bike lane. You can fuck with me when I am on a lane — I will notice you, I will slow down for you, I will mind that you are not hurt even if you piss me off by stepping on the lane every once in a while.
Why won’t I run over your ass? Because I am not a cyclist. I just ride a bike. Now you get it?
If I ever become a cyclist, find me and shoot me dead. I will deserve it, because I will have become part of a caste, a class of pricks. And that’s just a few dozen steps too far. Cyclists are a class makeover, you see: asshole drivers deprived of an engine but still out to be dicks. No relief there if you’re gonna get your back broken anyway.
The bicycle is a nice, decent means of transportation, people, not a means of being a cunt. Well, apparently on this one I am wrong, because here are these cocksuckers thinking, in their shameless, wheezing self-righteousness, that they are someone too special to even look around. No, they got business somewhere, whoosh. Fuck’em.