I got some free Chinese!

This past week has been busy. I have been to underground rock shows with An Doof Ass. Drank Gin and Tonics to the determent of class and grace at a Memorial Day picnic. Gone to all the big indie movies. Had brunch, etc. But of all these events one in particular has had the greatest impact on my personal development: bike riding.

Of course there’s the obvious. For one, I’m way hotter. My already golden olive skin has a vibrant new glow from the increased capillary circulation. Also, my inspired physique is none the worse for wear considering I’ve greatly increased my Type I skeletal muscle fiber mass and even transformation some of my type II B’s into II A’s. But it’s not all random hot babes hitting on me and jealous boyfriends begging me to wear baggy sweatpants instead of my blue spandex with embroidered yellow flames; there are also some minor problems. For one, it has caused some tension around the homestead. Since I no longer eat red meat or engage in the act of chewing since one promotes heart disease and the other unaesthetic tooth-wear and potential stains due to cracked enamel, I’ve demanded only fresh sashimi sole blended into a fine paste with V8 and beet juice. This is has not been received popularly. But fuck it—I’m feeling better than I ever have. My endorphin levels are sky-high and I’ve never enjoyed anything more than my South African crystal facials performed by only the shortest Cambodian widows.

Surprisingly though there is a downside to this new improved lifestyle. While my bike has brought me enhanced beauty it has also forced me to ask myself some tough questions. Now, being an aged philosopher, I’m accustomed to asking question and finding sweet answers that make other people look like jerks, but biking has brought up questions that make it possible to construe me as the lame-ass. For example, “I am now a no good hippy?” or “Why do get scared when you’re going down an incline?” But the real question—the kicker—is: “Why are chick/burger cyclists passing you like you are some kind of pussy?”

Now I’m not a very competitive guy. I’ve spent most of my life being completely pedestrian. My best friend won “most unique” in high school. My brother was the one with GPA and national merit honors. In college, yes, I was the biggest, most famous guy on campus, but that was almost 2 years ago and I’ve come back down from that interstellar orbit to a more refine, comfortable scotch and cigar kind of lifestyle. But that said: I still get pissed as hell when I’m passed on the road by a girl. Nothing else bothers me like this. I’m no racist. I don’t begrudge the Afro-Caribbean’s sexual potency or the Latinos efficiency in tattoos and beating-up drunk roommates. Or, even, the analytical skills of the East Asian or work ethic of the East Indian. I’m cool with all that. But the second a girl on a Peugot zips by me while I’m stuck between two gears on the Murray I get embarrassed.
Yesterday this screwed me pretty good.

The situation: Me happily cruising along in what has become the bike’s default mode of half-in, half-out of gear behind some hippy guy on mountain bike. Everything was cool. The guy looked to be one of the many homeless bike-messengers so his bike sucked like mine and he enjoyed the easy pace. I was cool with this when, out of nowhere, a sleek 21 speed Bianchi blew by us on the uphill portion of Washington and Canal. Stoned as a Scotsman, the hippy didn’t take much notice of this. But through the dust cloud I distinctly made out feminine legs and hair. Worse yet, she wasn’t wearing a bike helmet and I, like some baby 5th grader, was puffing along with my navy blue “Arius” strapped across my braincase. “Screw it” I said to the hippy, ripped my lame ass helmet from my head and began the chase. As if reading my mind, the Murray fully engaged and I was off like some moderately priced Chinese buffet. Sweet, I said to myself as my completely not thinning hair blew in the wind like a great shock of diseased wheat. And indeed I was making up time—only seconds from overtaking her when the light at Washington and Wells changed. Ahead of a bus and Accord were squeezed together, confident in her slow rolling skills the cyclists began the slow coast between the vehicles and appeared unscathed on the other side ready to take off during the first break in traffic. Desperate not to loose her I pursued. Unfortunately I had to revert to the waddle technique as I tiptoed my bike between the two behemoths when it became clear my bike and body could go no further. Thusly wedged I apologized to the Accord’s driver as he opened his window to see if I was in fact scrapping the hell out of his car. Luckily the light changed before much in the way of pleasantries could be exchanged and the bus gave way just enough so I could make my getaway. Unfortunately, the rival was already well on her way.

All that to say: I think I’m going to Wisconsin to eat fish tonight with some Irishmen. It has the potential to be the best time ever.