Well, Pete Morin blogging about bicycles is funny. Hilarious, actually. Check out a recent post on his blog.
I live on a winding country road near the seacoast. It must be listed on every roadmap in the fanny pack of that rabid recreational sports enthusiast: The Bicyclist.
This is not a diatribe about sharing the road with bicycles. I am happy to share any roadway (generously, as some are personal injury lawyers) with them, don’t get me wrong. My gripe lies elsewhere.
Bicyclists seldom ride alone. They ride in groups, and they are a gabby lot. As pods of spinners travel through my slumbering neighborhood, they engage loud conversation. Legs pumping away, blood coursing through their muscles, ears ringing with the exhilaration of their aerobic rush, they converse like they’re talking to a date at a rock concert.
When I fretted about this at a neighborhood barbecue, one of my neighbors dismissed me: “They come and go in a flash, what are you complaining about?” Easy for her; she lives a quarter mile from the road.
I am complaining about exactly that – they do come and go.
If I am to be awakened against my will at 5:00 am on a Saturday morning, I want the opportunity to scream the expletive of my choice at the perpetrator. Ask my next-door neighbor. He tried power washing his house at 8:00 am on the morning of a National holiday. Over racket of his gas-powered air compressor, I was able to sneak right up and screamed in his ear. Very fulfilling experience.
But the darting and elusive bicyclist is gone before I have completely awakened. If I could return to my slumber, things wouldn’t be so bad. But when your in a dream state and your mind registers only the words “…my sister-in-law’s bathing suit…” what do you do?
You ruminate. Did his wife catch him wearing his sister-in-law’s bathing suit? Was he making fun of his fellow rider’s striped attire? Has his wife had some recent success in weight loss? By the time I have exhausted all possibilities, it is 7:15 and anyone in my way is to be pitied.
Between the bicyclists and my neighbor, I think I’ll just have to power wash the bottom of my driveway every Saturday morning.
Original item written by Pete Morin, “A writer of fiction, short and long. A writer of music lyrics. A player of the blues guitar.”