by HMICHAEL | Jul 21, 2014 | Athletic Culture, Sports & Fitness |
Used to be I was happy to take a walk along a path away from cars and smelly, noisy, dangerous street traffic. Nowadays? Not so much.
I’ve written here about deranged drivers of cars and trucks on the roads and highways. Now its time to draw a comparison to other kinds of drivers. Specifically, people on bikes, bicycles. Or, as those who must observe the new stylish market-centric vernacular refer to, cyclists.
Cyclists are not all the same. In fact, barring the altogether separately cultured, and commercially tooled bike messenger, there are really two fairly distinct groups of cyclists. Those who ride for fun, recreation, and leisure, and those who ride for fitness and/or competition. Its this second group I have a beef with. Those who ride road bikes.
Ever since Lance Armstrong, the Tour De France, and the oh-so-exploitive marketing forces behind the ever lighter, ever aerodynamically conceived, ever inflated priced road bikes came together in a synergistic harmony, cycling athletes in this country have been consumed in the spirit and flesh of cycling OCD.
Ok, that’s fine. Whatever you need to lose yourself in. Just don’t hurt anybody. Right? WRONG!
I don’t know what part of the mind is responsible for it, but the behavior of road bikers in my area (Hamden and New Haven, CT), seem to be missing a component of safety best practice that any (ok. most.) car driver would have instinctively. The part of the brain that tells people in front of them, they are coming up besides them and will be passing. Yes, its easier in a car because the assumption is that the driver in front has a rear view mirror they use. But, with a pedestrian, or another cyclist, there is never a rear view mirror. And, btw, nor should there be! The onus on bikers and walkers, is on the one behind. Not the one in front. Therefore, the best practice, the safe practice is to call out “On your left!”, “Left side!” and so on.
Admittedly, this image is unrelated context, but the sentiment of many cyclists, is that anyone not of their breed is in their way, and WE need to yield to THEM. The definition of arrogance.
They are consumed and focused on asphalt, concrete, gear shifting, weight distribution, how they look in their pompous outfits, status driven helmet and shoe choices, and whatever else they can’t bear to tear themselves away from to alert those in front they are coming up behind. For lack of another explanation as to why they ignore common courtesy towards others on the bike and jogging paths, they seem to act as if they are better than others who don’t belong to the same religion as they do. Shelling out thousands of dollars on equipment and clothing to mimic the real professionals who race as a lifelong career. They seem to act like they should have the priority. That it is everyone else who should yield to them. Everyone else that should be looking back constantly over their shoulders because there will be no warning when they come up behind you six inches away from catastrophe.
Effeminate, testicularly challenged clowns.
Any and all cyclist associations and bike clubs have rules of the road printed out for their members. They are often printed on signs at trail heads and along the way. The common courtesy of hailing from behind, is well ingrained in the book of good behavior. Unfortunately, most of the cyclists who need to do it the most, don’t. They are an embarrassing, selfish, arrogant bunch of goofballs. They are a scourge on peaceful walks, relaxing bike rides, and completely upset the karmic balance of nature. Yeccch!
A scourge in helmets and spandex on the countryside.
Here are some sympathizing links:
http://www.rockymountainnews.com/news/2008/jun/19/most-fellow-cyclists-rude-arrogant-jerks/
http://theselfhatingcyclist.wordpress.com/tag/wankers/
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/chat/2033728/posts
by HMICHAEL | Jun 6, 2014 | Athletic Culture, Sports & Fitness |
Are you tired of reading anti-exercise philosophy articles? Here’s an anti-anti-exercise philosophy article.
I’ve written here before about my own view on exercise fanaticism. Not that there isn’t enough around elsewhere. I’ve decided that people who flame the type A fitness addicts, have inadvertently encouraged them to increase their compulsive focus on running seven miles a day, riding road bikes till their prostate is crushed, donning the pompous outfits in bizarre idolatry of French athletes, climbing every known precipice, building muscle till it resembles an off road bike path.
As much as I started liking this recent article in the NY Times, I ended up not liking it also. I like it because it drew conclusions that support the idea of an over zealous culture on fitness, athletically, scientifically, and commercially. That’s well worth expounding on, but still, in the end, its a four column 1/2 broadsheet article on the topic. Well, maybe this corks the dam a little. How much more can we talk about this stuff? Don’t answer that.
Read the article>
by HMICHAEL | Jun 1, 2014 | Love and Romance, Words Etc |
So, I tell you this. You tell me that. We meet, share a table, smile, laugh, flirt, go to the movies, say good night, share another table, watch the sunset, kiss, have sex, have breakfast, and presto, we have someone who gives a damn for some indeterminate period of time about our existence. Only…PHONO NEEDLE SCREECH!!! It ‘aint that easy.
I am not quite old enough yet to bury the dream of once again feeling a knowing touch on my tum tum, kisses on my boo boo, and the gaze of adoration into my paralyzed eyes.
(Are they really paralyzed eyes? No. not really. You see, when I stare at the computer too long, my eyes become fixed, stop blinking and tear less. This is triggered by a complex group of factors related to horizontal and vertical axis, dot pitch, aspect ratio, and refresh rate.)
There are a lot of reasons why I wouldn’t have to be here in another life. I would already have you sitting next to me sharing some Bordeaux, stroking the glass with your finger tips. We would already have reminisced about the drive through Ontario and our stay in Algonquin, the walks in Paris, the eating in Tuscany, the hikes in the Canyon, the glaciers in Alaska, the walks in Paris, the cobblestones of Seville, the plains in Africa, the dysentery in Calcutta, the bullets in Kabul, and the hysterical snake pit incident in Bangkok. Or, maybe we forgot about all those places and just holed up in a cheap Amsterdam hotel collaborating on a coffee table photo essay book about…coffee shops.
We would already have discovered the evasive secret of smiles and laughter. That to pursue them too vigorously is to chase a shadow. That they come with the least effort. When they want. With whom they want. Not by accident, nor by study, but, by an open door.
We would already have shared the amazement of how much better life is with the Three Stooges, than without them. We would already be laughing about the time I locked you in a trunk accidentally. The time you dosed my soup with hot sauce or, when you woke me at night with a sheet over your head.
Of course we really have a simple life. Not so much to speak of other than…us. We fall asleep on a grassy hill doing nothing but bearing each other’s weight. We do ordinary things, and feel monotony from time to time. But there’s a difference in how we play it. Somehow, we figured it out.
We would already be driving into the sunset, perhaps in an old car, well past its timing belt replacement. But there we are. On our way to yet another county fair, BBQ, folk town, motel, and plenty of asphalt trance. While listening to music we don’t have to sing along with, and silence we do.
A scrapbook of memories would already be dusty and dog-eared from squished in photos, endless page turning and, more recently because I let it get mixed in with the kindling and a month’s worth of old newspapers. But, that’s okay. Because you forgave me. You stared at me the way you do, and said calmly, “Sweetheart, we have iPhoto.”
I have other scrapbooks. Most are a step away from a lighted match. Not that I am bitter. I keep them stashed in my sister’s attic inside broken cardboard boxes underneath a dusty Persian rug long feasted on by field mice and two mischievous Weimaraners. Once in a great while, I go up there, leaf through them, and say to myself “What the Fuck?!”
I have more to say, but, whatever is left is reserved for that bottle of Bordeaux. By that time, watching you stroke the glass with your fingertips, you will have rendered me speechless anyway.
As an old crack head I once knew said, “Don’t be comin’ round with your stories and promises. I got all I need right here!” Okay, I made that up.
by HMICHAEL | May 29, 2014 | Humor & Amusement, Movies, Video & Documentary |
I know this is stupid, sophomoric and the lowest level of creative sharing, but I gotta put this somewhere, and you guys are the lucky winners.
If you’re an Arnold fan, you’ll laugh. If you’re not, you’ll sit there and probably mumble to yourself. Perhaps in a nagging motherly tone. Something like “Ugh, how immature. Don’t you have something better to do with your time?”
Its clearly got staying power. Still on Youtube. Five years and counting. Attribute it to Arnold. Attribute it to the Crank Call. They both live on.
