The simple reason for this seems to be my incredible, cutting edge super bike, which is a pedelec. This means it has an electric motor that gives me a boost uphill when my ageing 43 year old body needs it, especially when I can be carrying over 20kg extra weight in my awesome Bikebin panniers.
I have almost lost count of the times lycra clad psyhcolists have screamed "cheat!", "you know that's cheating, don't you?", "you're on a lazy bike, you lazy c**t!" at me as I have whizzed past them. They seem to be under the misapprehension that I give a shit about them, and that I am only there because they are, whilst in reality I am just trying to go home from work.
Once I had a very mental run in with someone who's machismo was way off the scale. I was happily minding my own business, pedalling away like the madman I am, going up Prior Park Road in Bath. This is a long, steep, picturesque climb of over a mile. About half way up I drew up behind a rather out of shape looking man on one of those fold-up bikes with teeny weeny wheels. The rush hour persons in cars were roaring past us, so I couldn't overtake him, but strangely he started to speed up, his wobbly legs moving in a crazy blur. Oh well, I though, he's just trying to get a move on and not hold me up, how considerate. I just stayed behind him, trying to look for somewhere else to look other than his jiggly arse.
When we were nearing the top he suddenly slowed, and as it was safe to overtake, I sped up to carry on my merry way. As I came along side of him he turned to me and said something that would have filled me with horror, fear and despair if it hadn't been so stupid.
"I'm...not...racing...you...any...more" he wheezed. His face was the brightest shade of purple I have ever seen on a humanoid. Veins stood out on his twisted face like shiny blue snakes in a ugly swamp. Puffy and sweaty, looking like a angry baby tomato, his fiery eyes focused on my bike.
"Oh...you've...got...a...motor, you...cheat!" he puffed with all the venom his swollen head could manage. I stayed silent, it's best just to let these macho psychos just blow it all out of their moronic faces.
Then he said something which I couldn't help bursting out laughing in his bulging, blubbery, slimy face
"I...am...my...own...motor" the swollen one spluttered. I am my own motor? What in Zeus' name does that effin' mean? If he was his own motor, he was one motor that definitely needed to have a large cooling fan, some seats, four wheels, an exhaust, a steering wheel and go-faster stripes attached. His head looked like a giant shiny purple bell end, and I wasn't about to hang around as he shot his anger stuff all over my face.
I'd had enough and zoomed off up the hill.
About five minutes later, when I was pootling along the flat plateau at the top of the hill, minding my own business, thinking thoughts that only I can think and going past Ralph Allen school, the same purple machopath shot past me at an incredible speed. He blurted something unintelligible (probably something unkind about how I was a rubbish person or something), cut across traffic coming in the opposite direction and turned off into the sports centre, presumably to further prove his manliness by getting sweaty with another man by whacking their balls about.
Still, he sure showed me who was the better man.
Oddly enough, I have NEVER had anything other than cheery "Hello!"s and "oooo, tough hill!" from female persons on bicycles. I wonder why that is?
 |
| These guys need to grow up. |
