For anyone who has ever cycled to work
So, you’re working a 9-to-5 job. You live some miles away from your workplace and are contemplating how to commute. You have three choices: you can get a bus, you can drive, or you can fling yourself into the road and wait for your life to be snuffed out by a cunt in a Toyota.
I chose the third option, and I have never looked back. Mainly because it would scare the shit out of me.
Don’t get me wrong: there are a lot of hidden benefits to being a cyclist.
For one, there are special national festivals that only cyclists know about, such as Get In My Fucking Way Day, Open Your Door Right In My Goddamned Face Week, and the Dickhead Bus Jam Jamboree.
Secondly, there are no more dreary, identical commutes for you, since every day brings a new and exciting way for your bike to go wrong. Getting bored with that constant unidentifiable scraping? No worries, because tomorrow your whole wheel will fall off! Sick of fretting about the brake pads wearing murderously low? Not a problem, because your pedal is about to work loose in the middle of the road, causing you to caroom screaming left and right until you slam into a stationary car and fly right over the handlebars, hurtling across the pavement and coming to rest on top of three grandmothers and a dog. But it’s ok, because you are Saving Money.
On the upside, you are wearing a really sweet hat.
That’s the mantra of the cyclist. Every time something degrading happens to him at the hands of a motorist, he calms himself with the Zen-like repetition of the holy phrases “I’m saving money I’m saving money” and “I’m getting fit I’m getting fit“. But both ring hollow when the aforementioned Toyota Flange Chasm suddenly cuts right in front of you, forcing you to veer straight into the lane of oncoming traffic.
At times like this, one has to prioritise, and bladder control is not on the top of the list. If by some miracle you do avoid becoming a fleshy verge decoration, you then wobble pathetically off, Catherine-Wheeling a steady spray of urine from your back tyre as you run through all the insults you’d love to hurl at that Toyota-driving bastard if he wasn’t already half a mile away, whistling merrily to himself.
And then it rains.
By my life, sir! You cycle like a satchel full of piss!
There has never been a poem written that can adequately express the misery of cycling through the rain.
For starters, raincoats are virtually useless, since you’ll get clammier than a fat man in a Turkish brothel unless you’ve spent a fortune on something breathable. But if you had that kind of money, you’d be taking the sodding bus anyway. So you’re faced with getting soaked either by your own sweat or by God’s hilarious effluence.
Regardless, the road is quickly becoming a puddle-strewn mire which clings at your tyres like a recently ran-over cat, slowing you down to Crying Pace as the rain filters through the holes in your crash helmet, partially blinding you; a job which is completed by your first venture through a roadside puddle stirred up to a muddy foam by a hundred passing cars. One sploosh later, and your entire body is spunked with mud from head to toe. “GET A MUDGUARD!” yells the smug pro-cyclist as he shoots past on what looks like two gossamer hula hoops bound together with lace. Well, you’ve got a rear mudguard, but this hasn’t stopped your arse getting so wet that ferry lines are commuting between your crack and your junk. “This is CRAP”, you shout at the deluge. “This is BOLLOCKS.”
But don’t give up, young Cyclist, because at the end of all this misery lies a glittering reward. The reward of arriving at work.
It looks like the kid is injured, but actually he is just lazy.
Is it any wonder, given all this, that cyclists tend to bend the rules a bit? Dodge and weave when perhaps it’s not totally appropriate, or blast through lights that are not entirely green? I know I am guilty of this. I dash into the narrowest of gaps, causing multiple near-death experiences while simultaneously berating the irresponsible drivers who turn our roads into death traps. We’ll take any advantage we can get, you see, because cyclists are the Untermenschen of the roads. We’re the tiny mammals skittering between the legs of dinosaurs, and in the battle between Cyclist and Car, there can be only two losers: you, and the poor bastard who has to scrape your testicles off the tarmac.
How did the flying bike not already win this race?
It’s not always this bad, of course. Some days, cycling is a joy.
With a blue sky and the wind at your back, it is bliss to sashay gaily through a traffic jam, casually flipping off the stationary vehicles and humming a happy tune. The birds are tweeting, your leg muscles are writhing like weasels in a sack, and there’s nothing between you and infinity except for a few other cyclists.
Ah, but there’s the rub. It seems that every cyclist other than you is a habitual drug-user who shoots up just before taking to the road, because half of them are catatonic sloths, clumping together as if they’re in some kind of Thorazine Marathon, and the other half find it pressingly vital to tear-arse past you while you’re already cycling at maximum speed, causing you to emit a terrified “GYAAAAH” and swallow a bumblebee.
The Great Vacuum-Maw gloats in triumph. Once again, his pretty lures have found him dinner.
Oh, and let’s not forget the connoisseur’s selection of thrilling injuries you can collect.
Now, before you start, I’ve read all the books about stretching. I stretch like a motherfucker. And yet I’ve still managed to acquire Cyclist’s Knees, Cyclist’s Back, Cyclist’s Dick, Cyclist’s Pancreas and a panoply of other agues that make me hobble around like Thora Hird after a witch trial. I’m now at the peak of fitness, and I’ve never felt so shite in my life.
But you know what? After all this, I still love cycling. Nothing can compare to the first whoosh as you sweep out of your house onto an empty road; nor the thrill that grips you at the crest of a hill, as gravity takes the reins and starts pulling you down. It’s just… It’s just that one day, I know I’m going to end up driving that Toyota. Not because I’m going to sell out; no, not even because my knees are about to pop like hedgehogs in a bonfire. No; I will buy a Toyota because of one sad yet inescapable fact: no matter how cheap they are, you simply cannot use a bicycle to kerb-crawl for whores.
Filed under: Fun non-gaming activities
Fourth picture looks like my bike now.
This is actually a funny story:
A few months ago I rode with friend X in some forest. I crashed badly, ruined my left brake handle entirely and bleeding from about 5 place, I made the last 8 KMs.
After I healed and got my bike repaired, I decided it would be smart to go on a trip with the same guy (different forest though). Guess what? I fell, broke the **right** brake handle, the front wheel was busted and I was bleeding from 2 places and we still had 8KMs from any civilized place left.
All in all, I think I’ll get the bike repaired soon.
Like, in this century.
I laughed so hard I weed a little. Many thanks.
No problem. They say laughter heals all wounds, so the next time you hit a pot-hole and jackhammer yourself in the junk with your own saddle, try to remember this moment.
I want to clean my bike but it’s raining. I contemplated just keeping the bike outside, but then it gets rusty and the seat is soggy for a few weeks. If there’s one thing I will not accept, it is arriving at work with a wet and cumbersome rump.
Unfortunately, a degree of rump humidity seems unavoidable. Even on the driest days, the constant contact with the saddle and lack of airflow means that a certain amount of dew accumulates in an area of a gentleman’s anatomy that is not often eulogised. You know the area I mean. It is the clammy hinterland between the buttocks and the Jewels, and it rarely receives adequate ventilation without the risk of arrest.
Such is the millstone of the cyclist.
A non-gaming related article. At first I was horrified. ‘What has he done?’ I asked myself. But this article made me feel good… about my traffic-filled car-bound commute. So thanks. If I see you on the streets I’ll only give you a slight nudge.
Yeah, there really is no link between gaming and cycling, nor any way for me to plausibly fabricate one; what’s more, the only point of this reply is to allow me to brazenly split infinitives while leaving my prepositions dangling somewhere they have no right to.
In my experience, cycling disrupts my routine and makes me feel like a dirty whore. Sometimes in the morning I take a hasty poop and attempt to cramp it into my morning routine, but I do not manage to get an adequate wiping job in. This makes my biking experience painful as it mixes the upwept poopstains in and around my butt, so it turns into an all day job getting the poop out.
“This is CRAP”, you shout at the deluge. “This is BOLLOCKS.”
I love the image of an intrepid cyclist drenched from head to toe, shouting quite inoffensive swears at an uncaring universe.
After a while, the rain weighs you down so much that you can’t even summon the strength to spit out something venomous. The world knows what I think of it, though.
It knows.
What a timely post: I have just come back from a business trip to Cannes, where I had rented a bicycle in order to go from meeting to meeting, after the soles of my feet had developed pockets filled with water from all the walking.
It was a very pleasant experience, and having now come back home, I am seriously studying the possibility of commuting by bike. One main reason is that it is getting ridiculously difficult to find a spot to park, downtown.
Unfortunately, over here cycling in traffic is equivalent to suicide. Not to mention the current unbearable heat, which means I’d get to work all sweaty. For you it’s the rain, for me it’s the unmerciful Sun.
And now this post! food for thought.
[...] For anyone who has ever cycled to work var addthis_pub="girv73"; [...]
I expect you’ll think I must be some sort of sicko, but I don’t really mind the rain. We do get a lot of it here (Northern Ireland) though, so perhaps I’m just used to it.
I’d much rather cycle in the rain than sit on a bus with 70 other damp, smelly people.
This is excellent. Made me do a LOL. Am considering forcing myself to do a made up commute route in he mornings to relive those moments I once experienced as a commuter. I remember the “this is crap”… “this is bollocks” moments. I work from home now, have tried cycling down the stairs but it makes a terrible mess of the carpet. I need an indoors bike.
I’ve commuted in Japan and Germany and it is nowhere near as crap as in UK.
I am now an instant fan of yer blog!
Pretty funny stuff– Cheers! Bruce
Laughing and crying in equal measure
24 mile commute on a three speed once a week.
I was so looking forward to getting back on my bike to ride to work again tomorrow after a month long break. I was even managing to be cheerful about the newly added cleats who will keep my feet firmly attached to the pedals (umm, who thinks that shit up?). But now, oh but now, I’m recalling all the bad things that have happened to me on the bike over the years and I want my mummy!
I just learned so many new words
I cycle – train -cycle commute in cambridge UK.
All I wanted to say is in the eternal struggle for space on hills road the double decker bus always wins (ooowww!!!!)!
Reminds me that I ride my bike to school daily, (its actually faster than driving and finding parking)and I sometimes I have night classes, one night i was riding with no hands, and my little LED headlight isn’t the best at giving good contrast, so obviously I didn’t see the speed-bump until I was mid-air and my crotch was fast approaching the handlebars. Now I’m in severe pain, the handlebar has a good 45 degree bend in it from where I “got contact”, and late to class.
or when it rains, I get a nice racing stripe across my pants, backpack, and neck.
or the fact I’ve been hit by cars 3 times (all women drivers)
or the day that my handlebars decided to not be connected to the front wheels anymore, right when I needed to make a sharp turn. (hint: I ended up about 6 feet into some thick brush)
or other cyclists that try and turn left, without looking or signaling when I’m trying to pass them and yelling “passing on the left!”.
or hipsters on their fixies that don’t know how to stop and promptly rear-end me on stop lights.
or the puncture vine that left me with 79 holes in my brand new inner-tubes when I tried to take a shortcut. (slime can only do so much)
Man I hate cycling…. I think I’ll go for a ride tomorrow..
I tried cycling a few times when I had a job downtown. The ride down in the early morning was fine. Coming home through Montreal downtown traffic, before they put in the cycling lane? Terrifying!
Though I should talk. I’m a scooterist. We wear more protection and have an actual engine under our arses. But rain and psychotic drivers are still dangers. I can tell you stories about riding 100 miles home during a trip to Vermont, through constant rain at 55 mph. Armored jacket or no, you end up smelling like rancid gorgonzola.