Cyclists are jerks

Every so often I do enjoy a break from my solid gold throne, surrounded by beautiful women cosplaying as Tolkein elves while feeding me chocolate fondue, to go to classes. Living off campus this year has presented me with a difficult prospect: how do I get to school? It was so easy living on campus the last two years, where I could wake up 20 minutes before my class started, cleanse myself, and then march like a zombie toward the campus core, sleepwalking with my eyes rolled back into my head, giving me the appearance of Storm conjuring a hurricane.

This is no longer an option. It now takes me precious time to get to class, and for that I have chosen the bicycle as my vehicle of choice. For those of you who are unfamiliar, the bicycle was invented by Socrates when he needed a faster way to get to the radio station to record his AM Radio talk show with Dr. Laura Schlessinger back during the Salem Witch Trials. Ever since then, many people call the traditional bicycle the “Sophistomobile.” But I still call it a bicycle.

Anyway, I was cautious about becoming a cyclist as I was worried about who I would become…because most cyclists are jerks. Serious cyclists always wear that tight spandex in the most blatant show of vanity present in today’s society. I already know you have incredible calves and butts; you don’t need to rub it in my face (please don’t rub it in my face).

There is also the dilemma of wearing a helmet while I bike. While I don’t legally have to wear a helmet, the idea of an open casket at my funeral is a pleasing one (I want people to remember how I died more than how I lived). But so far I’ve only seen three other people wearing helmets on their way to classes. Seriously, I really want these pompous jerks to think I’m cool, but it’s impossible to be cool when a helmet is so square (NOTE: If your helmet is square, it’s not very aerodynamic).

Also, do I bike in the bike lane for bike people on bikes? Or should I bike in the car lane for car people in cars? It’s a troubling dilemma, one which society has a hard time answering. I mean, I’m on a bike, it’s not my responsibility to be aware of the position of vehicles many times more heavy and vastly more deadly than mine. That sounds much more like an issue for our government to figure out. Next time a Democrat is in office, I’ll start a petition for another pointlessly specific bureaucratic organization to handle this single particular issue. Lazy political process.

But back to the cyclists-are-jerks thing. They’re jerks because, if you bike with common sense (that is, wearing appropriate clothing in public, using a helmet, and restricting biking to the permitted bike lanes or sidewalks when a bike lane is unavailable), other cyclists look at you like you have Hitler’s portrait tattooed on your forehead. In my opinion, I believe when college students get injured or worse from not wearing a helmet or biking in the middle of the road, it’s not a tragedy, it’s karma.

It’s not just my fellow cyclists that hate my bikestyle choices, it’s the entire community (excluding mothers of young children, though they just hate me because I’m male and am unbelievably good-looking). People in Phallus Insecurity Trucks (probably fraternity guys) blare their horns at me as they speed past me on the roads and once these freshmen who were walking from Stoner’s Den, dah, I mean Stenner Glen to a party off campus one Thursday evening drunkenly vocalized their objections to my using a strobe light on my handlebars. Instead of confronting him like a man, I rode my bike home, wept, and listened to Snow Patrol until I fell asleep. They’re soooo talented.

I suppose that joining the cyclist society is like doing cocaine for the first time. You’re in the company of false friends, doing something that’s not necessary, but you develop no other alternative to it over time. I could walk to school, but I’ve grown accustomed to the quickness of the bicycle and I have adjusted my entire morning routine to my bike ride to school. And like a cokehead develops a psychological relationship with the drug, I have grown attached to the smooth coolness of the frame, the reassuring softness of the seat, and sometimes when I listen really close, the squeaking of the brakes say things to me.

Maybe that’s a sign I should stop doing cocaine before I bike to school.