An Open Letter to You

I’ve now missed 4 Trek Store Wednesday night rides in a row.  I need to get back.  At first, I was concerned about losing fitness.  Would I get slower after missing several weeks of the most intense workout I ever do?  Probably.  But that is no longer my main concern.  No.  I need some humility back.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but the weekly humiliation that is the Trek Store ride is good for my soul.  It’s good for your soul, too. 

I absolutely hate the weekly beating I take.  I hate myself for days after the ride, thinking about what I could have done differently to perform better.  So I work toward trying to achieve better results, the whole time reminding myself how much I suck.

Apparently, I need that.  Because in the absence of those rides, I have become the most egotistical asshole I’ve ever known myself to be (and that’s huge). 

But how is my normal self-loathing good for you?  When I’m busy hating myself, I’m not hating you. 

Maybe I should define who you are.  Because I don’t hate everybody.  I just hate you personally.

You are on the Keystone trail.

and

You are an adult on a bike (not a pedestrian/ not a child).

and

You are not a pet or some other animal.

and

You are not on a road bike.

or

You are on a road bike and I don’t know you (or at least who you are).

or

You have hairy legs.  2 weeks ago, I shaved my legs for the first time ever.  Now I’m like some annoying militant ex-smoker.  “You know those things’ll kill you.  Not the cigarettes.  The hairy legs.”

or

You are participating in or have been dropped from a paceline on the trail.  Seriously?  Dropped from a paceline on the trail?  Just please fucking give up right now, ok?

or

You have ever created a Strava segment on the Keystone or any other non- road. Go to hell.  Immediately.  Maybe there’s a segment called “Huge tool eats shit and dies.”  You’ll KOM for sure

or

You are not wearing a shirt.  I’m sure you looked awesome without a shirt in 1970, but something is different now.  I can’t quite put my finger on it because it’s jiggly, sweaty and gross.  What’s the matter?  Are you afraid your new suspect moles aren’t getting enough vitamin D?

So yeah – if you’re one of the people above, I will hate you at least until I get back on the wonderfully therapeutic Wednesday night ride and get my ass dropped as hard as some of you get dropped by your grey-haired, no shirt, morning-ride paceline buddies on the Keystone.

Funny thing is, I love the Keystone.  I’m thankful for it and the rest of the trails in the area.  They provide a generally safe place for people to go be healthy any number of ways.  These people should be allowed to do this without some asshole cyclist going by at 40²⁴, scaring the shit out of little kids and dogs and things.

Cyclists should know better.  Cars buzz by us too close and too fast all the time.  You might think it’s cool to squeeze by a family of six while a group of bikes approaches, but it’s just stupid. 

I have no problem with hammering it down the trail.  Go as fast as you like.  But slow down for kids, animals and old people.  You can speed back up again when the coast is clear.  You’ll be ok.  And if you’re not willing to slow down because you’re pretty sure you’re going to KOT (King of Trail) whatever flat segment of the sidewalk you happen to be on (you’re probably on a few overlapping ones), then first of all, you are incredibly lame, but mostly, you should veer off of the path and straight into the creek to drown.  Who knows?  Maybe your friends will erect a memorial by the spot where you went down to Davy Jones’ freshwater locker.    Maybe on the arms of the cross, it could read simply, “On your leeeeeefffft.  Splash!”  Whatever happens, you can die safe in the knowledge that you’ve made the world a better place (you know – by leaving it).

I’ll be honest.  This new found loathing for the bike population of the Keystone really wouldn’t have come about at all if it weren’t for three separate incidents on 3 consecutive days.  It all started Monday afternoon …

Monday, during my commute home and before taking Abe (Jack was sick) to DEVO mountain bike training an odd thing happened.

Up near Seymour Smith Park, there’s a bridge on the north side of Harrison that crosses the creek that runs alongside the Keystone.  The bridge has a trail (sidewalk) that is narrow, but wide enough (barely) for 2 skilled cyclists riding in opposite directions simultaneously.  Normally though, if someone is on the bridge, people just wait. 

So Monday, I was about halfway across the bridge when I saw an old guy on a comfort bike riding merrily along up the ramp to the bridge.  He was not at the bridge yet.  He looked confused somehow.  I didn’t think anything of it, but I was watching him to see what he would do.  Then he turned away from the bridge and onto the grass.  Then he sort of did a loop and I thought he was going to get back on the trail and go back the way he came from.  Anyway, ok.  I got off the bridge and skillfully made the sharp turn onto the ramp and toward the trail.  At this point, I still didn’t hate you yet.  I was JRA and the world was calm and at peace.  Oh yeah – there was some fuckin’ bird chirping going on, I can tell you.

The old man was wearing shiny shorts like the type elite distance runners wear and tennis shoes.  He was not at all fit for his age.  He was not having an easy time handling his bike.  He was bald, helmetless and shirtless.

As I went by him, he said “Yeah buddy.  You’re welcome.  Shithead!”

The birds stopped chirping.

Ohhhhh!  That’s what you were doing.  You were somehow trying to get out of my way.  You were upset that I was on the bridge or something.  You were skillfully fumbling around in the grass to avoid a head-on collision on the bridge.

And when I rode by at a safe and conscientious speed, you felt you had earned some sort of “Thank you” for your confusing floundering around in the grass.  When I failed to acknowledge all your efforts, you became upset by my lack of gratitude.

First of all, I know I’m welcome.  I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I decide I want to ride back over to you and slap your silly sweating fat skull, I’m welcome.  What are you going to do?  Fall on me?  You uncoordinated dipshit.  Oh and tie your shoelaces before they get caught in your drive train and you fall over on someone.  “Why is my shoe getting so tighhhhhhhh … AAh! Pedal won’t turn!  Crash!”

I imagine you saw a skinny punk in his fancy getup and thought, “Look at this skinny punk in his fancy getup.  He looks ridiculous.”  And the truth is, maybe I do.  But you know what is without question, more ridiculous?  That’s right.  It’s your stupid fat ass and big bare flabby gut on a comfort bike trying to navigate the perilous grass just off the concrete of the trail.  Did I mention slapping your stupid fat skull?

I was taken by complete surprise by what this person said.  I considered confronting him about it, but had 2 obvious issues with that idea.  First, I was in a hurry.  And secondly, who gives a shit?  After a few moments, I had resigned to let it go.  It was just one of those things.  A crazy person on the trail.  Rare, right?  Right?

Then on Tuesday’s home commute …

So there’s a pretty decent tail wind.  I’m spinning at a cadence of about 115, working on the magnificent stroke, nice and easy like, going around 37²⁴.  I’m approaching a mountain bike (this is on the keystone, remember).  I see that the hair of the rider is completely white.  It is obviously a fit rider.  He is going probably 25-30.

He has mirrors on his handlebars.  When I say “on your left”, I see him check his rear view mirror and here’s what I couldn’t believe.  As I got my front wheel about even with his back wheel, this fucking douchebag starts veering to the left to literally “block” me.  Also, he starts speeding up.

At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on.  Much like Monday, here was some old guy who had some shit in his brain making him an idiot.  My initial momentum carried me even with “fucking demons to work out on the keystone” who was now giving me about 40 cm of road (trail) to get by him.  I accelerated a little to move on by, but he gunned it like he didn’t want me to.  Like we’re now in some sort of drag race/sprint finish thing.  Then I noticed the reason he was trying to push his bike into mine.  He had equipped his bike with blades like the bad guy’s chariot in Ben-Hur.  He was trying to tear out my spokes so he could win the tournament and earn his Roman citizenship and maybe one day, serve on the senate.  

Keystone Trail, Tuesday Afternoon

Ok that part isn’t true.  But this idiot acted like there was something similar on the line.

Later I realized I should have just stopped pedaling at that point and let him move on, but by the time it registered what was happening, I was already going past him.  I was going roughly 43 by the time he was behind me.  Then.  The guy swung behind me as if to draft.  Yes Gary Fisher, I’ll lead you out for the “Cyclists Announce your Presence” sprint.

This time I did say something.  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  I accelerated up to 52, not waiting for an answer.  I looked back and he was struggling all over the road (trail).  I hope he died of a heart attack and his family is sad.  Because he inconvenienced me.  In other words, fuck that guy. 

The bell ringers piss me off too.

Then on Wednesday (swim meet day) and  the reason I am temporarily out of the Furry Wall Ride.  I needed to be at Roanoke Pool by about 5:30.  I did not bike commute that day.  But I was able to ride to the meet and back.  The most convenient route took me back on my old pal the Keystone.  This time to the trailhead near 90^th and Fort.  Just getting on the trail, I was a little nervous.  What extreme douchebaggery would I encounter?  It was unknown.  Especially because I am almost never on the trail north of Dodge Street. The sad thing was that after the last 2 days, I was actually expecting some unnecessary behavior.

Once I got to Democracy Park and onto Fort Street for the next “leg” of my commute to the swim meet, I had the shocking realization that there were no weird events.  Nobody tried to have some sort of misplaced pissing contest.  Nobody called me “shithead.”  I had to admit, it was kind of nice.  Ahhh, that's the old Keystone I know and love.  I rode to the pool, watched the meet and rode back without incident.  I was happy that it is possible (though unlikely) to ride the Keystone without witnessing some sort of asinine behavior.  End of story.  It's all Ok again.  I love everyone again.  I'm so very sorry and embarrassed for my outburst.  Maybe I'm just tired or something.  Is that some chirping of birds I hear ...

Then I uploaded my ride to Strava.

I had 5 accomplishments.  What?  Where?  I never went hard anywhere or anything.  What happened?  

Oh hey.  On the stretch of sidewalk (Keystone) from Dodge to Fort and back there are at least 5 "segments."  

I don’t know who is taking their GPS device, registering with Strava, and creating segments on the Keystone.  Actually, it doesn’t matter who it is.  If you are creating segments on any bike trail, you are a big fucking douche.  It wouldn’t surprise me if it was all these guys I see pacelining on the trail each morning.  Oh my god, I hate you guys so much.  You can forget about that apology a minute ago too.  I forgot that in the Strava world, you don't have to be on the keystone at the same time as someone to be a douche.  You can now extend it to 24-7-365.

24 - Speeds and distances shall be referred to and measured in kilometers.