The Lycra Horde

A man with all the powers of Hell at his command. He could turn the day into night and lay to waste everything in his path. He was especially hard on little things-the helpless and the gentle creatures. He left a scorched earth in his wake befouling even the sweet desert breeze that whipped across his brow. I didn't know where he came from or why.  -- H.I. McDunnough, Describing the Keystone Trail during WNW.

Lycra.  That's what I've always called it anyway.  I guess technically the general public is correct and I am not.  All the non-cyclists I know call it "spandex."

Spandex is the generic term whereas "Lycra" is a brand name or something.  Kind of like "Roller Blades" vs "inline skates" or "Thermos" vs "vacuum flask"

But if you went to Target and said, "Where are the vacuum flasks?" they'd surely point you to the carpet cleaning stuff.

But Spandex.  When I hear somebody call bib shorts "Spandex,"  I always think of some non specific glam rocker from the 70's, jumping around, doing the splits, spinning the microphone stand, etc.  Or maybe Stryper.  Yeah - I think of Stryper when I hear the word Spandex.

We didn't know what Jesus would do so we came up with this

So I prefer Lycra.  We are The Lycra Horde!  Hoo-ah!

A few minutes before the appointed time (6 PM sharp), the warriors assemble.  They seem an easy-going sort.  But it's a facade.  There are a few jokes and conversational comments going around.  There are failed attempts at levity.

Most of the riders remain silent.  Dark glasses conceal the singular gaze of each man.  Grim faced. Tight lipped. Waiting.  Until the ride begins, there is nothing but mental preparation.

Several riders distract themselves with unnecessary last minute equipment adjustments.  There is an unmistakable scent of ozone from all the electricity in the air.  At first, some of the older riders try to blame Munson until they remember that he's locked deep in the bowels of the Trek Store's hidden chambers.  So great his fall, he's now relegated to the role of "Cat 2 Wrench."

The men must not dwell on Munson's utter failure.  Focus is the key to successful conquest.  The upcoming assault will require all the skill each rider can muster.  When you are terrorizing joggers, children, and dogs, you must be on your game.  These puny trail users are an unpredictable lot.  The goal is to remain upright upon your steed as your prey take cover.  A moment's inattention can spell doom for you and the entire band of bastards you call "brother".

At exactly 6:04 and 36 seconds, Shimonek Khan takes one last look around.  Not everyone is there, but we cannot be forestalled.  He shrugs and drops the flag.

"I guess the rest of them had to get their toes done!"  he mocks to the delight of the horde.  We all give a hearty laugh that is more tension release than sense of humor.  The assault begins now.

For the next few miles, from roughly Nebraska Furniture Mart to Democracy Park near Fort Street, we will reign supreme on the narrow multi-use path.  We are The Lycra Horde! Hoo-ah!  But of course, I mentioned that already, so ...

As we charge down the path, kicking up a cloud of dust thick enough to block out the sun and bring darkness upon the land, I look at my brothers and laugh at all who flee to avoid the wrath of our bicycle tires!  I'm positively giddy about it.

It is a nice night, so traffic on the trail is heavy with joggers, young families and their pets out for a nice walk.  Little children learning to ride their shiny new bike they got last Christmas.

The Lycra horde descends mercilessly upon them all.

Many see this work as evil, but we know better.  We are on a mission from God.  Like Moses's pet locusts, we were sent to cleanse the trail of comfort bikers and their ridiculous clip-on aerobars.

... I will bring cyclists onto your path tomorrow. They will cover the trail so that it cannot be seen. They will devour what little you have left, including every toddler that rests in a Burley. They will roll right over your dogs, your wife, your kine, and ass(literally) — something neither your fathers nor your forefathers have ever seen from the day they settled in this land till now. Also, I'll send them next Wednesday, too, because that's the sort of stuff I do -- Exe. 10, Plague of Lycra, paraphrased version.

As a young girl trying to avoid us rolls her pretty princess bike off the trail and into creek below, I toss a skin of airag to The Khan.  He roars his approval and shows his teeth in a maniacal grin.  He throws his head back and takes great swallows of the fermented mare's milk.

We love nothing more than the conquest.  It is the only time we are alive.

Earlier this year, our numbers dwindled to the point we could hardly scare the occasional bunny rabbit.  But now with the beautiful weather --  WE. ARE. UNSTOPPABLE!

As a new warrior to the horde, I typically find myself in the last rank.  This is not all bad.  From this vantage point, I witness first hand, the destruction wrought by my brothers.

Usually, it's a grouchy look from an enemy cyclist who has been forced onto the grass. Sometimes, the vanquished rewards me with his verbal assessment of our clan.  Usually, it's "Jerk!"  Sometimes "Jackass!" and every once in a while, my favorite, "Really?!?"

"On your left!"  I'll reply, knowing full well the time for "On your left" is long past.  Hoo-ah!

In conclusion:  maybe we should spread it out a little while we're on the trail, eh guys?  What do you say?  No?  Ok.  I'll continue in the last row then.