Why are guys in fancy bicycle outfits such pugnacious bullies? They zoom toward you like suicide bombers at 90 mph in the wrong lane with big, cheesy grins just because they can, because nobody gives tickets to belligerent thugs for moving violations on bikes.
Wearing brightly colored racing silks does not make you a Kentucky Derby jockey. It doesn't mean that you were in the Tour de France, and it certainly does not mean that you are Lance Armstrong or
It means you're an aggressive asshole.
My husband, Flip, had the grand idea of riding our bikes across the Golden Gate Bridge today. The sun was shining and the scenery undeniably world-class. Except for the fetchingly clad bike jockeys and hurricane force winds that tried hard to blow or scare me off my bike. My ears hurt as they have not since I lived in places where I had to scrape ice off my windshield every morning. I can't imagine jumping off that bridge even if I wanted to die because I HATE being cold. I would have to find some gentler way to go. Suicide for wusses.
As I rode abreast of Flip at one point, I yelled, "Just so you know, I'm not sending you loving thoughts right now." He grinned back. He can be astoundingly deaf at times. I think it's called "selective earshot."
We're back at home, I'm sniffling and grouchy, and somebody's gonna pay. Guess who that will be?
