I Will Mow You Down!
Let’s get one thing perfectly clear. I will say this as politely as I possibly can: on your left.
Now get the hell out of my way. You and the rest of your chatty jogging group—excuse me, running group—all of you clogging up the roads around the lake, you need to die. Okay, okay. I’m exaggerating for comedic effect. I don’t really mean that. I don’t want you to die. Maybe just career-ending shin splints would suffice.
What? You want to know my specific beef and where I get off talking like this? Fine. I’ll explain.
First of all, you know that part of the trail on the east side of the lake, the spot near Sunset Bay, the place where you ignore the foot trail and instead choose to run on the road? The road where I, Spandex-clad, chain recently cleaned, am trying to maintain my 20-mph pace while you and your pals are running four abreast so you can talk about the latest episode of Girls or whatever while you exercise? Yeah, that’s a problem. Because again: on your left.
Listen. You slow-moving runner people need to get on the same page. Are you going to run on the right side of the road, with traffic, or on the left side, against it? And what’s the story with you folks who insist on running down the middle of the road? Is that because your delicate ankles can’t possibly tolerate the curved crown on the road? Really? Imagine how that looks from my handlebars. I’ve got people running with me, people running against me, and people running both directions down the middle of the road. You clowns.
I think you’ll see, if you’d open your eyes for one second and pay just a smidge of attention to your surroundings, that we cyclists have pretty much gotten our business together and all agreed to ride with traffic, as God intended. Have you ever read the Bible?
ON! YOUR! LEFT!
I don’t have the space to get into the worst of your lot, the ones who run at night without wearing lights and the ones who make sudden turns toward water fountains without looking over their shoulders, practically begging me to mow them down despite what it would do to my stats in MapMyRide. So let’s leave it at this: I will do my best not to kill you if you’ll stay home and watch TV. Thank you.
You Look Terrible in Spandex!
Well done on the midlife crisis. Riding around on a $10,000 bike while wearing a-tad-too-tight neon clothing is a way better choice than a car. Or a girlfriend.
About that neon clothing: I know that yellow jersey seems so shiny and bright, like a beacon visible at all times and in all conditions. It’s not. You can’t use that yellow jersey in place of a light, for example, on a cold, dark January morning. Get a proper light for your precious bike. You’re presumably in your 40s. Men that age love gadgetry.
It’s worth mentioning that when I say a “proper” light, I don’t mean one that blinds anyone with the misfortune to be running your way. Putting on the high-beam laser light show is almost as dangerous as having no lights at all.
I know you hate when our little running gangs clog the roads around White Rock. Sometimes we get excited talking about dorky things like PRs, MPs, heart rate zones, and The Bachelor, and we aren’t as diligent as we should be about running in a tight pack. I’ll own that. Sorry for the inconvenience. Guess what? We hate running at White Rock because of you. Many of us avoid that local treasure at all costs because we value our lives. When you use the paths around the lake (or, worse, the Katy Trail) to go faster than you’ve ever gone before, you’ve transcended jerkhood and become a homicidal maniac.
But let’s talk about the jerk thing for a minute. When you do choose to say “on your left,” I really appreciate it. And let’s not pretend that you say it all the time, because you do not. But you should. When you do, guess what I say back? “Thank you.” It’s called courtesy. When I say “good morning” to you, you could say it back.
News flash: your patron saint, Lance Armstrong, is terrible. It’s official. Just like you no longer have to wear that ridiculous yellow bracelet to participate in your sport, you don’t have to be an ass. (We should all still support Livestrong, though, because it’s not their fault that Lance is so terrible.)
I apologize that I’m burning more calories than you are. I’m sorry that my friends and I are having more fun than you while we work on our fitness. But most of all, I’m sorry about your clothes.