Ride dawg, ride!

I was riding home from work the other day when I caught up with one of those macho young thugs who feel that their manhood is threatened if someone passes them while they’re riding a bicycle.

This guy was a textbook case: Dressed like an Eminem wannabe; no helmet; cheap, squeaky, ill-fitting bike with a rear wheel that wobbled like an epileptic trout; and horrified by the thought of looking gay if he allowed someone to pass him—especially some pansy-ass old man with a nerdy commuter bike and too much gray in his beard.

I didn’t mean to bother him. Seriously. I just couldn’t help catching up to him, because I don’t smoke three packs a day and I don’t ride a piece of shit that’s way past its Costco prime.

So he glanced over his shoulder and saw me gaining on him. His jeans-covered legs and oversized sneakers starting spinning like a cartoon character who has just run off a cliff and is trying to run back to it before gravity kicks in.

I couldn’t help myself. I held the gap steady for a few hundred yards before letting him get away a little bit. Then I closed it until he resumed acting like a meth-crazed ferret.

Then I did it all over again.

Four times.

Maybe I need professional help or something. It was too freakin’ fun to describe.

It was like teasing a really stupid cat with a piece of yarn.