One of the oldest debates in bicycling is the issue of waving or saying hello when you meet oncoming riders, and whether it’s rude to brush someone off. I usually acknowledge other riders if they’re looking my way but, most of the time, I don’t take it personally if they stare ahead like a lobotomized goat.
However, there are certain times when it’s piss-poor form to give me the silent treatment. Like when I voluntarily give up the sweet spot in the middle of the trail, and take my fat bike into the soft powder so you can keep your skinny tires on the firm crown. As I churn through a few inches of new snow and say “how ya doin?’” it wouldn’t freakin’ kill ya to give me a nod, say “hi,” “thanks,” or even a simple grunt, if you happen to be miles into the House of Pain.
So that dumbass I met on my way home last night had better be ready to return my act of kindness, because the next time we meet, I’m holding my line. If he wants to play chicken he should bring his A game, because the Pugsley is Large and In Charge. That dude's goin’ down.
Speaking of going down, one of the new curiosities along my commuting route is a couple of people who seem to be meeting for morning and afternoon trysts near my office. Every day, there they are—their cars squeezed together in the darkest corner of a small parking lot, his vehicle temporarily abandoned, her engine running (and I’m not just talking about her SUV with the conveniently tinted windows if ya get my drift) to keep them toasty warm in the steamy glow of their love.
But seriously people, a parking lot? Every day? Often twice? Could you make it any more obvious that this is Lust on the Lam, and there’s probably a wife and/or husband who aren’t supposed to know?
Hey, I like to live and let live, but this is a tough economy and a guy can’t pass up a promising business opportunity. So all I need now is someone who's wondering why the ol’ ball and chain has been leaving early and coming home late on a regular basis for the past couple of weeks.
Sound like anyone you know?
Do they need to know where this promiscuous pair have made their little automotive love nest?
Well, I need a new set of 29er wheels for the Pugsley.
You do the math.