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| Bicycle, Bicycle |  |
Bicycle riding is not just a sport in the Pacific Northwest; it is a lifestyle. It is a lifestyle that is defined by wearing really ugly clothing. Everywhere you look you see the congregation boldly pedaling forth in women’s girdles in colors bold enough to blind a wombat. And for those of you who are curious, wombats are pretty darn difficult to blind. Bicycle riders have even more in common with wombats according to that most reliable of sources, Wikipedia: “The wombat’s primary defense is its toughened rear hide with most of its posterior made of cartilage.” This means something. Mostly it means I am not a bicycle rider. I have a most sensitive heinie (little known fact I just made up: Most Sensitive Heinie is the title of the next rock ballad by Aerosmith) and I have yet to find a bicycle seat more comfortable than my sofa. So the Religious Wombats (favorite hymn of AC/DC groupies everywhere) brashly practice their religion in front of old women and young children not caring a whit about how they look and delighting in sweating on purpose and gathering in large congregations whose main purpose, as far as I can tell, is blocking and interfering with automobile traffic. Their name is Legion for they are many. One sect is the airheads who use their bicycles as transportation to buy crack because I can think of no other reason for their obvious displays of stupidity. Surely, no one can be that big of a moron while sober. They ride sans helmets and hands, talking on cell phones, plugged in to iPods, smoking cigarettes and using the bike lanes only as a last resort. There are the chatters who believe bike rides are the perfect opportunity for conversation and ride four or more riders across while carrying on deep, meaningful discussions such as the cause and treatment of leg cramps (Leg Cramps is the next love song by Metallica) and fully expect automobiles to calmly wait behind their entourage or use the sidewalks. Then, there are the serious road bikers such as my friend, Ron, who I will not embarrass by mentioning here. These devotees will leave their starting point, ride up to 60-70 miles and then return to their starting point. This is considered recreation. In their desire to emulate Lance Armstrong, these hearty souls will not have actual pedals on their bicycles. They strap their feet to the poles that stick out in the fervent hope the additional pull will increase their speed. This actually works until they have to stop at which point they forget their feet are strapped on to poles and when they try to balance themselves at a full stop…they tip. Not that this has actually happened to my friend, Ron. More than once or twice. As far as I know. Another assembly of the faith is the mountain bike riders. Here in Central Oregon, we live on or near the Cascades which are very large mountains, most of which only go up. A teacher at my daughter’s school was on his bike in these same mountains when he ran into a deer. Deer in the woods are about as unusual as sharks in the ocean. It’s really the only place they hang out. But this teacher was so intent on thinking of great rock song titles he became completely oblivious to the woodland creatures and ran smack into Bambi. No worries, PETA; Bambi was fine. He bounded merrily on his way snickering his evil woodland creature laugh while the teacher writhed in agony due to his several broken ribs, one of which had pierced his lung. Boy, doesn’t bike riding sound fun?! But wait; there’s more! Mike, who I would never mention in a humor column because he is my pharmacist and you never want to infuriate the person in charge of your medications, ever, was mountain biking and had a bit of a spill. Now before you gasp in horror just know I am sufficiently versed in the Church of Lance Armstrong that I knew the first correct question to ask Mike upon seeing his injuries. The bike is fine. Whew. Mike went off a rock, which our Cascade Mountains are just chock-full of, and became separated from his bicycle involuntarily. Luckily, the ground broke his fall. However, because he did not have his bicycle he was without any kind of braking apparatus. So, Mike used his face. After 10-20 yards or so, his face worked remarkably well and Mike did eventually come to a complete stop. He stopped so well, his friends thought he was dead. Thankfully, he was not completely dead but there was some damage, apparently in the brain-functioning area, because Mike plans to go mountain biking again. Hallelujah, brethren. You just can’t question true devotion.
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