Post by MattCollister on Jun 29, 2008 13:55:25 GMT -5
Elitists - You know these guys when you see them, because they're dressed to the nines in the latest European team gear. Everything is "Euro-cut", from their shoes to their sunglasses, and their bikes cost more than a new car (a good European sedan, like an Audi or BMW, which is what they drive when they're not riding). Their bike frames are built out of alloys developed by scientists in a lab at MIT. The same metals used by NASA, of course. An exciting Friday night activity is leg shaving; and the guys have actually mastered doing it without cutting themselves. You pass them coming the other way, but don't expect a nod or wave. These guys are like Ivan Drago on a bike. Go to shake hands and they'll slap it away and proclaim in a robot-like voice, "I must break you." They think they ought to be riding - no, RACING, up Alpe d' Huez, followed by Johann Bryuneel in the team car.
Elites - Similar to the "Elitists", except that they really SHOULD be racing up the Alps.
Old Timers - These are the guys who get fat in the winter and don't care. They almost all have those little rear-view mirrors on their helmet, handlebars, or both. Some of them ride those recumbent bikes with the little orange flags and windshields (and you can bet that all the recumbent bike riders are voting for Obama). Water. That's all they consume, no matter how long the ride. Gatorade is for sissies. But d**n near every ride ends with ice cream, beer, or both. And, they've been riding long enough to have mastered the art of hocking a loogey at full speed without spitting on themselves.
Coach class - This, I think, is me. And maybe you. Started serious cycling as a triathlete. And although they have the fitness of a Nepalese sherpa crossed with a Kentucky Derby winner, they have no business whatsoever riding in a pack with other people. They just don't know the etiquette, and with everything else running through their mind to deaden the pain (including Internet forum posts), they have no patience to learn it. The biggest questions for them are how many calories can they consume without getting sick, and what can they put on their crotch to keep from getting chafed raw during their seven-hour death march of a ride.
Tourists - Stick to the bike paths. Don't ride in packs, but do often go as a family. Often with one of those baby seats, which, when the kid gets a little older, is traded in for one of those half-bike attachments that the kid actually has to pedal. Five miles is deathly long. They're the same people who will travel 2,000 miles to visit the Grand Canyon, look over the edge and take a picture, but otherwise never go more than 50 feet from the visitors' center.
Knucleheads - These guys, frankly, scare me a bit. Like the elitists, they have their own kind of uniform. It's quite often Zubaz bodybuilder pants, a cotton tee shirt that's so loose that it acts like a parachute. No helmet, but a DOT-rated mullet. iPod. And, almost always, white tube socks and black tennis shoes. They have a free-form style that seamlessly mixes road (with and against traffic), sidewalk and berm, and never stops for a red light or stop sign, no matter how busy the intersection. Seems like they're out in force this year. I don't know if the judges are being tougher with the license suspensions, or its the gas prices, but something is motivating them to get those rusted steeds out of the attic.
Elites - Similar to the "Elitists", except that they really SHOULD be racing up the Alps.
Old Timers - These are the guys who get fat in the winter and don't care. They almost all have those little rear-view mirrors on their helmet, handlebars, or both. Some of them ride those recumbent bikes with the little orange flags and windshields (and you can bet that all the recumbent bike riders are voting for Obama). Water. That's all they consume, no matter how long the ride. Gatorade is for sissies. But d**n near every ride ends with ice cream, beer, or both. And, they've been riding long enough to have mastered the art of hocking a loogey at full speed without spitting on themselves.
Coach class - This, I think, is me. And maybe you. Started serious cycling as a triathlete. And although they have the fitness of a Nepalese sherpa crossed with a Kentucky Derby winner, they have no business whatsoever riding in a pack with other people. They just don't know the etiquette, and with everything else running through their mind to deaden the pain (including Internet forum posts), they have no patience to learn it. The biggest questions for them are how many calories can they consume without getting sick, and what can they put on their crotch to keep from getting chafed raw during their seven-hour death march of a ride.
Tourists - Stick to the bike paths. Don't ride in packs, but do often go as a family. Often with one of those baby seats, which, when the kid gets a little older, is traded in for one of those half-bike attachments that the kid actually has to pedal. Five miles is deathly long. They're the same people who will travel 2,000 miles to visit the Grand Canyon, look over the edge and take a picture, but otherwise never go more than 50 feet from the visitors' center.
Knucleheads - These guys, frankly, scare me a bit. Like the elitists, they have their own kind of uniform. It's quite often Zubaz bodybuilder pants, a cotton tee shirt that's so loose that it acts like a parachute. No helmet, but a DOT-rated mullet. iPod. And, almost always, white tube socks and black tennis shoes. They have a free-form style that seamlessly mixes road (with and against traffic), sidewalk and berm, and never stops for a red light or stop sign, no matter how busy the intersection. Seems like they're out in force this year. I don't know if the judges are being tougher with the license suspensions, or its the gas prices, but something is motivating them to get those rusted steeds out of the attic.