Going Postal

Greg and I were taking turns fighting the brutal southeast Idaho wind when up ahead I see a “fellow” cyclist.  So naturally I bump the speed up a notch because, as we all know, I’m a big jerk. I take great pleasure in mowing down poor saps in an attempt to enlighten them to real cycling.  As the gap closes the vague bluish white turns into a United States Postal Service kit.  Wow, maybe Hincapie didn’t do his laundry and had to break out an old kit.  I’ll show him.  Wait a minute.  I don’t care how big the piles got in big George’s penthouse, I’m sure he would go sockless – at the risk of being mistaken for a tri-geek – before he would resort to tube socks!  We’re talking all the way up to the knee Isaiah Thomas action here.  Complete with red and blue stripes.

But wait, it gets better.  As we come up along side our lycra clad compatriot we notice that he is mashing away on a comfort bike.  The cycling equivalent of a Nash Metropolitan. The adjustable stem was as erect as a gaggle of thirteen year olds who scored the Victoria’s Secret catalog out of the mail box before mom got home.  The springs on the saddle were large enough to stabilize the Transamerica building during the next “big one”.



Obviously dementia had set its hooks into the mind of this poor soul.  Either that or he used to hang out with Ken Kesey and could give a rat’s ass about what a bunch of red neck Idahoans think about him.  Were it not for the fact that Greg was mere inches from my rear wheel I would have pulled over to kowtow in reverent worship for this god of panache.  In a culture of sheep this man truly is an individual.  How many of us would have the huevos to say style be damned and mount a bike that is the aerodynamic equivalent of a refrigerator in full Lance Armstrong Wannabe regalia and tube socks?  You sir, can suck my wheel anytime you want.


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