Dear Bicyclists: The Roads Were Built for Cars

Spring is in full throttle, with summer just around the corner. Around this time, events around me inevitably trigger the same two recurring questions, like clockwork, year after year after year. And the questions are these:

Why do these teenage girls' parents let them leave the house dressed like NFL cheerleaders?
Am I going to have to spend another summer weaving my car around rude bicyclists who think they own the road?

It is this second question I'm currently pondering, as I witnessed earlier in the day some poor sap driving a car, stuck behind a gaggle of inconsiderate male bicyclists (the rude ones are always men), none of whom apparently had a job they needed to get to this particular morning, opting instead to impede traffic for the adults who actually do.

It reminded me of an incident that occurred last summer. I was driving with my wife and two young kids down a main street. Not a side street. Not a residential street. A main street right off the interstate. And some plastic helmeted doofus in too-tight lycra was on his bicycle in front of us, pretty much in the middle of the road. He blew every stop sign and red light there was as he went. He finally drifted enough towards the curb for me to try to safely pass, but as I attempted to do so, he suddenly veered back into the middle of the road. I laid on the horn as I passed him.

Well, wouldn't ya know? The next light turned red, so I brought my car to a stop. And this chode pedaled up next to me and made the mistake of dropping a few f-bombs at me in the presence of my wife and two young kids. Well, I don't take kindly to betas dropping f-bombs at me in the presence of my wife and two young kids.

Unfortunately, when I get angry, I revert by default to my native military tongue. What I said to him in Marine Corps dialect is roughly the English translation of:

"My dear fellow, allow me to extend my deepest sympathy for the disgruntlement you assuredly harbor towards your disheartening inability to attain the alluring physique you'd assumed your avocation would effect. Alas, I stand blameless in your current predicament. With the temperament befitting my rank and class, I implore you to observe the spirit of both legal code and cultural tradition in the course of your future excursions on the common thoroughfare. However, if your constitution is such that our raucous tete-a-tete cannot satisfactorily quell your ill-directed indignation, I would enthusiastically oblige a rendezvous with you on that nearby grassy embankment, out of range of vehicular danger, where we can conclusively determine the validity of our respective assertions through a contest of unrestrained physical prowess. Such an endeavor, I fear, would result in humiliating injury to your posterior anatomical structure."

Well, the Marine Corps version he actually received was a lot shorter and more exciting. Let's just say that he pedaled up to me thinking he was Lance Armstrong. He pedaled away conceding he was Pee Wee Herman. Mission accomplished.

And yes, I did rely heavily on thesaurus.com for the above paragraph. I already told you I was a Marine, whattaya expect?

And yes, a few blocks later my wife did point out to me that the profanities I lobbed at the cyclist far exceeded those that he originally lobbed at me. Oops.

Guys, here's the thing. You can like your bike. You can ride your bike. And I'm happy, honestly, that you are out there getting exercise. But get out of the middle of the damn road. The streets of America were designed for cars. I like to run long distance, but you won't catch me running in the middle of the street. I stay on the sidewalk and, if there is no sidewalk, I hug the curb as closely as possible. Or...here's a thought...I just don't run down that particular road if it's too unsafe.

The most basic instinct of self-preservation dictates that I don't run down the middle of the street in traffic. Nor do I have the "right" to do so, as so many bicyclists claim.

Every year, you get worse. You take up entire lanes, you disobey the traffic laws you expect cars to follow, you weave into traffic sporadically and without warning, and you force every car stuck behind you to travel at your speed. And when we call you out on it, you respond like the most entitled, privileged, butthurt little princesses this side of Dylan Mulvaney.

I once had a bicyclist rattle off some local ordinance to me about how he was allowed to veer up to two feet, six inches from the curb, and therefore I was in the wrong for passing to close to him. Leave aside the fact that there's no way either he or I could have accurately measured that while in motion. Whatever local ordinance he had committed to memory for these encounters doesn't compete with the Ordinance of Common Sense. The Ordinance of Common Sense dictates that in a demolition derby between a car and a bicycle, the car is going to win every time.

You can have plenty of time to think about that from your hospital bed, as you lay there paralyzed from the neck down. You can think about your "rights" as a bicyclist, and that you had local ordinance 507.3(b)(1)(c2) which gives you the "right" to share the road, and how it was all the car driver's fault you'll never walk again. You can relish your smug victory.

Or you could use your brain, mix in a little humility, and know your place on the road. Or better yet, you should check out these really cool things called bike paths.

The worst are parents who put their toddlers in those enmeshed bike trailers and take them out on main roads, as if that little trailer offers any protection whatsoever against 4000 lb. vehicles flying by. All it takes is one driver not paying attention, one driver texting on his phone, one driver distracted, and that's it. Done. Game over. Contemplate the end result, because it's too grim to type. Again, your town's local ordinance 507.3(b)(1)(c2) can give you the "right" to share the road, but it can't resurrect the dead. If you're willing to risk your own life, have at it. But don't risk your kid, who has no veto power over your sheer stupidity.

I write this with full realization that there are responsible, courteous bicyclists out there who probably detest these tools even more than we do. Like anything, the bad ones give the good ones a crummy reputation. My ire is not directed towards you, and I thank you for your civility and deference on the road. When I daydream about commanding squadrons of AH-64 Apaches to hunt down your irksome bicycling brethren in droves, your kind are always spared.

One last piece of advice for the bicyclists: when you wrap up your morning pedal with the boys and you lock arms and traipse into the nearest Starbucks for your sixteen-syllabled cup of pretension, don't flirt with the cute female barista. She's only being polite to you to keep her job. She's thirty years your junior and she's not into you. She certainly doesn't mistake you for an Olympian athlete just because you mastered the ability to ride a bike. Kindergarteners do that. You're sweaty and nasty and creepy and old. Leave her alone, you Chester. Go try your luck doing figure eights in the parking lot of a widows' bingo hall.

Other than that, stay safe, bike smart, and have a great summer.

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