GOG: Outta the way, grapefruit head

Image Credit: Compilation/Jennifer Stahn

The snow has melted, the sun shines. Which can only mean any time now the only roads worth driving will be once again clogged with packs of brightly-coloured bicyclists.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against bicycles. I used to have one myself, rode it everywhere. Before I learned to drive, that is.

Of course back then one could tootle about in a proper sitting position, tinkling ones little bell whilst smiling and waving to passersby. Bicycles belonged to small boys, scholars and ladies of a certain age—spinsters and midwives. They had hard saddles (the bicycles, not the midwives) and baskets at the front to carry steaming loaves of bread and small pets. 

Now the whole endeavour is hijacked by wheezing middle-aged men with boring jobs and BMWs. It’s not transportation any more, not even proper exercise. It’s a fetish, complete with clingy synthetic clothing: Skin-tight shorts designed to showcase the knobbly bits and stretchy shirts with more clashing colours than the South African flag.

And really, is there anything more gag-inducing than a lumpy middle-aged dentist wobbling about in tight lycra?

Open wide and say “Eeeew”.

It all started with those wretched helmets. Some idiotic bureaucrat decided it would be Good For Them if bicyclists were made to wear half a grapefruit on their heads and if they didn’t then twelve-year-old police people were allowed to fine them for refusing to look ridiculous.

After that it was apparently passed into law that they also had to dress like Trekkies and shout at cars. Tired of the inevitable teasing, bicyclists began forming hordes and practicing synchronized raising of fists should any unsuspecting motorist politely ask them to move over a little by leaning on the horn for a moment or two.

But of course we all have to “share the road” as they say. I find the best way to accommodate the pedalling swarms is to treat them as a sort of randomly mobile chicane to be negotiated at speed and with the deft application of a little opposite lock.

And don’t forget to wave and smile like a contented midwife as you go swerving by. I’m sure they’ll wave back.

— Grumpy Old Git is your own subsconscious. Get a real job and mind your own business, kid. 

Reports came in to the RAPP hotline of this buck that was trapped in a volleyball net.
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