Christ, people. Do we have to go through this again? It seems like only yesterday I was 1) asked to change my underwear, and 2) forced to address simple ride etiquette. Every summer it’s the same fucking routine. Sun comes out. The first Versus crash montage of spring appears, igniting long-dormant aspirations of podium girl fondling in the hearts of all of Fred-dom. And like clockwork it happens: The roads are so thick with cyclists that I might as well be be in a scene from Piranha 2: Electric Boogaloo. Fact: A Cat 4 racer can skeletonize a cow in four minutes, but will spend an hour and a half explaining why it would have taken him only three minutes if he hadn’t totally blown himself up the day before doing cow-skeletonizing repeats.
Why do I hate this seasonal Fredeluge so? Because I wasn’t breastfed. And because ‘the Man’ refuses to let me sink into the warm cradle of my profound lack of ambition. But also for a more practical reason: Very few fair-weather cyclists know the proper use of cyclist semaphore, and when communication breaks down, we are nothing. We are no better than Sea Monkeys, minus the crowns and barnacle castles. The nod of head, the lift of finger, it is the thieves’ cant of the cantilever set, and it is fast becoming a dead language.
There are three types of cyclists who refuse to acknowledge their camel-toed brethren.
1. Those who are scared.
2. Those who are self conscious.
3. Assholes.
The scared: These people are the Linus of the road, and the dropbar is their woobie. They jolt awake each night drenched in sweat, pursued by the specter of a hand not connected to bar tape. They live the gospel of the 10 and 2. And if they truly feel that way, their handling skills are probably less than honed. Grip on, you crazy diamond. I’ll be over here, all up on the fog strip. Just contort those clenched teeth into something that resembles a smile, and you get an ‘E’ for ‘Eschatological.’
The self-conscious: The self-conscious are a group I can empathize with, because I’m one of them. I come from a long line of Ukrainians who traded self-loathing for durable goods, and the only thing that keeps me from feeling confident is that I AM A TOTAL FUCK UP WHO CAN’T DO ANYTHING RIGHT. But I’ve learned that I shouldn’t take that out on other people. I spent years worrying that my socks were the wrong length and that my flamed doo-rag matched neither the carpet nor the drapes. If I were a character in Mortal Kombat my finishing move would be lowering my head and pretending I didn’t see the cyclists in the other lane. FINISH (looking at) HIM!
But pretending you don’t see another cyclist on the road is futile. It’s like pretending you don’t see other tourists when you’re at a Bangkok sex show. “Nevil! This ‘ping-pong’ mating ritual is like a time capsule! Unchanged for millennia, and we are the only non-Orientals ever to have witnessed it !” I see you, Israeli dude in a Mexican pullover, and you are fully torqued.
You are not the first one to venture here, and your refusal to recognize me doesn’t make you a fucking pioneer. No more than riding alone in the suburban ‘wilderness’ makes you the lone survivor in a Grand Tour breakaway 5km from the finish. Holla at me. Shit.
Awkward social interactions on a bike can be easily navigated. It’s simple, really. What you need is a signature move. Like Contador’s archer. Or Ryu’s Hadoooooooooouken! Or Lindsay Lohan’s “Line-of-coke-fight-at-the-club-show-vagina-getting-into-limo-go-to-jail-try-to-remove lowjack-with-a-butter-knife” thing. The signature move eventually becomes a Pavlovian response to seeing other cyclists on the road, and in the long term will make you easily identifiable from a distance. Gentle Ben will often offer a friendly verbal, “Hey Buddy!” while The Admiral prefers his signature Longpour Longpoint™. The Possum may ask you for your number, and then take you home and play some Sade and maybe sleep with you. Whatever. We’ve all got our jam. I prefer a crooked smile, fingers lifted off of the handlebar, and a head curtsy (curtsy). Bonus!: Any one of things can be passed off as a nervous twitch or seizure in the event that the receiving cyclist doesn’t reply in kind.
The assholes: If you can arguably claim ignorance of etiquette, I understand. If, however, you’re one of those people that can’t be bothered to smile or wave because you’re too cool or riding too fast, than you are most definitely not too cool or riding too fast. It’s the cycling equivalent of saying, “I’m pretty funny,” which translates directly to,”I watch Jay Leno.”
Smiling doesn’t slow you down. It’s not less aero. And even if it was, big fucking deal. When it comes right down to it, smiling only makes you look less like a jerk. No one has ever said, “I thought that guy looked fucking pro, but then he nodded and smiled and, bam! Express train to goobertown.” Folks in hi-viz vests may not know any better. I get that. Folks in hi-viz booties most certainly do. If you’re going to appropriate colo(u)rs ironically, at least don’t appropriate the ignorance of neophytes ironically. It just makes you a dick. Un-ironically. And, hey. if you’re going to ride my wheel, you have to at least say hello. Would you bum a ride from a friend and then siphon his gas while he’s buying you a sixer at the beerstore? Of course not. Same thing. You are a guest on my wheel. I am expending energy so that you may rest. Acknowledge the generosity of this transaction.
In short, it doesn’t matter how awesome you are. I’m not asking to be your friend. I don’t want you to buy me a beer. I don’t want you to rent me shoes All I am asking is that you literally lift a finger. Two if you’re feeling jovial. Three if you get a paycheck from Brazzers. Whether passing or being passed, just fucking acknowledge that you and I are both on the road, enjoying a similar pastime. Smile. Wave. Say hello. Don’t be a jerk. Be cool instead of trying to look cool.
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