It happens almost every time. I’m not sure why. I guess it could be the shaved legs, the shoes with the weird clips, the French colloquialisms or the skin tight shorts. Either way it never fails that every time I saddle up my bicycle some random passerby will inevitably yell at me. Most of the times I’ve experienced incomprehensible hollers from cars as they pass me, but every once and a while I’ll catch a passing word from a pedestrian.
Hey, you’re late for the race!
Whoa there Lance Armstrong!
In all my miles of cycling, the best message anyone has ever sent me was not in the form of words though. It happened about four years ago as a few of my friends and I pedaled our way south along Highway 1 towards Lompoc. About two hours into our journey a rusted Volvo passed us and out of the passenger seat hung the unmistakeable sight of a human derriere.
I’m still mixed about the meaning of that message, but either way it has yet to deter me from riding my bicycle along public roads, and neither have any of the other hoots and hollers.