Dear Bicyclists: The Roads Were Built for Cars

June is just around the corner, and flower is in full swing. Events that occur around me eventually prompt the exact two recurring issues, like clockwork, year after year. And the inquiries are:

1. Why do these adolescent ladies’ kids let them leave the house in a suit and tie like NFL girls?
2. Will I have to weave my vehicle around obnoxious bikers who believe they are road users for another summer?

As I witnessed earlier in the day some poor sap driving a car, stuck behind a bunch of inconsiderate adult bikers ( the rude types are always men ), none of whom apparently had a task to get to this particular night, opting instead to impede prospects for the people who really do.

It made me think of a situation that happened next summer. I was driving down a main road with my wife and two younger children. Never a side streets. Hardly a street for walking. A principal streets off of the freeway. And a cheap armoured knucklehead riding in too-tight lycra was riding in front of us, almost right in the middle of the street. As he went, he blew every stop mark and purple light. He eventually veered back into the middle of the road as I attempted to safely move him, but he suddenly drifted far enough in the direction of the sidewalk as I attempted to do so. As I passed him, I slammed on the whistle.

Well, haven’t ya hear? I brought my vehicle to a halt when the next mild turned dark. And this choke accelerated next to me and threw a couple f-bombs at me in front of my wife and two young children. I don’t like it when betas drop f-bombs at me in front of my wife and two adolescent children, though.

However, I always default back to my local military tongue when I get angry. What I said to him in the Marine Corps pronunciation roughly translates to:

” My dear fellow, please allow me to express my deepest sympathies for the disgruntlement you undoubtedly harbor toward your depressing inability to get the attractive physique you had hoped your avocation would result in. In your present predicament, I stand without reproach. I ask that you observe the nature of both authorized code and cultural tradition in your upcoming travels on the typical thoroughfare, with the temperament that best fits my rank and class. However, if your constitution allows for our fiery tete-a-tete to satisfactorily quell your ill-directed indignation, I would be happy to arrange a rendezvous with you on that local grassy embankment, out of the reach of vehicular danger, where we can prove our individual assertions with a contest of uncontrolled physical prowess. I worry that doing so would cause degrading harm to your lateral anatomical construction.

Also, the Marine Corps edition he really received was much shorter and much more interesting. This just say that he pedaled up to me in the direction of Lance Armstrong. He slammed aside, admitting that he was a Pee Wee Herman. Successful goal accomplished.

And indeed, I greatly relied on thesaurus.com for the last sentence. What can I anticipate since I already told you I was a Sea?

And indeed, a few blocks after, my wife did point out that the cyclist’s profanities far outweigh the cyclist’s that he had intended me to be. Doh.

Men, here’s the deal. You can enjoy your vehicle. You are able to vehicle. And to be honest, I’m glad that you’re exercising. However, get out of the middle of the awful route. The roads of America were built for vehicles. You won’t find me running in the middle of the road because I enjoy long distance running. If there isn’t a road, I hug the pavement as closely as possible when feasible. I stay on the road. Or… how’s a idea… I simply avoid going down that particular street if it’s too dangerous.

I must avoid running into customers in the middle of the city because of my most fundamental instinct of self-preservation. As so many bikers claim, I don’t have the “right” to do that.

You get worse every year. You occupy full lanes, you disobey the traffic regulations that you expect cars to obey, you weave in traffic sporadic and without notice, and you compel every car to move at your speed. And when we criticize you for it, you respond as the most adored, wealthy, and butthurt little princes this part of Dylan Mulvaney.

I once heard a bicycle rant off some nearby ordinances that said I was in the wrong for coming too close to him by passing him up to two feet, six feet from the pavement. Putting aside the fact that neither he nor I could include precisely measured that while moving, Whatever native law he had memorized for these contacts is not in line with the Ordinance of Common Sense. In a dismantling derby between a vehicle and a vehicle, the car must win every time.

You may spend a lot of time thinking about that while lying in your hospital bed, chest down, paralyzed. You can consider your “rights” as a bicyclist, how you were given the “right” to share the road by local ordinance 507.3 ( b ) ( 1 ) ( c2 ), and how you were never blamed for it all by the car driver, and how you can think about that you have done it. You can be happy about your win in vain.

Or you could use your head, infuse a little sincerity, and already know where you are on the road. Or, better still, you should check out these incredible bicycle paths.

The worst cases are when parents transport their children onto major roads while locking them in those cramped motorcycle trailers without any protection from the 4000 lb load. cars whizzing by. It only takes one vehicle to be distracted, one driver to text on his phone, and one vehicle to be distracted. Done. Finished the game. Consider the final product because it’s too gloomy to form. Again, the local ordinance in your town, 501. 3( b ) ( 1 ) ( c2 ), can grant you the “right” to share the road with others, but it cannot bring back the deceased. If you’re ready to take a chance on your own lifestyle, do it. Don’t, however, harm your child’s lack of filibuster power over your total stupidity.

I am aware that there are trustworthy, polite pedestrians out there who perhaps detest these devices even more than we do. Like with everything, the bad people provide the good people a bad reputation. I appreciate your politeness and respect along the way, but I’m not yelling at you. Your style are never spared when I daydream about commanding regiments of AH-64 Apaches pursuing your obnoxious bike sisters in droves.

Don’t mingle with the adorable girl coffee when you pack up your day brake with the boys and lock your arms and traipse into the nearest Starbucks for your sixteen-syllabled cup of pretension. She’s only acting politely to you to keep her job. She’s thirty years your junior and doesn’t like you. She won’t categorize you as an Olympian athlete just because you have the ability to ride a bike. That is what kindergarteners do. You’re old, creepy, and nasty. You Chester, leave her alone. Go to a widows ‘ bingo hall and try your luck at figure eights in the parking lot.

Stay safe, ride smart, and have a fantastic summer, aside from that.

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