The Taxonomy of Cyclepathic Behaviors: Part One

Before launching into his erudite and long awaited dissertation regarding aberrant bicycling behavior in urban areas, the Elegant Bastard will pause to explain how he came to acquire his own spokes. Careful readers will peruse the endnotes before proceeding.

It began in a happier and simpler time. I was breezing through my 30’s more or less on auto-pilot and I wasn’t really looking for anything involving sweat. As for “exercise”, well, I could operate a cork screw without assistance and by carefully pushing the right buttons in the right sequence, I could make a pizza appear in any room in 30 minutes or less. On days when that seemed insufficient I could drive by a gym and think intense gym thoughts. I had considered doing more but fanaticism has never really appealed to me.

Then came that day when the Province of Ontario and I sat down to do battle.

I had been summoned by letter and had spent a few days preparing that best of all defences, a good offence. I arrived and laid my cards on the table. I wanted an end to place names like Wawa, a ban on neon blue or rose pink hair colour and the immediate deportation of Don Cherry. They wanted my driver’s licence.

To be scrupulously fair, there was cause. I had twice in the previous year suffered two unexpected grand mal epileptic seizures. I maintained that the first was my response to the planned renovation of the Royal Ontario Museum and should properly be regarded as aesthetic criticism rather than a medical emergency. Ontario nodded and said, “I see.”[i] It then went on to point out that in addition to Wawa and Don Cherry, the province was home to large numbers of children, all of whom it valued and wanted to preserve. My continuing possession of a fast moving object weighing over 1200 kilograms was inexplicably seen as counter-productive to this goal. (A clear example of the aforementioned fanaticism but I decided this was not the time to mention that. I politely responded, “I see.”)

As is usual, we ended with a compromise. I handed over my licence and they promised to consider deporting Mr. Cherry to Wawa.

In relatively short order, this chain of events led me to board something called a bus. I immediately discovered a few facts. I did not own this vehicle. Therefore I would need to share it. Next, it insisted on going places I had no need to visit. Further, despite polite requests, significant throat clearing, soulful whimpering and dramatic foot stomping, it would not stop at my front door. Instead, it insisted on taking me to the street corner occupied by the home of the world’s largest dog, an excessively fanged creature as yet unintroduced to the many joys of a vegan diet.

As I tend not to suffer in silence, my transportation troubles soon spawned a number of proposed solutions. Most notable among them was an off-spring’s suggestion that I take up roller-blading. Not only would I be able to get around, I could also lose a little of that … um … well … er … extra weight. I pointed out I could instantly lose 120 pounds by dropping him from The Will. He responded with a thoughtful “I see!”[ii]

That led to Significant Other’s hasty suggestion that I consider a bicycle. It made sense. In a previous millennium, a friend had stored a bike in our garage and I had often looked at it as I drove in and out. In that sense I was already a veteran. Yielding to this logic, I bought one.

The last steps in my transition from motorist to cyclist were reasonably smooth and almost without trauma. The rose garden really did need thinning out and none of my favorites were amongst the casualties. My neighbours grew used to my “I am going to die” screams as they went about teaching me the complex art of steering. As for the raccoon with whom I had a close encounter, I am sure he eventually managed to descend from that very tall pole and I can only hope that in the intervening years he has discovered the calming effect of vodka martinis.

End of Part One.

In part Two, the Elegant Bastard will respond to certain cycling myths.

In the interim, those wishing to read about the Elegant Bastard’s heroic and successful struggle against the biggest of the big banks may do so here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-58


[i] In Peter Cameron’s wonderful novel, Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You, the protagonist makes the following observation: “Whenever anyone tells me ‘I see‘ I think they’re really saying Fuck you.” The Elegant Bastard concurs.

[ii] See endnote 1

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