Unfortunately, in these remaining days before I leave my encampment of chastity and solitude in my mother's basement for good, I have to use the Cherry Creek path to get from her house to anything remotely resembling civilization. I would ride on Cherry Creek Drive directly, but that country bumpkin-looking road has never had a shoulder. This means that, during the 5 'o clock let-out, the masses who live in Aurora plow through my neighborhood as shortcut home from downtown -- effectively driving into the non-existent shoulder.
From what I understand, the Cherry Creek path is for everybody -- cyclists, joggers, moms with strollers, people walking dogs, grandmas chatting, kids learning to ride their bikes, etc. It is a route that should be available for safe commuting, socializing and exercise. But what I've experienced over the summer is hardly that. The Cherry Creek trail is actually a route of sheer terror, a path lorded over by assholes in spandex who race along it with no regard for human life.
They zip by on their shiny, pricey bikes, never giving others so much as a warning, and it makes me wonder: Is this how cyclists behave in other cities? Is the face of commuter cycling in Portland or New York? Some lawyer dad on his day off, whipping his dick I mean ego around as he speeds by an innocent person who might be trying to enjoy what is left of his or her lunch break? I'm guessing not. But it seems that immaturity and a lack of courtesy are what define this particular biking and pedestrian area, and that sucks.
I would never ask this type of self-centered jerk-off to slow down -- In a Facebook-is-real-life world, we are only concerned with ourselves. But how hard is it to simply say, "On your left"? At least then, the six-year-old with training wheels on his bike could get out of the way, or maybe keep from flinching in fear.
I have come to my own conclusion that spitting at these fitness terrorists is all I can do to fight back, because screaming "on my left" or "be polite on the bike trail, please" yields nothing but frustration. I've thought about mounting a Super Soaker to my handlebars and shooting offenders with Kool-Aid, but I'd rather not chance getting into it with a bullying cyclist in a Sunflower Market-sponsored skin-tight get-up. There is no dignity in getting sassy with an adult male in spandex. For either party involved.
I know, its Colorado. We're always training for some sort of race or marathon or thing that makes us feel important. If we're not scaring the shit out of the Silver Sneakers Club on the bike path, we're probably rolling tractor tires across a repurposed concrete floor at that gym on Broadway where people pay to get tortured. Most of Colorado's population has probably never suffered through oppression, displacement or war, so we give money to boot camp programs and overpriced gyms that make us cry and puke and hate ourselves. Then we camp out in front of Sports Authority for days, waiting for skis to go on sale.
But all of that is by choice. So, if you're going to be a prick on the bike trail, at least warn others by simply saying on your left. Then maybe we'll all have a chance of catching a glimpse of that huge dick of yours when you speed by.
