Appearance of the Cyclist

What follows is a narrative describing the reality for those not of the cycling community when a rider, a cyclist, sometimes one “lovingly” called “Lance Armstrong” from the window of passing car emerges from home to depart on a ride. I will warn you this story is not pretty. But when worlds collide is it ever pretty?

We join our rider preparing for au courant adventure. Our friend, our cyclist, hero not being too strong a word in the mind of the author to describe the rider, steps into the garage from the house. Our rider is outfitted in his finest riding attire, or at least what is clean. He is equipped to cool effectively and to avoid any and hopefully all chafing. Chafing is awful. Chafing is probably something we should talk about some other time. But not today.

The point is that the rider, our hero in this writer’s small mind, epitomizes everything that says “middle aged cyclist”. 

I warned you this would not be pretty.

Down the driveway and across the street from this event the bargain hunters have swooped in for the deals that are only found on the final day of the great Minnesota garage sale. Your author doesn't need to point out that the situation that lies in front of of us is volatile. Quite volatile! But our author does point it out, just to be safe.

Onward…

The cyclist, as he enters the garage, reaches and hits the glowing button that makes the heavy door rise. No ordinary garage door, this door is built to protect both his bikes and his lawn tools! An important door it is.

The unsuspecting garage salers across the way suddenly sense their world changing. Their heads spin at the sound of the mighty door rising. The quicker witted among them immediately avert their eyes and rush their young ones into the waiting vehicles. It is heard over the breeze “Johnny! Look away! To the car! To the car!”

The not so quick witted are transfixed. They can not avert. They find it impossible to look away. Their jaws begin to drop against their will as the stalwart door rises and the vision of the cyclist starts to appear before them.

The door is 1 inch in the air, followed shortly by being 2 inches in the air. Now the door has risen nearly a foot.

“Feet? Shoes? What is that… WHAT ARE THEY?”

They are shoes that go “clicky clackey, clicky clackey”' as the rider moves across the concrete floor to the bike. A truly amazing machine that bike. Fast. Potent. (The bike, not the shoes.)

The garage saler’s heads are whirling with thoughts. “Black shoes? Really? Is this person about to mow?  Are those,” with a pause, “ankle socks?”, (which despite their name expose the cyclists ankles to wind and sun.)

“Really? Black shoes? Ankle socks? What is UPON US!“

The garage salers feel the knot of nausea rise in their stomach. A general unease sweeps the crowd of 4 near the free box at the garage sale.

“This will not end well” scurries through their minds, once such happy minds.

“This. Will. Not. End. Well.”

The door continues it’s steely rise: 2 feet in the air now. Nearly 3 feet the fortress entry gate passes as it continues to rise.

"That glimmer. What… oh no. Are those SHAVED LEGS!?!?"

Another garage saler is heard to murmur without any sense of emotion "They are. They really are."

A taste a vomit rises in the throats of the onlookers.

“Make. It. Stop!”

But wait! What next? Is that Lycra? Black Lycra with an antimicrobial chamois offering chafe-free comfort on that long ride? The gag reflex of the onlookers is in full force. Splatters of that morning’s blueberry pancakes now begin to appear on the driveway of the great Minnesota garage sale that had, until now, been a happy place. The free box is ruined.

“What next?”

“What does that ‘shirt say’? ‘Chilkoot Cycling’? What the hell is Chilkoot Cycling? Isn’t that man a grown up? What is this costume?”

Red. And Gray. And more black! What is WITH THE BLACK!

Our hero swings his right leg across the top bar.

Water bottles in their place he clicks into the right pedal with a sound “click”. His smart phone is fished from a rear pocket of his costume, his cycling app of choice is started as he must have proper wattage figures to examine current power to weight ratios. With phone replaced in it’s proper pocket of the jersey, the garage door reverses course with the entry of the top secret code into the magic box and the push of button.

A half turn of the pedals follow as the mighty door descends to protect the remaining cycles and the lawn tools that shall go unused again as a nap will be required after the day’s efforts are complete. Our cyclist clips into the left pedal as he descends the drive, looking both ways to avoid the cars that inexplicably are racing from his neighborhood in all directions. Our hero, unaware of the scene that just unfolded across the way thinks to himself “Damn garage salers, this is a neighborhood! Slow down!”  as he heads off to the bike shop to begin the days suffering.

If you didn't hate this story too much, look for more of my stories over at Chilkoot Velo. I've just recently started cross posting back here at ole ArgonEighteen so I can allow comments more easily.