beyond 'riders dismount'
a trolls guide to urban cycling etiquette
Are you able to leave the house without getting into it with someone?
Most times, this isn’t a problem for me these days. When I drive, I put on the headphones, lean into some GBV and block out the arseholes.
When I ride, I ride my bike in places without people. With few people around, the arsehole count is typically just one - me.
When it comes to arsehole meetings quorum is one.
If the fire marshal gave occupancy limits for arsehole gatherings that number would also be one. Me.
That is my maximum number of arseholes.
But when I ride my bike to work?
It seems that I am constantly running into the worst kind of areshole - The Nosey Parker.
The Nosey Parker is an arsehole who in Advanced Dungeons and Dragons terms would be called Lawfully Neutral.
They are smiling nice guys who want to limit pain. They love building community. They love rules. Most of all?
They love pointing out when others are not following rules.
I do not get these officious fucks. Were they diddled by the wheel of randomness as children? Or, were they merely the kind of rat fink tattle tale pricks who as young as ten aspired to be hall monitors someday.
As someone with a big bad wide libertarian bent, in Advanced Dungeons and Dragons terms, I’m a chaotically neutral trollish heart-thief with 1d+6 charisma. Though this is a letter dear reader, I’m dead sexy and not shy about letting you know about this.
Sure, my face may look like crows walked all over it and my hairs are like tree leaves in October, but for a middle aged troll? I’m fucking hot.
And humble!
On a bike, these are the kind of ass eating shit monkeys who will scold you for not wearing a helmet.
I encountered one such fuck stick today.
I had just crossed the bridge and he rolled into sight. At the lights on Wyse Road, he signaled his virtue by respecting the sign that says “Riders Dismount”. I’m not sure why that sign is there. I suspect it’s so that people on bikes don’t tangle with pedestrians.
He and I were the only two in sight.
Now on a bike I consider traffic signals and signs to be ‘suggestions’, not orders.
Hell, I have the same attitude on foot as well.
An aside dear reader, I fucking HATE the entire city of Vancouver. Most there are the kind of lawfully neutral cuntcabbages who would stand waiting for a light to change in the pouring rain at two in the morning without a car in sight.
In fact?
I’ve been scolded by those cat rapists as well.
Anyway, I digress, back to this Dartmouth dork.
Once the cars were gone and the road was clear, I pushed off and began to pedal.
Then?
Mr. Rules the virtue fucker pipes up: There’s a signal light there you know…
Dear reader, if you’ve been reading my work for any amount of time, you can imagine how that went for him.
Let’s make it clear and concise: Not well.
My opening bellow was one of Fuck off, followed by one of mind your own business you fucking plumpkin.
He followed me.
Of course he did.
He was a big boomer - over six feet tall. He had a bushy white beard and a belly that shook when he scowled like a bowl full of jelly. Fucking officious Santa wanting to give me an earful of coal
I’m not sure what he said - something about making us all look bad blah blah blah - then some other horseshit about ‘the community’. The community? I’ve not signed up to be the representative of a community. I’m a guy on a bike. Do OJ and Cosby and Diddy and Kanye make black men look bad?
Next?
I’m not sure what the ‘us’ was that he was talking about - old white guys? Cyclists? Men with facial hair? Fat dudes?
Not me motherfucker, I’m a svelte skinny silver fox with a bubble butt that lazy people would pay big bucks for.
Fuck that guy.
It’s an odd thing - I was riding a bike and he was riding a bike. Somehow this bad boundried blubber boy decided that my behaviour made him look bad.
No motherfucker. It’s not me. If I do anything by being near you, I raise how you look.
If you wanna know what’s making you look bad you sodden old shoe, I’d take a look at the Guinness and cheeseburger diet you’re on. Check your calories before questioning my behaviour.
This fox fucker likely has an inside cat.
My cat Trevor?
His narrow little urethra is blocked again.
The solution they propose is more anti anxiety meds - chemical handcuffs to make his imprisonment in the house more bearable.
Not this time.
Once we get him back, I’m getting the fucker a bell and a satellite tracker. I’m going to set the fucker free.
I’ve done the same for myself so it’s the least I can do all things considered.
Most of all though?
I hope that the lawful fucker lives just a few streets away so Trevor can go and shit in his lettuce.
You know, Trevor’s my boy and anti social pricks like us need to stick together lest we wilt before the overly domesticated manimals.
