Hobos & Legs

Before I jump into the strange occurrence I had this morning on the way to work concerning an overpass, a possibly homeless man, and an invitation to engage in intimate activities, let me first direct your attention to the image on the left.

To these eyes (and the eyes of my galpal) my legs are pretty awesome, and while I'm aware I don't have the Best Legs Evar, they are pretty sweet. My thighs are large and getting noticeably cut for a one-hundred and thirty pound boy, and my calves aren't half bad little heart-shaped things either. But good lord, they aren't large enough to make my kneecaps look recessed

Now, I've been toying with the notion of finally putting an 18-tooth cog on my bike for a while, and in my head the debate boils down to easier spinning or more speed.

The gear ratio I run now allows for some good speed, but the stop/start stuff is tougher, as are hills. Adding the new cog would make it easier to get moving at stoplights and such and less work to get up steep inclines, but my overall speed would probably suffer. So the dilemma.

Until today I'd nearly decided to just stick with my trusty 16-tooth gear, chalking it up to being tough and not pussing out. The above photograph of a racer's legs has clinched it. I want legs like that. Shame on me for trying to show my body any mercy.

If I want to learn to spin faster I'll just get me some rollers.

During my commute I've been yelled at a few times, and always by motorists. Once I was even hauntingly moaned at by a USPS driver who wanted me to ride on the sidewalk but didn't want me to know who was going, "Geeeeeet oooooooon the siiiiIIIIIiiiide waaaaaaalk..." like some ill-informed ghost.

Mostly it's people shouting crap I can't hear because the roar of their engine and the speed at which they are passing me drowns out the message they half-roll down their windows to hurl at me. You can mostly catch the gist though, which is invariably "Get off the road."

As I crested the last of my overpasses I saw a man on a rusty but functioning commuter-style bike pedaling serenely in the road's shoulder, looking like he didn't have a care in the world, despite his slightly-homeless appearance. "Hey," I thought, "A fellow commuter! I shall ride up next to him and we can exchange pleasantries as we make our graceful descent."

Imagine my surprise as I slowly and respectfully came abreast the traveler and, as he looked down at either my shoes, my makeshift knickers, or my bike, started yelling "Trash! Trash! Trash! Suck my dick!... (at this point I hadn't said anything and just decided to keep on pedaling, leaving him behind) ...Get me a blowjob! [Something something] that mouth, girl!"

At this point I was at the bottom of the offramp and after checking for traffic continued on my way. I glanced back to make sure he wasn't coming after me with some sort of crazy hobo jousting stick, but couldn't see him any more.

It was like I had just seen a kitten give birth to a yak that glared at me with burning red eyes and had said simply, "Keep moving." I was too stunned to react, I could only observe and retell.

The one thing that keeps sticking in my mind is that he didn't even look directly at me before launching into his tirade. He simply glanced down towards the center of my bike and started yelling. Was it my shoes? Does he hate silver and Velcro? Maybe my rolled long-shorts legs? Could this explain the confusion as to my gender? Or was this an early adopter of the inevitable backlash that will one day whip across the fixed-gear trendies like an angry tsunami? The world may never know.

But you can bet your ass if I see that guy again I'm not stopping for a quick chat.

- David