Why Downhill Mountain Bikers Are Pussies
A Touching Forward
Last summer I'd staggered to the top of Mt Wilson from Sierra Madre. I wasn't having an especially good day, but the water fountain was reason enough to continue. When I got there, there was a doe-eyed, hairless punk with half-unzipped leathers slumped on the retaining wall. "Ride to live, live to ride" was tattooed across his chest in big letters. There were at least six bikes dumped in a cluster around him.
I was curious. "Where's the rest of your crew?" My curiosity was about to be rewarded.
The boy looked up and said morosely "…uh, [Bobby] was trying to get some air, but he landed badly. We had to call a paramedic. We were going to ride down to Chantry, but now we're waiting for a ride.…"
Dead silence. The flies were unconcerned. Outwardly, I was solemn.
Inwardly, I was flippin! Stoogin' going whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop!, while spinning on my shoulder on the parking lot asphalt! It doesn't get any better than this!
Serves you fucking right, dipshit. You and your dickhead posse shooting down the Upper Winter Creek Trail knocking elderly Asian dayhikers like bowling pins. Or how 'bout the young family with their four-year old who just missed getting dinged by a Bozo Pelloton?
Yes, its all about you—the weekend MTB'er driving up to the top of Mt Wilson. You are a pussy. And if you're wearing body armor, you're a double pussy. Fuck you and the helmet you're wearing.
No, this isn't about you if you're riding with your kids on the bike path down at Santa Monica. You aren't pretending to be all heroic and extreme. Chances are greater that you'll actually be paying attention. By how much is anyone's guess.
And no, this isn't about you, the Realized MTB'er, the one or two of you I've seen, who ride uphill. One gent I saw, back in 2000, was riding up out of Chilao Flats up to Bandido. He saw us, and gandy-jumped up over the 8" railroad ties, while waiting for us to pass. You sir, were the Shit.
The rest of you flabby weenies, get all up in my shit—not that I care, but check this out. It obviously takes nothing to fly down a mountain trail. Because if you were riding uphill, like a real man (because most women are smarter than you anyway…and they're not giving you a taste of their honey, never) you'd burn up inside your plastic armor. Have a PowerBar, you look hungry.
Another sad fact is that you are outrunning your reflexes. Most of you couldn't stop on a dime if Scarlett Johannsen herself spotted you the change.
To add real insult to injury, if you had real balls, you'd be out testing your game in city traffic. That's right, home-slice. Doing the Steel and Rubber Slalom with 10,000 new dickheads on a daily basis. Monday thru Friday, twice daily. Let's see you come around a corner and bullshit your way thru an MTA bus or dirt-hauler. Advantage: other guy.
One more thing: Mahal'o for being you—have a nice day!
Serves you fucking right, dipshit. You and your dickhead posse shooting down the Upper Winter Creek Trail knocking elderly Asian dayhikers like bowling pins. Or how 'bout the young family with their four-year old who just missed getting dinged by a Bozo Pelloton?
The Big Show
Yes, its all about you—the weekend MTB'er driving up to the top of Mt Wilson. You are a pussy. And if you're wearing body armor, you're a double pussy. Fuck you and the helmet you're wearing.
No, this isn't about you if you're riding with your kids on the bike path down at Santa Monica. You aren't pretending to be all heroic and extreme. Chances are greater that you'll actually be paying attention. By how much is anyone's guess.
And no, this isn't about you, the Realized MTB'er, the one or two of you I've seen, who ride uphill. One gent I saw, back in 2000, was riding up out of Chilao Flats up to Bandido. He saw us, and gandy-jumped up over the 8" railroad ties, while waiting for us to pass. You sir, were the Shit.
The rest of you flabby weenies, get all up in my shit—not that I care, but check this out. It obviously takes nothing to fly down a mountain trail. Because if you were riding uphill, like a real man (because most women are smarter than you anyway…and they're not giving you a taste of their honey, never) you'd burn up inside your plastic armor. Have a PowerBar, you look hungry.
Another sad fact is that you are outrunning your reflexes. Most of you couldn't stop on a dime if Scarlett Johannsen herself spotted you the change.
To add real insult to injury, if you had real balls, you'd be out testing your game in city traffic. That's right, home-slice. Doing the Steel and Rubber Slalom with 10,000 new dickheads on a daily basis. Monday thru Friday, twice daily. Let's see you come around a corner and bullshit your way thru an MTA bus or dirt-hauler. Advantage: other guy.
One more thing: Mahal'o for being you—have a nice day!
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