I hear them every morning and every evening. Feet thumping on the road, bike gears grinding. Jarred rhythmical conversation, words squeezed out between breaths. I hear them approaching from a distance, their conversation booming as they pass, “ya, ya, I know. AND Johno, what ABOUT JOHNO. YA DEFINITELY. YA, YA. AND TIM? YA, EXACTLY! YA, Ya, ya…”. White people doing road sports. They’re the fucking worst.
Their oversized SUVs safe in their double garages, they ride two abreast – squashed into expensive latex, atop custom built, custom fitted, overpriced bikes form Cycle Lab. Or run in packs, jostling for lead position, shouting into each others faces.
“AND WHAT ABOUT SCHOOL? YA, YA, WET PUPS. YA, THAT’S WHERE I’M SENDING BRADLEY. YA, YA. NOT SURE ABOUT THAT COACH. BUT YA. YA.”
You’re driving a car and need to get somewhere? Fuck you. These guys are on their way to their third Iron Man and a personal best. They’re on their way to a company merger. They’re on their way to Majorca with their trophy wives and delinquent children. They’re fucking shouting on a bike man! Doing 30 through the burbs. Shock absorbers and 48 gears bitch. Up since five.
Sleep? What! Fuck that. Sleeping in is for the unambitious. Morning sex is for fags. Who has time for that. These guys are lucky if they get to rub one out between protein shakes and morning meetings. You wouldn’t understand. These guys are under pressure man. You don’t know shit. High power. High energy. This is their escape.
“AND WHAT ABOUT CLAIR? YA. YA. MICHELE TOO. I KNOW, I KNOW. YA. WHAT CAN YOU DO. THEY’RE SETTING UP SOME DINNER. YA. YA.”
Wife and kids? Fuck off, they’ll get their time in Majorca. This is alone time. Free time. Time to think thinky thoughts, then shout them at Timbo, who is also enjoying his alone time, away from the wife and kids, and feeding the dog, and packing lunches, and dressing kids. They need this, or they’ll explode man. BAM! You have some brain on you.
This is it man. Success. Road sports either side of the work day. Extending that time out of home. Pounding the pavement. Pumping those legs. “PASSING RIGHT!” Iron Man. Triathlons. Looking good in the rugby box. Heart rate monitors and smart watches. Beers at the old pub after work. Screaming into your mates face.
“IS THIS SPAANSCHEMAT? NO, NO, IT’S NOVA. NEXT LEFT THEN STRAIGHT ALL THE WAY TO VIDA. YA. YA.”