On Your Right

If you've ever tried to enjoy a walking trail or drive down a quiet neighborhood on a Saturday morning, you've undoubtedly seen them. They run red lights. Blow through stop signs. And position themselves just far enough into the street to prevent you from passing. They travel in packs - or pelotons, I learned, after stumbling upon the Tour de France on some obscure late-night cable channel last year.

They're bikers – not the Hells Angels, shiv you for looking at my old lady type, but the leg shaving, farmer blowing, be-spandexed type – and they are the bane of my existence.

Unfortunately for me, I live in the absolute worst neighborhood to have an issue with bicyclists. I live three blocks from a 10 mile hike and bike trail. And my hood is evidently a gateway from the trail to the rest of the biking universe. In short, I see them everywhere, all the time. I've almost run over at least a half dozen of them and only a couple on purpose.

I knew I was in trouble when my first trip to the neighborhood grocery store resulted in a check out line traffic jam with two cyclists trying to purchase energy bars with their bikes on their backs. Inside the store!?!

So what's a six foot five, three hundred pound lover of all things air-conditioned to do?

I considered vigilantism. Allowing every biker I saw the full respect of the road until I witnessed one rolling stop, one un-signaled turn, or one improper lane change. Then, I figured running them off the road and into a sticker bush would be justified. Admirable even. I'd be an asphalt hero - returning the road to the SUV's and Sports Cars it was paved for.

No, I decided the best way to beat them, was join them. Now don't get me wrong, I have no misguided intention of becoming the next Lance Armstrong. I WILL NOT be shaving my legs. And I'm pretty sure they don't make spandex in my size.

To get started, I called the area bike shops, told them about my considerable girth, and was pointed in the direction of a mean looking bike with a sticker price just less than a small car. Of course, much like clear coats and floor mats at the auto dealer, I was nowhere near done. There was the helmet. Water bottle. Headlights. Taillights. Air pump. Gloves. Seat cushion. All this, and the thing still can't stand up on its own. I guess kick stands stopped being cool in the third grade?

Once fully geared up I took the beast out for a spin and I have to say - its just as fun as I remember it being. So I've decided to make a 5-6 mile ride part of my exercise routine, hitting the open road (or trail) three times a week. I'll be the one that looks like a baseball trying to balance on a toothpick. And if you see me weaving through traffic or ignoring road signs, by all means, take your best shot.