The Indignity of Commuting By Bicycle: Notes on a Scandal

People in New York love to leave each-other hand-written notes. It’s kind of like living in a giant apartment with a bunch of roommates, only instead of messages like “Lisa’s Cornflakes—do not eat,” “Please flush toilet,” or “Whoever keeps clogging the tub drain with your hair please clean it out (sample attached), ” the notes lean more towards “No dead cats in the trash” and “Please stop urinating on our front door.” I’m often tempted to follow people home and leave them notes when cycling in the city. Here are just a few I’ve drafted in my head recently:

Dear Fixed-Gear Freestyler,

If you’re going to pass me on a moderate incline, please continue traveling at the speed at which you passed me. Do not then sit up and silently congratulate yourself. This forces me to either sit on your wheel or in turn pass you, which will give you the mistaken impression I wish to race. I wish to do neither. I also am not interested in looking at the region where your back transitions into your ass, so please consider either higher pants or a longer shirt if you refuse to remain behind me. Please also consider either a brake or a larger gear so that when you reach the inevitable descent on the other side of the bridge you can travel down it at more than 12MPH. Until I encountered you, I didn’t realize a simple commute could make me feel like Borat being smothered by Azamat Bagatov.

Dear Guy On The Mountain Bike,

We were next to each-other at a red light. I lamely put my foot down like some kind of wuss. You, however, engaged in a violent trackstand during which you rocked the bike back and forth as though you were attempting to carve a furrow in the blacktop with your knobbies. You occasionally glanced at me as if to ask, “You want some of this?” In the process of attempting to stay upright though you dropped your chain. The light then changed and I clicked in and left. I hope you managed to get it on again while the light was still green.

Dear SUV Driver,

As I approached your door flew open and remained agape for what seemed like an eternity. I then passed and witnessed what I can only imagine will be the closest thing I’ll ever see to a live whale birth as you grasped each side of the door opening and attempted to extricate yourself from the vehicle. I thought perhaps you might be with child, however your gender leads me to rule that out. I pray that the vehicle eventually relinquished you from its handsomely-appointed interior and that you were not consigned to a Jonah-esque fate. I also suggest that in future you request a street closure in advance of your arrival so that you can flail and wriggle unmolested by traffic. Or at least consider some flares and cones.

Dear 2nd Ave. Bike Lane Salmon,

There was an entire school of you on old 10-speeds wearing skateboard helmets apparently heading upstream to spawn. I hope that the car-shaped bears did not thin your numbers too drastically as you valiantly fought the current on the way to your favorite mating eddy. However, if a few of you did fall victim, I remain philosophical as it is simply natural selection at work, and many of you seem to be carrying the gene for blithe unawareness. Like a toddler with a soiled diaper, I’d like to see that particular gene kept out of the pool.