The Enemy

For the first time, I brought my MP3 player out on the bike tonight. A week ago, I put the effort into creating a “Cycling” playlist on my Zen Micro including badass songs such as Superunknown by Soundgarden, Feel Good by Gorillaz, Hysteria by Muse, and Sex Type Thing by Stone Temple Pilots, to name a few.

The reason today was the first time wearing the headphones while riding had nothing to do with other than forgetting to grab the damn things every night I walked out of the apartment with the bike. This afternoon, though, I made a mental note, and I even went so far as to tie a little red string around my finger, in case you’re wondering.

Anyway, the music was a welcome addition to the exercise. I’m not sure if I'll be able to listen to the same twenty-five or so tunes every time I go out for a ride, but I’ll keep up with the same soundtrack until I grow tired of what I’ve put together. Part of the reason I had avoided filling my head with music while I rode immediately after I began cycling had to do with the fact that I was somewhat concerned with losing the ability to detect traffic and other cyclists approaching from the rear (my rear, that is). Putting that concern to bed, I strapped my Zen Micro to my arm and headed to Central Park for an eighteen-mile ride in ninety-five degree weather.

(Honestly, the heat’s not so bad when you’re on a bike. Granted, I’m riding both in the evening and in the shade when the sun’s dropping damn close to the horizon, yet it’s the breeze that makes the steamy heat bearable. If not for the breeze whipping over my skin, I could never bring myself to exercise in this weather, although one of the advantages of riding in extreme weather such as today’s is the lack of traffic. Not that it’s so bad riding through the park when the lanes are filled with chicks, but it can be somewhat of a pain when flocks of self-righteous pedestrians decide to cross Park Drive without so much as a glance to their left or right.)

Anyway, about halfway through my ride, I was cruising through a section of the park which I lovingly refer to as Horseshit Alley considering the steep volumes of horseshit that layer the right side of the street from the tourist carriages when I heard someone behind me screaming, “On your left! On your left!”

I understand what this means. I understand someone’s about to pass me on the left and this person is ensuring that I avoid swerving to my left as they pass. I’ve heard it before and I’m sure I’ll hear it plenty more during my time on the bike, but what irritated me this particular time was that this particular donkey about to pass began clapping his hands, as if he were dealing with some sort of circus animal.

Regardless of the clapping, the real problem was that I was fast approaching a jogger on my left and I had another biker on my right, meaning I had little room to maneuver. God forbid Mr. Clap My Hands had to slow down a bit, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I spotted not another cyclist but a goddam fruit loop wearing inline skates.

You know the kind of skates and skater to which I’m referring: the guy with the bicycle helmet, the bicycle jersey, the bicycle shorts, the ridiculous goattee, and those inline skates with nineteen wheels. That’s who I had attempting to pass me on the left and he wasn't alone. Oh no. There was a line of at least ten of them bearing down on me.

As soon as Mr. Clap My Hands began inching past, my immediate reaction was: “I don’t think so, [expletive deleted].” Rather than let them go, I clicked up a gear, got my ass off the seat, and began to sprint.

I began riding harder than I have ever ridden in Central Park, absolutely attacking the ensuing series of hills while stomping on the pedals, clicking up through the gears. Two minutes after I started the attack (check me out, using racing-related terms like attack), I glanced over my shoulder to see how much distance I had put on the stupid skaters.

Not much. They were less than two seconds behind me and showing no sign of slowing. It was then that I thought, “This really shouldn’t be happening.”

Did you have any idea inline speed skaters were so damn fast? No kidding, I must have been pushing at least twenty miles an hour. How the hell were these guys keeping up?

Rather than back off, I kept on the attack, absolutely pushing myself until my chest was heaving and my thighs felt ready to ignite into flames. I actually pushed until I could take it no longer, until my legs told me to go [expletive deleted] myself and I felt ready to collapse. As soon as I let off the gas, the freaking skaters passed me and never looked back.

On one hand, I’m sort of happy I got pissed the way I did and pushed myself harder than I’ve pushed since I bought the bike. On the other hand, I got showed up by a bunch of glorified rollerbladers. I had no idea these freaking skaters were as fast as they were. After slowing for a few seconds, I decided to see if I could catch up and pass them again up the big hill on the north end of the park.

I thought wrong. They were long gone.

Almost a lap later, I was again overtaken by a trio of fast-looking cyclists, all of them wearing matching red and white gear (I’ve seen them before yet have no idea who the hell they are). And then they were immediately overtaken by another group of inline speed skaters, which meant I felt a lot better about myself.

Actually, I'm lying. It doesn't make me feel better about myself at all. Who the hell am I trying to kid? I got passed by rollerbladers. Clearly, I'm not working as hard as I should be on the bike. That's gotta change.