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...And the Fans Go Berserk on the Roadside

By Maynard Hershon

I’m riding on the road around Cherry Creek Reservoir, a light-traffic training loop for Denver cyclists. There’s a rider 200 yards in front of me but no other sign of life. I’m on the white line at the edge of the for-cars part of the road, or maybe even in the bike lane to the right of it.

I’m moving along okay. Down on her aero bars, a woman time-trialist or triathlete has passed me. That’s her up ahead, getting smaller by the minute. I’m “on top” of an appropriate gear, I’d say, not spinning, not slogging, but moving right along. I ride like this for a few minutes.

Inches from my elbow a cyclist passes without a nod or wave or any acknowledgment of my presence. He slips out from behind me, unnoticed, and moves over 18 inches to miss me. Barely. He’s going one mph or so faster than me, passing as if we’re in a race — where you’d expect riders to pass this closely — and where he might benefit from saving a tiny bit of energy by jumping out of my draft at the last instant and just squeaking by.

For an instant, I think he might be on the front of a pace line, trying to lead it in the straightest line possible. But he isn’t in front of anyone. His close pass is only for me — so I can witness his confidence and command of the bicycle, I guess. Why else would he do it?

He brushed by as if he knew things he couldn’t know. It was as if he knew I’m predictable, knew he wouldn’t startle me into jerking my bars, knew I wouldn’t reach down for a bottle and swerve into him, knew I wouldn’t move over to miss a pothole or pavement crack, knew I wouldn’t decide to call my ride half-over and turn around without warning.

How could he know all that? We’ve all seen 100 cyclists do the things I’ve described; why shouldn’t I be the 101st? I’m riding alone on a lonely road. No way could I be responsible for riders who come up unseen and unannounced behind me.

Even if there was a chance that I’d do something foolish and take him down, he evidently felt it was worth the risk to make his silent, sketchy move. Why not move left 24 inches instead of 18? Why not wave or say hi? There must be a reason. What’s he showing me?

We’re roadies, he and I, dressed alike and riding similar bicycles. What do I represent to him? In his mind, is this a racecourse? Is he alone on it in a solo breakaway? Am I merely in the way?

Hey, if I knew you were in a race and I sensed you coming up behind me, I’d ride to a stop on the road’s shoulder and climb off my bike. I’d cheer as you pass, like an Italian fan on a Giro mountain pass. Go dude! Forza! You rock!

But as I looked around, I saw no officials in striped shirts, no support vehicles, no fans. There’s no race out here. We’re both just pedaling around Cherry Creek Reservoir. There are no prizes, no podium, and no category ladder to climb. No Phil and Paul. Why pass so close and so silently?

There’s a race out here today, but only in the guy’s imagination.

I realize I’ve seen him before and so have you. He’s the guy weaving through freeway traffic in his car, passing on the right, passing on the left. Other vehicles and their drivers are only minor irritants, mosquitoes to be brushed away. If his moving around so closely and so abruptly startles us, we’re just not aware of his mastery behind the wheel. Chill. We’re okay. He knows what he’s doing.

He’s the guy in the left-hand lane passing a semi truck when he remembers his exit is just ahead, the same exit he takes every day. He weaves across four lanes without using a turn signal or brake light, as if it’s a movie shot choreographed by Jerry Bruckheimer. It only looks scary to us. We’re safe as church. He knows what he’s doing.

We know this guy. He’s the guy for whom none of us is real. If we enter his consciousness we only represent problems to solve, impediments to knock away.

Even acknowledging our presence on the road or bike path is giving us way too much credit. Acknowledging our presence would mean that it’s somehow about us - if only a little. And it isn’t, no way. Let’s not fool ourselves.

He doesn’t want to signal or bother with red lights or stop talking on his phone or slow down for pedestrians in crosswalks. He wants to ride his fixie on the sidewalk and in the wrong direction on one-way streets. He refuses to put a muffler on his motorcycle. He wants to drive his pickup 30mph in supermarket parking lots.

If something he does bothers us, it’s our problem. He’s urban and suburban and rich and poor and male and female. It’s only about him. He’s all he needs. He knows what he’s doing.

He’s everywhere, this guy, and he’s never been wrong. He’s oblivious to us and our concerns and his lack of them. He’s never been troubled by uncertainty. Unbothered by pesky moral dilemmas, he always finds the right path — directly to what works best.

Thinking the best of him, he probably feels that he’s no different or worse than you or me. He’s sure we’re as self-centered as he is. Whatever he does is all good, even if other people find it rude or arrogant.

“What, were you elected king? Who are you to judge my behavior?” he thinks. He can pass us any way he likes on the reservoir loop — on his way to a heroic, pathetic Giro stage win.

Maynard has been writing about cycling for the Bicycle Paper (and the Rivendell Reader) almost forever. He says he’ll keep doing it as long as he can get away with it. “I do it for the money,” the Denver-dweller says, but we think there must be something about cycling that interests him.