On the Bicycle Menace
Apart from the fact that it provided a commercial incubator for the genius of the brothers Wright, I can think of little to nothing good to say about the bicycle, a contraption whose time has surely come and gone, at least this side of the Great Wall of China. Surely making the city more "bicycle-friendly" makes about as much sense as making it more rat-friendly, though it may be said in favor of rodents that they generally know well enough to clear the streets and sidewalks in the face of automobiles and pedestrians alike.
That said, my chief objection to the contrivance is not mechanical but aesthetic in nature. While the antisocial tendencies of bicycle messengers are universally-acclaimed, it is equally beyond doubt that any person old enough to drink legally who rides a bicycle for transportation purposes is a consumer of health foods, marihuana, and foolish continental political philosophies.
Nor is it any better for atheletic purposes. Imprimis, you may take the most ordinary man off the street, seat him upon a very ordinary horse, and with only brief practice he soon looks the part of a country gentleman. Likewise you can take any person, put him on a fine large motorcycle, and he immediately acquires a certain hauteur, a frisson of barbarous vigor which, like the Vikings, is not entirely without noble qualities. Even a motor scooter conveys a gay jollity which is welcome in many quarters.
It is however entirely impossible for one to ride a bicycle and maintain any semblance of dignity, groaning and grunting, sweating and panting, leaning forward in a simian posture, showered by precipitation and debris from the street. Indeed, it is no mystery why the most enthusiastic riders of bicycles insist upon wearing clothing of the most egregious and preposterous variety; indeed between the lime-green shirts, blue tights, and pointy shoes, they are missing only the red nose and seltzer bottle that would complete the outfit. For I have always said that while it is best to blend in, if one cannot, then he ought to stand out. If you cannot be dignified, then at least be deliberate. Still, it is best that one avoid riding a bicycle entirely, and wait for halloween for an excuse to wear spandex in public.
Apart from the fact that it provided a commercial incubator for the genius of the brothers Wright, I can think of little to nothing good to say about the bicycle, a contraption whose time has surely come and gone, at least this side of the Great Wall of China. Surely making the city more "bicycle-friendly" makes about as much sense as making it more rat-friendly, though it may be said in favor of rodents that they generally know well enough to clear the streets and sidewalks in the face of automobiles and pedestrians alike.
That said, my chief objection to the contrivance is not mechanical but aesthetic in nature. While the antisocial tendencies of bicycle messengers are universally-acclaimed, it is equally beyond doubt that any person old enough to drink legally who rides a bicycle for transportation purposes is a consumer of health foods, marihuana, and foolish continental political philosophies.
Nor is it any better for atheletic purposes. Imprimis, you may take the most ordinary man off the street, seat him upon a very ordinary horse, and with only brief practice he soon looks the part of a country gentleman. Likewise you can take any person, put him on a fine large motorcycle, and he immediately acquires a certain hauteur, a frisson of barbarous vigor which, like the Vikings, is not entirely without noble qualities. Even a motor scooter conveys a gay jollity which is welcome in many quarters.
It is however entirely impossible for one to ride a bicycle and maintain any semblance of dignity, groaning and grunting, sweating and panting, leaning forward in a simian posture, showered by precipitation and debris from the street. Indeed, it is no mystery why the most enthusiastic riders of bicycles insist upon wearing clothing of the most egregious and preposterous variety; indeed between the lime-green shirts, blue tights, and pointy shoes, they are missing only the red nose and seltzer bottle that would complete the outfit. For I have always said that while it is best to blend in, if one cannot, then he ought to stand out. If you cannot be dignified, then at least be deliberate. Still, it is best that one avoid riding a bicycle entirely, and wait for halloween for an excuse to wear spandex in public.
Labels: the book of sansbury
posted by The Snob at
8:29 PM
1 Comments:
You obviously haven't observed me riding my dignified, upright touring bicycle in the city. As a whole, cruising past cars, through red lights, and around pedestrians, often in a tie, is a far more dignified, and fast, way to get to work in the mornings, than sitting stewing in a car in traffic, or getting sexually assaulted on the T as it stalls out for an hour on the Longfellow Bridge.
Furthermore, if we decide to start writing off entire modes of transport on the basis of the attire of a few undesirables, we'd have no way to get anywhere. There was a meltingly fat 20-something woman sitting next to me on the T yesterday, clad in a skin tight, criminally forshortened t-shirt that read "SOCIALITE" in glitter across the chest. But while there are many reasons to wish ill on the T, this isn't one of them.
And certainly your fondness for garish Hawaiian shirts would singlehandedly do in automobiles for the rest of time.
In closing, sir, you are a buffoon and not a gentleman.
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