Part 1: The Bridge
While riding with recumbent friends one day,
We crossed a narrow bridge along the way.
This one-way bike path, fenced, with tall bamboo
Is tight for wide-track trikes to pedal through.
The group strung out and I was riding 'sweep',
Engaged in thoughts more frivolous than deep,
But fifty feet before the bridge I heard
A brusquely booming voice that barked each word –
"ON LEFT!" it bellowed. I pulled to the right,
And then was shocked by what came into sight.
The voice was female, though its tone was bass,
But I was still surprised when in my face
There suddenly appeared a huge behind,
Expansive, though with Spandex well confined.
Her shorts were gaudy, patterned – EEK! –
Like something worn by some odd circus freak.
My view once she had made the pass
Was mostly mammoth, multicolored mass.
And then she rashly, rudely roared up on
The next recumbent, much less brain than brawn
Displayed (in spades) as she roared out again,
"ON LEFT!" – like some old badger from its den.
But here the path was simply much too tight
For anyone to pass, 'ON LEFT' or right,
And there was very clearly not a chance
Of making room for those expansive pants.
I wondered how poor Christy, next in line,
Would handle this obtrusive, pushy swine.
But Christy coolly gave her one quick glance.
She looked ahead as though in some calm trance;
And then with quiet, placid certitude,
To no one in particular, she cooed,
Just "I don't think so," then discussion ceased,
As Christy simply flat ignored the beast.
At last we crossed the narrow bridge, and free,
The Spandex covered human SUV
Charged past and, snarling, off and down the road.
She huffed and puffed like some big swollen toad.
I thought: 'We've seen and heard the last of her',
And that was what I'd very much prefer.
Part 2: The Grudge
But sadly, folks, this boorish biking broad
Soon found another 'bent that she'd maraud;
She pulled up next to Richard and began
The flames of her indignant wrath to fan.
It seems that she was mad, to say it plain,
And viewed recumbent riders with disdain.
She snarled and snapped: "Recumbents break the rules",
Insisting most (or all) of us are fools.
She whined and carped and bent poor Richard's ear
With gripes invalid even if sincere.
She bitched and moaned and carried on that way
Until at last she'd had her savage say.
Now Richard's mellow... Hell, he's almost sweet,
As super nice as anyone you'll meet,
And not exactly someone you'd expect
To be the target for such disrespect.
But hey, he's cool; he calmly heard her out,
Then shot her down, with no bad words or shout.
"Sometimes I ride with this recumbent group,
But other times I ride a longer loop
With guys on uprights, pace lines, tightly packed
Which takes not only rules but also tact,
I ride a hi-tech, big-bucks diamond frame,
But hey, you know, I'm me; I'm still the same.
"And I can get along in pelotons,
As well as with recumbent Janes and Johns,
'Cause people are just people after all,
And few of us have hearts and heads so small
That we must make distinctions like you do.
The problem, maybe, isn't them; it's YOU!"
At least that's more or less what Richard said,
The way that I have saved it in my head.
And if my version's not exactly right,
I'd rather not have anyone recite,
Or try to get me straight with, all the facts;
If I am wrong, I'm happy – just relax.
There's one thing more that I still need to say,
About the reason someone feels the way
The pedal pumping porker in this tale
Expressed in such laborious detail:
It's not recumbents, folks, that pain this lass,
That skinny seat is what gets up her ass!
Last updated Nov 26 2007