Fucking knobs on bikes

Like any large population, the cycling world includes a certain percentage of complete fucking knobheads. I don't think the percentage is any higher or lower than the knobhead level in any other population (apart perhaps from Canterbury Bulldogs supporters, and possibly Collingwood) - but given that so many people hop on a bike from time to time, it means that I run into a knobhead every day or two.

Some are just fleeting knobheads - they cause a few seconds of angst, and then they are gone. But others are rusted-on knobheads: one finds oneself stuck with them for miles at a time, fighting the urge to throw ones pump through the spokes of their front wheel, which will cause them to somersault over the handlebars in a violently satisfactory manner.

I met such a knob this morning.

I left early-ish; it was dark enough for me to need my headlight, so my first impression of the knobhead was not a good one. He had no light, no reflectors, no helmet and no bell - and he was dressed in grey from head to foot, which is the perfect camouflage around dawn. He was about as invisible to other cyclists and dog walkers and pram pushers as it is possible to get without an invisibility cloak.

He was also going a little bit below my cruising speed, so I passed him.

I thought no more of him, until he passed me about 30 seconds later. It was at that point that I discovered that he was one of those insufferably macho wogs (I bet he drives a BMW with a stupid numberplate) and he had deliberately kicked up the pace just to get in front of me. He was clearly working much harder than usual to stay in front, but he just had to demonstrate who was boss. He had to show that he was fitter and stronger than me.

Whatever.

He figured that I would take the normal commuting route up Lilyfield Rd, so he peeled off to the left having beaten me over a distance of about a kilometre. As soon as he was off the commuting route, he slowed down and almost expired over the handlebars.

I of course was also going that way, but I can keep up that pace for a hell of a lot longer, so I just tore past him whilst he coughed his lungs up. My last glimpse of him was of him scowling nastily at my rapidly receding back.

What is it with these guys? I'm all for passing slower moving bikes (and I do it every day), but I don't deliberately pick up the pace and try to pass someone when they are doing say 2km/h less than I am. I just tuck in behind them and enjoy the ride. Having to be in front of everyone else is just such a sign of rampant dickheadism.

Kind of like always dragging away when the lights go green. It's fun to do it every now and then, but doing it at every single light gets a bit tiresome after a while.

Dickheads. Can't ride with them, can't shoot 'em.