The Paostian Deal

I don’t know how to ride a bike. I mean, I can “back ride” one—as long as Matthew McConaughey was driving it—I just don’t know how to use a bicycle myself. I never learned. Probably I preferred acne over knee scars and leg trauma that would haunt me when I hit 38.

On the same universe, I never really wanted to learn how to drive a car either. Unless of course a Matthew in sleepwear was in the passenger’s seat, in which case I… nah—won’t be driving either. He’ll drive and I’ll… well, I’ll take care of the gear. Or something. But, more seriously, I didn’t study driving because it is my eternal principle to avoid the worst part of modern living at all costs, no matter how naturally predisposed I am to it more than with Friend bashing: road rage. I am actually doing the world a favor.

Then this. Lately the biking industry figuratively and literally has gotten in my way. Question: When you, a seasoned bicycle user, pedal your way around, what’s your main point?

Do you want to flaunt your extra “basic” skills? Are you tired of natural efforts and now relying on machines for the rest of your life—in using sidewalks? Or do you, who are not in China, just want to enjoy your toy?

Or you’re simply a malaria-stricken chicken who’s too useless that you can’t even annoy others without the aid of thin wheels?

The other week, I was walking my own business when a bike came from opposite my direction. I saw it and the mustache driving it, of course, and like a virgin backing away from a starving rabid dog, I stepped aside to give way. As if the entire parking lot wasn’t big enough for everyone. A few seconds later the bike was three feet to my face then, in a micro moment, it swerved. Right to where I was. Then he sped off to the other direction, but I swear I could hear the leprosy-reject laugh: I had a hilarious aghast expression and it surely made his day.

A few nights later, on a well populated sidewalk, a similar thing happened. This time it was a boy on a blue bike: I was grating myself against the vendor stalls because I’d seen the bike coming my way. Just as the bike was before my face, the kid again swerved to my spot—and there was no space left for me to move to. But that’s not all: “Stupid!” I heard the uncut mole shot at me in the vernacular. For even the cockroaches underground to hear.

E kung hindi ka ba naman isa’t kalahating inutil na bobong tangang kupal na supot na kutong-lupang hayop ka (Sorry, English lovers, no can translate)—I squeeze myself into the stinky gaps between the stalls for you and your stupid bike and you still want to pass where I stand? This is a sideWALK, moron. How did your cheap mother bring you up, to be as stupid as her own cheap mom? You dumb closet fag!

Now this morning, I was crossing a street. When I reached the middle “isle”, I stopped: because I Saw A Motorbike Rushing some 50 feet away behind a traffic light and I wanted to let it pass before I continued walking. But the driver saw me too, and apparently he wanted to play Mr Nice. He slowed down as he neared, then motioned me to cross. I didn’t move. He had the entire road ahead to himself—not to mention the horde of moving metal behind him. He slowed down… to a halt in front of me. Then he said the magic word like the future impotent-prepubescent did before speeding off. WHAT THE. Is there a brotherhood of bikers out to humiliate me to oblivion or something? If there is, then they’re doing a good job pissing me off.

Confusion: I stay away from driving because I’m afraid of engaging in road rage. Yet apparently, on the other side, I can be provoked to spit lava too.

I can’t wait for teleportation to be invented. And total idiots to be banned from the streets.