Or is it watching killers on TV?
One indication is the jerky behavior of the blokes who pass without warning.
I reckon one false move and we’d crash.
But we don’t—just a swift swoosh on the left (sometimes the right) and the bandit disappears.
Bicyclists are like cats: we have 9 lives. So many near hits and misses flying through downtown Portland show we live a charmed life.
I’m not sure if it’s the back-to-back episodes of Dexter I’ve been streaming or the muscles built from riding 60 minutes daily, but I swear my testosterone levels are up.
Sure, women produce testosterone—just in small quantities.
I get on my bike and the testosterone boils: I want to plough through slow pokes, just like the jerks who pass me on the path.
Obstacles include the Sunday joggers with their large pups on long leashes who take up the pathway.
Worse are the folks plugged with earphones, oblivious to the roar of oncoming pedal-pushers.
Makes me want to lift my leg and kick the yahoo in the bum.
My homicidal urge passes but I’m still one of the commuter-jerks who’d roll over a rubbernecker in a heartbeat.
But that’s just the testosterone talking.
Bicycle poster from http://bertinclassiccycles.com/category/bicycle-models/page/2/