Bike Snob - Anonymous [21]
They act as though they’re performing a public service, despite the fact that they’re the only ones out of all of us who are actually getting paid.
Compatibility with other cyclists:
Will allow Urban Cyclists to look at them and drink near them at bars. They hate monied interlopers, yet they will also model articles of clothing that cost more than their monthly salary for purveyors of Urban Cycling gear.
The Beautiful Godzilla
The Beautiful Godzilla is a particular kind of urban female cyclist who rides as though the rest of the world were created simply to yield to her. She’s generally young, good-looking, and clad in expensive clothes. She also rides an old three-speed or perhaps a ten-speed or Dutch city bike, carries her handbag on the edge of her handlebars, and if she has a basket it usually contains a small dog or perhaps a baguette. She’s on her cell phone at all times, and her approach to cycling in a densely populated city is a combination of self-entitlement and Mr. Magoo—type dumb luck. Like any self-entitled person, she can’t imagine a car would possibly hit her, even if she’s riding against traffic and it’s coming right at her. Actually, you sort of find yourself disappointed when it doesn’t. And just like Mr. Magoo would wander into a construction site and a girder would materialize right as he was about to walk off the scaffolding, the Beautiful Godzilla blithely rides through red lights and busy intersections, emerging on the other side unscathed and just as photogenic as she was when she entered it.
There’s also a male counterpart to the Beautiful Godzilla. Everything above applies, except he sports a fauxhawk, wears loafers without socks, and looks like the Sacha Baron Cohen character Bruno, or something out of Zoolander.
Why other cyclists don’t like them:
They should be dead but aren’t.
Compatibility with other cyclists:
Will accept deliveries from Messengers; will develop crushes on Messengers.
Retro-Grouches
Unlike the Urban Cyclist, who simultaneously seeks to marry the newest and trendiest to the oldest and most authentic, the Retro-Grouch always dwells approximately fifteen to twenty years in the past. This is because the Retro-Grouch has a passionate respect for the tried and true, as well as a profound disdain for anything that is either gimmicky or obsolete. Yes—older is not necessarily better for the Retro-Grouch. He has as little patience for yesterday’s tubular tires as he does for today’s fragile carbon fiber—spoked race wheel. The Retro-Grouch likes only what has proven itself over long periods of time yet has not yet been replaced by something better—though when it is replaced by something better, he won’t adopt it for at least ten to fifteen years to make sure that it is better.
Furthermore, you will find Retro-Grouches in virtually every area of cycling, though some areas inherently exclude Retro-Grouches. For example, you will never find a Retro-Grouch Triathlete (just like you’ll never find a vegetarian whaler). Similarly, you won’t see any Retro-Grouch Urban Cyclists, either. (Retro-Grouch Urban Cyclists are called “adults.”) You will, however, find Retro-Grouches on the road, on mountain bikes, at the track, and certainly randonneuring and touring. (Randonneuring and touring is Retro-Grouchery in action—they’re what pilgrimages to the Bodhi Tree are to Buddhists, or what Star Trek conventions are to nerds.) Retro-Grouches often have engineering degrees, know people who have engineering degrees, or have read many Internet forum postings written by people with engineering degrees. Also, much of their reasoning is sound, if irritating. Hallmarks of the Retro-Grouch include:
A Hatred of “Boutique” Wheelsets
Bicycle wheels are a lot like Tom Hanks movies. Back in the old days, Tom Hanks was an integral part of strong, reliable, entertaining ensemble comedies such as Splash, The Money Pit, and even The ‘Burbs. But then, something happened. People liked Tom Hanks so much they were willing to pay for All Hanks, All the Time. Hence, we had the turning point, which