Sex and Cycling. Or why is it OK for a man to get excited about his car, but not his bike?

The Daily Telegraph in London reports a case of a man and his bicycle in flagrant delecto.

A certain Robert Steward was discovered in his room at the Aberley House Hostel in Ayr, Scotland, making love to his bicycle. He was found naked from the waste down.

"The accused was holding the bike and moving his hips back and forth as if to simulate sex", the court was told.

Police were alerted and Mr Stewart placed on the sex offenders' register.

There has long been a love affair between man and machine. Often not reciprocated. Cars do not start on cold mornings, computers crash in the middle of presentations, bicycles go slower than they should, especially as you get older.

But whose business is it to come between a man and his consenting machine? Or a woman's for that matter.

And if a bicycle is not true the seat of passion, what is?

Yeats reminded us exactly where "love has pitched its mansion". And in this case, wrapped tight, sleek, shiny and intimately around a slim piece of leather.

It's where a woman rests her most sensitive parts, and where a man struggles to keep circulation in his.

In fact cycling is rife with what Monty Python calls Naughty Bits. The truth is we ride for exercise, camaraderie, adventure, independence, to get outside, to get from A to B.

And sex.

What? You haven't noticed? Who has not followed a comely bum of the opposite sex (or the same one, depending on your druthers) and not pedaled a little harder?

What long and tedious ascent has not been made more agreeable by the sight of someone in fine physical shape pumping energetically in front of you?

It's not for nothing that spin classes are loud with imprecations to "Push, push, push!", and "Almost there!" over sex-laden disco music.

As objects of transport, bicycles have always been machines to lust after.

And, it would seem, on.


"If you want to get to a better place, start pedaling."

---The Geezer

Meet Richard Head. But then you already have.

He drives a 4000 pound SUV with one hand and half a brain. He accelerates through stop signs, turning right but looking left.

His name is Richard Head. How do I know? I often call after him using the informal contraction of his first name. He always responds to it. That's how I know.

There are many Richard Heads out there.

Some of them ride bicycles, also with one hand and half a brain.

Now meet B. Itch. Her you also know. She walks across an intersection, after the lights have changed, shouting to an invisible companion located somewhere by her left lapel. She might as well have a stick or guide dog. She is blind, to everything around her, especially bicycles.

A cell phone turns an average citizen into a rude moron and public danger.

Welcome to cycling in the city.

To avoid these menaces, you must drive the car front of you, the one in back of you and one parked halfway down the block with the front door about to swing open. And still keep two hands on your bike. If you always think the worst can happen and probably will, you're probably Jewish.

But you may be ready when it does.

So remember the 11th Commandment God gave Moses: Thou Shalt Be Visible.

1. Wear the reflective gear. Wear the flashing light. (At night, wear the head light.)
2. Ride to the right of the center of the lane, not at the edge. where drivers will be looking for other cars and hopefully will see you. It will also keep you from running into a door just opening by Mr Head or Ms Itch on a cell phone.
3. Do not stop in a car's blind spot at a red light. Stop in front or behind. If you are behind, wait to see if the car is turning right when the light changes. If you stop in front, GO immediately. The car can turn right after you've left.
4. Don't ride on the sidewalk and then drive directly onto the road. No driver is expecting this so you can expect trouble. Anyway, if you are over 11 you are not supposed to ride a bike on the sidewalk. And you are over 11.
5. Signal. Put the arm out, look behind you, if you can, when making turns or changing lanes. Be obvious. (There is nothing subtle about staying alive on a bike in traffic.)
6. Do not pass cars on the right. When you get to an intersection a left turning motorist won?t see you. And the car you?re passing won?t run interference.
7. Never move left in a lane without looking behind you. Many cars find it a game to pass bicycles as close as they can. They think it is their road.
8. Never ride against traffic. Turning cars are not looking for you, they are looking the other way.
9. Rush hour is crazy hour. People are crazy to get to the office or home, crazy to have a drink, crazy having HAD a drink, crazy to beat the car in front and be first to the red light.

Finally, if the worst happens and you do run (literally) into our friends Richard or B, or they run into you, at least you have the consoling thought as you hit the pavement that they can call for help.

On their cell phone.

If you want to get to a better place, start pedaling.

---The Geezer

Bringing a knife to a Gunfight.

"Ain't it just like a *** (person of Italian American extraction) to bring a knife to a gunfight?"

---Sean Connery, "The Untouchables"

Last Sunday I went for a ride in Michigan. The ride was the annual Apple Cider Century. I was supposed to do the 100 miles, but then my sidekick dropped out and the thought of 100 miles on my own and only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to look forward to somewhat tempered my enthusiasm. And I forgot to bring the right bike. Instead of a road bike to eat up the miles at speed, I had my Tricross, which has many virtues, but speed isn?t one of them. And I am not the fastest rider myself. So the brilliant fall day became a succession of "Left", "Left!" and more "Left"s, with the occasional "On your left" thrown in for spice. I was passed by all the expected young hard bodies who had trained all year, heads low and bums high on the hills, new gear (not just the bikes) and, of course, not breaking a sweat. Then I was passed by larger bodies, more than zaftig let us say, more than large-boned even: very well padded, but pumping powerfully away from me. Even a young kid on a BMX went zooming ahead. I must have a different engine, I thought. Let's see, there is fast twitch and slow twitch. Maybe I am no twitch? What was I on my last birthday? Ah...
Turning south someone shouted "Who opened the window?" as the wind became full frontal. "Concentrate on enjoying this," I told myself. "What did you say?" myself answered, "I was busy trying to regain circulation in my right hand." As the roads diverged towards 100 and 75, I chose 62. At the end, we were stopped across the road from the finish, Route 12, where cops were directing traffic. When they gave us the signal to cross, I rose majestically on the Tricross, flexing muscles and looking strong, but inside with the relief of a horse eyeing the stable. Suddenly I found my right shoe caught in the pedal clips. Down I went, slowly, inevitably, ludicrously, ingloriously, slow-motionly, publicly. Crashing at the last 5 yards. I picked up myself and what was left of my dignity ("Are you all right, sir?" asked the underage policeman far too loudly), and went home for a bottle of wine.

At least I know how to finish a ride.

Human behaviour is based on incentives. So are my rides.

If you've read University of Chicago economist Steven Levitt's "Freaknomics" you'll see that incentives play a huge roll, if sometimes in an unexpected and certainly unconscious way, in how people act.

I was probably aware of this last Friday when I rode 15.5 miles through farmland and vineland to Three Oaks in southwest Michigan. It was 90+F, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the land was art directed perfectly for high summer in America. The road gave off visual heat. The heat seemed to bake the land and its inhabitants as if making a cake for the fall. Turtles made their way lugubriously across the road, daring the occasional car blasting by. Cows ambled in slow-motion from preferred blades to preferred blades. Barns were busy slowly falling down. Farm machines seemed rooted to the spot, left there years ago. Fertility amidst decrepitude: corn was growing into its Lincolnesque stature. Soy was dense. Road signs were already up for the fall harvest stands. Road crossed road at right angles, perfect country for Roman Legions. I was dive bombed a few times by a bird who took exception to (1) my being in his or her territory or (2) my helmet or (3) the unexceptional progress I was making against the west wind. I'd hear flapping, a screech or two, than a scrap and small thump on my head. I picked it up a little in case he or she had friends. I kept checking my mileage to see if I was lost or had overshot the town, as I had done this ride 3 or 4 times before but always forget the road names. Was it Mills or Krueger I turn on, or both? The roads I clearly remembered weren?t clearly where they were supposed to be. More water. Finally I saw cars, enough to call traffic even, on a north-south road and I abruptly emerged from Terence Mallick's America to Hallmark's: a too picturesque main street still decorated for the 4th of July. Three Oaks is a town on the rise and they know it. I rode into town with just enough of loss of circulation in my right hand and nether parts to need to stop and refill the veins. There are two ice cream shops in Three Oaks. One is also a pizza joint. I chose ye olde fashioned ice cream parlor with the bench in front and the bike shop down the alley. The woman assured me I didn't need to watch my bike in Three Oaks. I asked for one scoop of Mackinac (that's Mackinawe, mate) Island Fudge with hot fudge sauce. I intended to recoup every single calorie I had spent that afternoon and lay in a few for the return ride.

I probably would have chosen the ride without the shop somewhere in the back---well, not too far back---of my mind. But getting there wouldn't have been half the fun.

And getting back I wouldn?t have had half the engine.

"IF YOU WANT TO GET TO A BETTER PLACE, START PEDALING."
---The Geezer