Had Genghis Khan been born today, there is no doubt he would ride a bicycle. Or ‘bike’, to adopt the sickening pretentiousness that inevitably accompanies the modern Mongol on his two-wheeled engine of mayhem. The bicycle is a scourge of biblical proportion; it is dangerous, it is absurd, and it must be eradicated.
The first issue with this monstrosity is its utter lethality. As silent as carbon monoxide, the cyclist hurtles down narrow streets, blinded by his own staggering conceit, flouting traffic lights and regulations with utter contempt. One moment, you’re walking calmly down a pedestrianised street. The next, you feel the contempt of the cyclist wash over you, and then the spoked reaper is upon you, slicing toes, tearing flesh, hitting you like a Greek trireme at ramming speed. The cyclist takes no prisoners.
And look at the sort of person this cyclist is! Consider his mentality. The cyclist is too good for walking. He cannot afford to spend fifteen minutes on foot; his time is too precious. He needs to show that he is better than us peasants. It is not enough for him to care about the environment; he needs everyone to see he does. And, even if this aim should cost him his life, what an end it will be! Splattered on a car windshield, sheathed in spandex, his monstrous ego mashed into that plastic buttock of a helmet. A martyr for his cause.
What is it about the bicycle that turns even the most respectable individual into a pompous extremist? It’s nothing but a puny piece of scaffolding with TK Max wheels. To ride it, one must either lean forward, as if to sodomise a medium-sized sheep, or sit bolt upright, as if on the lavatory. To dismount, one must stagger, trip and fall, and then abandon said bicycle in the nearest doorway, fire-exit, or pavement.
But the worst thing, perhaps, is the sheer futility of it all. Why cycle at all? I accept that it can be fun to move quickly. So, why not get on a bus? Apparently they can reach seventy miles per hour. But the bus is not as ‘exciting’ as cycling, you say. Well, if you want excitement, there are various options open. Run down the stairs in the dark. Get drunk and try to shave. Anything. Just don’t trouble the rest of us with it. Many thanks. And, next time you come bearing down on me, ringing your pathetic child’s bell, I promise I will get out of your way.
But the samurai sword in my hand will not.