Lycra Pride

It will be a great day when the Lycra brigade get over their fetish for stretch fabric and get real.

This morning on my way to work, wearing my favourite cobalt blue heels, sheer stockings and pencil skirt, I had the riding pleasure of sharing the road with a Lycra cyclist.

I don’t normally take great interest in who else is on the road with me, I’m too busy watching out for dangerous car drivers, put holes and jaywalking pedestrians. Other bicycle commuters are the least of my worries.

But lately I’ve noticed that the Lycra set seem to be more and more intent on letting their presence on the road be known.

This particular guy’s version of letting me know he was in the house, was to pass me, cut in nearly taking out my front wheel and then peddle furiously covering me in a delightful spray of wheel splatter because, of course, as a Lycra crony you don’t taint your streamlineness with mud guards.

It’s strange that to get past me he needed to be cranking it in standing saddle, instead of seated comfortably and funny that I, in heels and a skirt, managed to keep up with him the whole way to work.

It occurs to me that the Lycra gang, in the face of skirt-wearing heel-toting cycle chicks who ride just as fast, are having to seriously confront their ridiculousness and they really don’t like it.

I guess it’s kind of embarrassing to admit when you’re a gang-hoe bike thug that you went and spent a million bucks on an outfit that looks like it was made for a gay pride march when actually all you need to get about on a bike is jeans, thongs and a shirt.

So instead of giving up the fetich for stretch, the Lycra cyclist are on a mission to prove their Lycra serves some purpose, gives them an extra special riding experience and makes then go ultra fast.

Which indeed it does, that’s why they invented it for Olympic athletes. What the Lycra kids are missing is that there are no traffic lights, pedestrians, cars or stop signs in a velodrome.

So while I never catch a red light because I’m cruising from one green to the next, the Lycra bunnies mission it, in standing saddle, and then have to wait it out at the lights, squeeze out skirt wearers and generally ride like a bull dog on wheels.

It’s a riding style not far off the angst and aggression of a newly pubescent teenager, and when they finally take off their superman fancy dress costume and start wearing big kid’s clothes, we’ll all breathe a sigh of relief.