At the beginning of Bike month we posed a list entitled, Typology of Toronto Cyclists, detailing some of the different breeds of two wheeled travelers. After a safari pedaling around Toronto searching for more species, we came up with another batch of sightings. The Brute: Even the lowliest skateboarder hates this type of velo-gibbon. An incarnation of the Sidewalk Cyclist, or Pavement Pratt and a dangerous subcategory of The Meanderer, this fiend will go anywhere he chooses. He thinks he’s cycling through a village back in the old country and is mentally unavailable to alter his trajectory no matter what, especially while riding against traffic, or traversing the sidewalk. Pedestrians are a mere pest in this wazzock’s odyssey, in the same way poor white trash charioteers in motorized wheel chairs seem to act. Undeterred and pissy. The Weasel: The Brute’s nephew, rides a rusty old mountain bike like he’s just stolen it. He’s got a furtive look about him; as if he’s just eaten a nest of eggs, but to his credit he looks around a lot. He doesn’t consider the bicycle as transportation; it merely helps his little paws cover more ground. as he ducks and dives while schlepping something in a black garbage sack. Nanuck: Walking the four-legged beast is not something Nanuck enjoys, and so he reigns the hound to the bike and drags it with him on rides across the concrete tundra. Sometimes on the sidewalk freewheeling between pedestrians, or on the road, weaving in an out of traffic; the larger dogs can often handle the confusion, but more and more little dogs are being throttled, squished and if lucky, scarred out of their wits. Some dogs are even forced to do their business on the run, while Nanuck is unaware; merely satisfied that with every turn of the pedals, the animal is being run ragged in preparation for their return to the family dwelling. The Righteous Wheel: Thinks he’s the shit, which he probably is, because he combines stripped down courier lifestyle with Sai Baba philosophy. Lean like a thoroughbred from long rides in the saddle; he travels light, in cycle cap, tight shorts and official jersey. He might sport a mariners beard and few well positioned tattoos, but to him, cycling is the spiritual and religious path to the almighty. This fixed wheeled friar, combines his daily task of cranked flagellation, with some yoga, a simple diet and books of wise words. Out on the strip, he’s a barracuda, with no time for the small fry and if pushed, will slap down anyone who doth not follow his law. The Accessory’s Accessory: A new love meets you with their sizzling hot single speed and you think how attractive they look with their two-wheeled accessory. If it was 1976 you might feel the same about the owner of a Dodge Charger. You never see them without their gleaming two-wheeled stead and to you, man and machine, or girl and machine, become one glorious horned antelope. You are then forced to upgrade your two-wheeled apparatus, in order to keep this relationship alive. When you turn up with your version of their accessory, it strikes a chord of adoration in your new lover and you can now flow along the asphalt together like mating waterfowl, each mounted on board your own accessory. High Heel Rider: A subcategory of The Cycle Strumpet, this fun times girl likes to take risks, but has difficulty knowing when to stop. Her eyes rarely divert from what is in front, too concentrated on the slither of pedal that her footwear occupies. Nonetheless, this girl likes to travel light and has no bag big enough, if at all, to carry a pair of lightweight cycling plimsolls. I’ve never actually seen the same high-heeled rider twice. Does it happen with the split from a boyfriend who had four wheels? Or is the truth in fact, that high heels grip to bike pedals like nothing else? I’m not sure this riddle will ever be solved, unless I take up cross-dressing and try myself. Transvestites on bikes could be a category unto themselves. White Wizards: These silver fox warlocks are over fifty year old , dressed head to toe in cycling accoutrement. You never see these old cycle ninjas wearing anything else, except their skin-tight cycle robes. They go to bars dressed like that, watch television, do the gardening, probably go on holiday. Like an old knight who refuses to give up the codpiece, these cycling druids in spandex will one day be buried in their regalia, for the fibre of the fabric harnesses their power. And so, the White Wizard cycles around his shire, inspecting his business, fanning his old feathers, occasionally stopping to chat and puff on a cigarette, or pap on a pipe. Note: Some White Wizards growl like old lions, while others will tell you secrets that come from underneath their helmets. It just depends on which patio you find them and how many beers you offer. Candy Kids: This platoon of The Fixie Brigade are in their early twenties, born in the day glow era of the early nineties. Visions of bubble gum pink and neon green must have stuck to their childhood retinas like shit to a blanket, because anyone who decides to spend the money on a painted day-glow chain wants to retreat back to their youth. The total cost for this effect, which includes matching rims, frame and bar tape, must have come from Granny. Either way, it is their first real status symbol as they start their adult lives. The Trumpet: Ah the Trumpet. The 80’s were your era and back then you were a most gorgeous Cycle Strumpet on the strip, but like the rubber on a tire, it all wears out. The good news is, you’ve survived all these years on the bike between relationships and finally realized your mortality and have thus bought helmet and lights. You often ride alone, but occasionally join the mammas cycle brigade, as mobile support auntie. Respect is due. The Champ and Champette: Both in their late twenties, but act like an old married couple. He dons a climber’s style bike helmet, perhaps in olive green and rides an Oxford, or a Cambridge (a reduxed old British Raleigh), while she straddles a hot black Dutchie. Both have large red backlights and more than adequate beams up front and declare their road signals early on and with military precision, before they turn off to Loveland. Non-confrontational, they do their best to stay that way and avoid any fracas, but will use the full power of the law available to them, in order to press charges. The Wobbler: After a few too many, The Wobbler takes to the road looking like he’s trying to ride and obstinate pig. Hands gripped firmly, shoulders in place, but from wrist to elbow, it’s like jelly. The front wheel rotates suddenly as if possessing a mind of its own. He digs in the spurs, glares ahead and finds a wobbly line, weaving and endangering himself, pedestrians and small dogs alike. He may even wave an arm at traffic occasionally, but only if he is assured of his control. If he’s over the top, and having serious trouble with his inner rudder, he will veer either toward curb, or parked car with obvious results. The comforting thing is, the wobblers, will usually hear the shrill ring of a bike bell behind them and will stiffen for a brief second allowing you to pass with stealth. The Unicyclist: OK, a thirteen year old going along the sidewalk to school on one wheel is forgivable- just. If an adult travels on a unicycle, amongst traffic, they should be treated like lame animals and put down. Or sent to a traveling circus. Either way, we don’t want them back. Typology of Toronto Cyclists I
