Episode One in my chronicles of riding a bike around San Francisco:
The train began to decelerate and sound its arrhythmic, metallic chime. They were getting close. Though a few minutes remained before he would be free from the train, in his mind the Rogue Biker was already gone. Bagman sat at his feet. Only being half full, Bagman was unable to sit straight up and instead modeled an apathetic slouch. Helmet was slung to Bagman's side by a black fabric chinstrap. They waited.
Finally the train's doors opened.
"It's about time." Bagman chimed, clearly unhappy with his temporary job as a foot warmer. People poured out of the train like so many baby spiders breaking free from a cocoon. Five minutes later Rogue Biker was on the street. His companions were clearly ebullient to be serving a purpose again, and had launched into what should, in the interest of accuracy, be referred to as a catch song. High marks for enthusiasm. Then Rogue Biker saw something that caught his eye...
By now he recognized most of his fellow 8 a.m. bike patriots. This biker was different though. He was not sporting the expensive, skin-tight bike gear that many choose to wear. These brightly colored getups always reminded Rogue Biker of a superhero costume designed by a two-year-old. No, this biker was different.
"He's riding a girl’s bike."
"Thanks, Helmet." Rogue replied, only halfway serious. Regardless of the truth of this statement, it was easily disregarded given Helmet's penchant for misogyny. As it turns out though, he was probably right. Giveaway one: the crossbar was a diagonal number, not the manly crossbar that runs parallel to the ground. Why cross bars would be positioned like this for men, who have so much to lose by falling on them remains a mystery. Giveaway two: The seat was one of the wide, easy-cruising, plushy affairs. Protruding from below the seat was a pair of conical springs looked like the electrified gonads of a doomsday automaton. That combined with the slacks that were fully tucked into his argyle socks painted an all-to-clear picture; a greenhorn.
If you could see a printout of what was going through Rogue's head in the first instant that he laid eyes on this biker, it would look something like this:
Logic nugget one: This man has a cruiser seat. The more comfortable the seat, the more you are on it. The more you are on the seat, the less you are pedaling. The less you are pedaling...well you figure it out.
Logic nugget two: His pants were tucked into his socks. This meant that he was worried that he might snag his pants on the outer gear. This means the outer gear is not occupied by the chain very often. This means he stayed in the lower gears. Rogue's lower gears still shined bright as the day they came off the show floor, totally unmarred by chain grease.
Logic nugget three: He was riding a girl's bike. Though this alone was not sufficient to discount his biking abilities, it did mean he was riding a bike that was about eight inches too small. Not allowing your legs to reach full extension while pedaling was like playing cornerback in the NFL without arm bones.
Conclusion: This dude has got to be smoked...