Regardless of where you live and ride, doubtless you are subject to cluelessness on a daily basis. Here are just a few of the dumber things I've witnessed over the past few weeks while riding in NYC:Six or seven fixie riders of the beard-and-studded-belt variety gathered around a gas station air hose. Are you telling me not one of these people carries a pump? You've all got gigantic Chrome messenger bags! Do you keep anything in there besides six-packs of Natty Light, extra spoke cards, and autographed photos of those guys from "Flight of the Conchords?"
The guy on a fixed-gear Panasonic conversion with a step-through frame who hammered past me on the Brooklyn Bridge in full-bore attack mode, panting.
The middle-aged guy on the flatbar road bike, loudly chiding his wife for not keeping up with him on the West Side bike path. There's something so sad and pathetic about the guy who drops his wife or girlfriend on a casual ride. (Though justice was served when she proceeded to drop him a couple miles later on the 181st Street hill.)
The guy in the park who rides a Moots Ti with Zipps in baggy shorts and a t-shirt. (The first time I saw him I figured he was just on a test ride or something, but I've seen him a bunch of times since. Oh yeah--big ring, all the time.)
The guy on the brakeless Trek fixie conversion (there's something especially stupid about a brakeless conversion) in Manhattan who was forced to make a right because he couldn't slow down for the car in front of him making a completely safe and legal turn. The rider cursed the driver the whole way and had to go about halfway down the block before he could manage to slow down, turn himself around, and put himself back on course. (It was completely the rider's fault and I think it was the first time in my life I ever sided with a car.)
The triathlete with his aerobars positioned higher than his saddle, thus completely eradicating any aerodynamic benefits. (Wait, that's every NYC triathlete. These guys sit more upright than Amish people at church. Their position is about as aero as standing at a post office service window with your forearms on the counter.)
