Dear Cycle-Hater, You can kiss my skinny Lycra butt.
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If you saw Avatar, we were the big blue monkeys. We existed in harmony with our surroundings, linked by the primitive desire to go faster, each warrior judged only by his ability to hang on.
And then the army of metallic vehicles descended, determined to take our roads by force.
They ran us down and danced on our guts. Our banana peels and water bottles bounced harmlessly off their armored hides.
The Cycle-Haters issued their terms of surrender: Ride single file. Stop at the stop signs. Get on the bike trail. Get off our roads.
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The roads do not belong to the fossil-fuel demons, their expansive bellies grazing their steering wheels, their Big Gulps clamped between wobbly thighs.
Put them in the Lycra they ridicule and they would look like Jimmy Dean sausages.
We will not allow them to banish us from what is as much ours as it is theirs.
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