The Toughest Sixteen Year Old in Forest Hill, Perhaps the Whole World

Just as we must develop strong legs, a cyclist must also develop a tough skin when facing insults. Although bicycles have been around for quite a while and there is in fact a reason for why I wear the clothing that I do, why my shoes make sound when I walk, and why I have a helmet on my thick-skinned skull, bystanders still ask questions as avidly as if I just arrived with a sled dog team wearing a Speedo. Most of the time I smile and walk away when asked why I am wearing "tights", but every so often I will take the time to educate my tormentor. The Toughest Sixteen Year Old in Forest Hill, a town with a whopping population of 1500, is such a case.

Yesterday I was enjoying a chocolate milk in the afternoon before dropping the last ten miles into Chico. As I sat in the parking lot, two dirt bikes screamed around the corner and parked, drawing off their helmets dramatically as if they were delivering news from the battlefield. One was a dopey looking guy in his early to mid-twenties, the other was the Tough guy. They exchanged a few words, and I overheard that Dopey would go into the store to purchase two cans of Sparks, a half energy drink/ half booze concoction that undoubtedly improves the performance of any dirt bike. While Dopey was inside, Tough decided to chat with me while I finished my snack.

Tough: What the hell is that?

Trevor: It's a bike with a trailer attachment.

Tough: It looks gay! I'd kick your ass in a race!

Trevor: I sure hope so. You're riding 125 cubic centimeters of engine powered by exploding fire. Mine has two pedals and a trailer.

Tough: Haha, yeah! Real men ride real bikes!

(five seconds pass as we look at each other)

Trevor: Is that an insult or a compliment?

Tough: Huh?

Trevor: I mean mine is a bicycle, and the abbreviation of bicycle would be "bike." Yours is a motorcycle.

Tough: It's a dirtbike!

Trevor: A dirtbike is a kind of motorcycle.

Tough: Yeah, duh!

Trevor: Plus the bicycle was around way before the motorcycle. So who has the "real bike?" Or by "real" (by this time I was being facetious because I was annoyed) did you mean "not imaginary?"

Tough: What the hell are you talking about?

Trevor: Did you mean that not-imaginary men ride not-imaginary bikes? If so, I agree.

Tough: You're hella weird. The tights are starting to make a lot more sense.

(Our conversation ended just before Dopey exited with the two cans of Sparks. I mounted my bike as they enjoyed their beverages.)