Our journey, frought with perils
The Guardian has a bike blog, which is a pretty cool resource for those who like to have a semi-public forum for their complaints (can’t imagine someone so self-centered, but hey, to each their own…) Today’s entry goes on at length about some new study which indicates that bikers are more likely to be hospitalized because of an injury than car drivers. File under “no shit, Sherlock” and forget? No chance.
“There is considerable current interest in obesity and in encouraging people to take more exercise, including making journeys on foot or cycle rather than by car,” they write. “There is also an obvious environmental case for increasing the number of journeys made by non-motorised modes. However, in some circumstances, when people feel that it is unsafe to cycle or walk they may be right.
It goes on and on. I don’t know what’s worse – the fact that someone felt the need to conduct such a study, or the fact that the Guardian printed it as though it were news. Is this all you have to do to get a degree these days? Cars are dangerous to cyclists, the public can now be told. Good lord, Britain, is it any wonder you’re about to lose your shorts in the bloody desert slave pit called Dubai?
As the article states, there is considerable interest in obesity, but not from this corner. I myself have no interest whatsoever in obesity, and wish the fatsos would stay inside eating chips and watching television where they belong. The only place better for them would potentially be Dubai, where they can lose weight staggering between shopping centers and die a quiet death along with all the Russian mobsters and twiggy sluts we also don’t need. There’s nothing more alarming than the sight of a puffing, perspiring muffintop blocking the cycle path with its girth – well, there is the sight of a woman driving a Jaguar, but that’s another can of lipids. The fact is, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and cycling in the city ought only to be undertaken by those who are at least able to achieve an aerobic state when they exercise. Sweating because of exposure to the sun doesn’t count.
A close second to the blubbery barges of the bikepaths is a prize belonging to the group responsible for the largest number of trips to hospital in this fair village: pregnant women. Or rather, post-pregnant women. For some reason, there is a reproduction boom on in the Czech Republic. They’re popping them out over here faster than you can say, “can I buy you a drink?” with the resulting spawn immediately ensconced in the largest strollers known to man and wheeled about in the busiest sections of town, to the dismay of all but the chattering swarms of women who serve them. Honestly, how big does a stroller need to be to hold one baby? All the specimens I’ve had the misfortune of seeing at close hand are rather small – compact, even – which works out to be their most positive character trait (until they’re old enough to drink). So what gives with the Hummer carriages? Spindly little women who not 9 months ago would’ve balked at carrying a plastic bag of groceries up two flights of stairs now clamber around behind the handles of machines that wouldn’t be out of place in a forward base in Helmand province.
They block the sidewalks, they clog the crosswalks, they howl up a perfect storm of complaint if you even look like you might want to go where they intend to go over the next five minutes. I, for one, have had it. Ban the cars, ban the fatsos, ban the babies. Ban them all, before we all end up in the hospital.