America.
Sure, we’ve got our problems, but let’s set the cynicism aside and take a moment to unironically appreciate how lucky we are to live here. We’ve got fifty–count ’em, 50!–fun-filled states brimming with every sort of terrain and retail establishment and lunatic you could possibly imagine. It’s like Canada if it were interesting.
But sure, if you’re a cyclist, life in America can sometimes be difficult. This is because nobody understands us, and nowhere is this lack of comprehension more apparent than in our advice columns. Our drivers may fail to see us in the simple “Whoops, I guess I ran him over” sense, but our advice columnists fail to see who we are as people, and in a way isn’t that far worse?
Well, no, obviously it isn’t. But they could still do a lot better than this:
Or, more recently, this:
We’re all familiar with the whole Pando Cyclist phenomenon. Those riders were clueless enough, but in this case our advice-seeker is a Post-Pando Cyclist:
I’m a 40-year-old man, and I’m married to a 38-year-old woman. I took up cycling as a hobby several years ago. It was about a year after the pandemic ended, and I was feeling out of shape and depressed, and I was drinking too much. My daughter had just been born, my dad died six months later, and I was in a high-stress job I hated. It felt like my new hobby helped me be healthier, both mentally and physically.
He does two or three short rides a week:
I’m now at the point where I typically ride my bike four to seven hours per week (two to three times). The main problem is that my wife hates it. Whenever I mention going for a ride, she gets noticeably annoyed and makes passive-aggressive comments about my priorities. Outside of these few hours alone on the bike, I’m a very present and active partner and parent. I still do family activities after my rides and am conscious not to be a “blob” on the couch for the rest of the day.
And it’s driving his wife crazy:
At this point, it feels like she is just mad that I have something I enjoy doing that doesn’t involve her. If I replaced this hobby with another one, she would likely have the same reaction. I don’t know what else to offer as a fair solution. I think I’m within my rights to do something alone and have an activity that keeps me in shape. It’s literally the only hobby I have! I’m not willing to give up this hobby yet, and if I do, I would need to replace it with some other form of physical activity in order to stay sane and healthy, which would likely put us in the same predicament. Is there any middle ground here?
So the advice columnist weighs in with a bunch of generic advice that isn’t necessarily bad, but which betrays a complete lack of understanding of the cyclist mindset, and is not written in a way that a Fred can understand.
What Fred needs to hear the truth.
First and foremost, Fred, what you need to realize is that you should be thankful. See, the fact your wife resents you for riding your bike means she’s a healthy, well-adjusted person. As a new rider, you labor under the delusion that what you’re doing is important or even worthy of praise, but normal people understand that getting dressed up like this to ride a bicycle to nowhere is deeply self-indulgent behavior:
Sure, you may get a lot of pleasure from it, and you may want to be free to explore you newfound identity. You might even feel like your wife is preventing you from being the happy, fit person you were truly meant to be.
But believe me, it could be way worse. You could be married to another cyclist. This may sound like an ideal situation, but believe me, cyclist couples are just creepy. There needs to be at least one sane person in order for a relationship to function, and cyclists are inherently not sane. You know what a cyclist couple looks like? This:
You don’t want this.
Also, like most Freds, you seem to be under the delusion that cycling is transforming you into a desirable physical specimen. Nothing could be further from the truth; in fact, most cyclists suffer from a sort of reverse body dysmorphia which causes them to think grotesque attributes are somehow attractive. For example, did you know cyclists are actually proud of their tan lines?
[From here]
Also, as the years go on, your legs will become swollen, your upper body will become pale and emaciated, and you’ll realize the final evolutionary form of the cyclist, which is nearly identical to that of a plucked chicken:
[Cyclist at rest after an epic ride, from here.]
Look, self-delusion is bad enough, but it’s far worse when you start foisting it upon others by suggesting they should continue to share a bed with you–or worse, follow you around on an e-bike:
I’ve encouraged her to think of some of her own personal hobbies to get into and offered to get an e-bike so she and our daughters can tag along.
This is like a drunk telling his wife she should come to the bar with him and he’ll buy her mocktails while he drinks himself to death.
Of course none of this would have been a problem if your wife had known what she was getting into from the beginning. Instead you just sprang all this on her, like Kristi Noem’s husband and his boobs:
In your defense, it sounds like you didn’t know you were a cyclist, either. Nevertheless, had you been a lifelong Fred then your wife would already have known about and had time to come to terms with your proclivities–and more importantly, you’d have learned early on how to spare her from the worst of it. For example, you don’t say what time of day you’re riding, but if you’re like most new cyclists you’re heading out in the middle of the day, because you’re under the impression that Fredding is normal behavior. But real cyclists know that it’s best to ride early, when good, decent people are asleep. This way you come home from your ride when everybody else is just getting up, and you can pretend to be normal for the rest of your day. In your case, you say you’re riding from four to seven hours a week. This is about what a typical terminal Fred rides in a single day, and is very easily concealed. Like a furtive masturbator, an experienced cyclist could easily ride four to seven hours a week without a spouse or life partner even knowing he owns a bicycle, let alone identifies as a cyclist and rides one regularly. Frankly, your inability to ride a measly seven hours a week without annoying your wife is deeply amateurish.
But it’s true that nobody can hide forever, and ultimately if you want to be a cyclist, you have to come to terms with everyone hating you, including your wife.
Can’t deal with that?
Maybe cycling isn’t for you.