Ever since writing about The Pretties aka the Beautiful Godzillas I've been noticing cute girl bicyclists. I saw a beautiful woman with straight black hair and an imperious gaze and a taupe bicycle with turquoise trim standing on the wrong side of the road while waiting for a light to turn. I've seen pairs of young women bicyclists riding side by side inclining their heads towards each other to share a joke And No One Bothers Them. I've reviewed every close-call incident I've ever had with another bicyclist and confirmed, it's never been a Pretty. They do whacked out stuff like ride on the sidewalk or up the wrong side of the street or stopping suddenly to check their make-up or fingernails but they do not have near death experiences like the rest of us. Why? They're supremely slow. A good roadie is travelling at 26mph andwhen things get dodgy disaster strikes fast. Pretty Godzillas? They literally don't want to break a sweat. Sweating is for losers. Sweating is for Uglies aka you and me.
It was an incident of a few nights back though that sealed the deal for me. The setting: a pleasant summer evening. I'd left work and biked the eight miles or so as fast as I fucking could. My backpack was glued to my sweaty back. My hair was stuck to my face. I probably had bugs on my teeth, I often do. I was delighted with the number of roadies I'd cooked on the way home and then I got to the intersection of El Camino and Sand Hill. That was when I saw them: Two Pretties, a matched set.
Their bicycles were boring and cheap, washed up mountain bicycles from some department store that was having a going out of business sale. These particular Pretties looked to be about eighteen years old. The one nearest me turned her Thoroughbred head and gave me a vapid gaze that communicated that she vaguely saw something nearby that appeared to be totally middle-aged and obsolete. Ewww.
I looked at her with interest. She had on a dark blue bra made of something soft. Over the bra she had on a pale pink tank top with spaghetti straps. Her shoulders were a little bit tan. She had long dark honey-colored hair. She was wearing incredibly tiny denim shorts that barely covered her rump. Her friend was dressed similarly and they shared similarly bored expressions on their symmetrical faces.
The light turned green. Denim Shorts had left her bicycle in a supremely high gear. She pedals off slowly, languidly. She has a fantastic rump. I mean I'm female and I could see that this was the kind of rump that can make a guy cry. And this rump with this jeans is standing on her pedals and turning the cranks in super slow motion.
I heard a pin drop.
This is the intersection where every goddamned day the light turns green for me and a dozen fucking cars run that light because the only traffic is from hapless bicyclists. Not that evening. This was the day not a car ran the light. In fact, this was the day I saw one guy get out of his car and put his hand over his heart and salute. There was another one on his knees next to the wheelhub of his Jeep Cherokee either praying and having a religious experience or moaning and having a heart attack. I'm not sure which but he looked pretty happy about it.
I mutely followed The Rump across the street and then took off for home, a realization growing within my bitter old chest.
If we're going to be saved, it will be The Pretties who save us. Who cares about running over a few kids? Well as long as no jail time is involved, I mean they probably had it coming, right? And grandma? She likely had one foot in the grave already, you're doing her a favor. And roadies? Ugly clothes and weird expressions on their faces. Commuters? Uglier and weirder. Also sweaty.
But a beautiful girl in tiny shorts on a bicycle? This, my friends, is something worth stopping for. I for one salute our new bicycle overlords.