Opposites, my friends.
Now, I don’t know this particular individual’s story, but I have my doubts that she’s a war hero who earned a Purple Heart and a Congressional Medal Honor in the same moment, becoming both seriously physically and mentally injured when she saved her platoon, resulting in this sad condition. Who knows? Maybe there actually is some medical reason for her sorry state. But most likely, we’ve got ourselves a case of acute self-inflicted, face stuffing derived immobility here.
But I’m getting off track a bit. Though they will catch some shrapnel, this piece is not about bagging on the Walmart Hells Angels: those who, completely by their own doing, have confined themselves to a life of…whatever they fuck you call that kind of existence. I’m going to avoid, as much as possible, rants on the abuse of body and rant about the abuse of another precious thing: the original concept of the handle barred, single passenger human powered mobile device: The bike.
Yes, the fatty mounted scooter is the polar opposite—neh, the bastardization—of our beloved cyclist mounted bike. And the beauty and purity of the original concept makes the misuse even worse. (And I’m not even going to factor in the fact that the scooter’s true target market is the elderly who have reached the unavoidable state that many of us will one day reach, where the body’s natural deterioration has immobilized them).
An analogy: Baseball is one of the most perfect and graceful sports around (whether one personally likes baseball or not, it’s a sport that’s given joy to billions around the world, so it can’t be denied that the sport of baseball is onto something). One of the most important pieces of equipment is, obviously, the bat. It was originally designed to hit a baseball. Not only is it fun, when done well, it’s a sight to behold. What it’s notdesigned to do is get 16 penny nails pounded through it with the intention of braining some poor bastard with it. And the fact that the bat’s intended use is so pure (let’s leave steroids out of the conversation, m’kay?) makes it even less cool*.
And when it comes to cycles, you can’t get more un-cool than a scooter hijacked by the obese:
The bike is powered by the strength of a fit person. The scooter is powered by a motor, weighted down and slowed, groaning under the weight of an unfit person.
One feels alive on a bike. I don’t know how the fuck one feels, pushing 4 bills, putt putting around on a scooter, but it can’t be alive, at least not in the emotional sense of the word.
It’s truly ironic (at least I hope it is, or I’m going to sound stupid) that one using the scooter because it, “gives me more freedom” (why do I always hear a southern accent when I read that line back?) is actually making that same person more sedentary, and sucking them further from the freedom of self-mobility.
Now, obviously biking is still alive and well and this abomination doesn’t prohibit me or anyone else from enjoying a bike, so why am I ranting about it? First off, I’m ranting!! Also, when a super hot, straight-A prom queen has a fat, serial reproducing, chain-smoking cousin with a suspended license because of all her DUIs, you wonder, how did that happen? It’s just food for thought.
But rather than mourn the bastardization of the bike, I’m going to use it to elevate its pure use.
Stick with me. Imagine a giant balance scale. On the lower side of the scale is 413 lbs of nutrition gone wrong on a groaning Rascal, ass and gunt cascading over all sides of the seat. On the upper side of the scale are two, no, three fit mountain bikers in all their glory, elevated toward the heavens by the sheer mass of the mess on the lower side.
And then the mountain bikers do sick drops off the scale, just because it’s sweet.
*Except in “Escape From New York,” when Snake brained up that big bald dude, because that fight scene was fucking rad! And Snake is fucking rad!).