Fixie Douche

I just read a local craigslist ad where a downtown assclown listed his fixie for sale. He said the bike doesn’t come with brakes because “brakes are for fakes”. Our burgeoning town has a small fixie group….Rocketing from stop light to stop light sans helmets, their little straight cut rolled up jeans, color coordinated wheelsets with straight bars about as wide as a stick of gum, Patagonia messenger bags, pro-style track stands (like that’s hard on a fixie), and a sloppy mix of dread heads and clean cuts. They work so hard to be so cool, that they should really have their own reality show or some shit like that.

After a road ride, a small group of us will roll into downtown on our way home – pretty spent, and more or less saying adios, catch ya next week…..invariably, some clown on a fixie will come rocketing past us, just drilling the pace up the big hill towards the Hospital. Sometimes I just let the ‘tard go. Other times, it’s on. I’ll chase, catch, sit on his big pink wheelset for a while, and then come around the patchouli-smellin’ scum sucker with a flippant “have a nice ride” followed by a shit-eating grin. The typical response from said dirtbag is “enjoy your gears”. I will, thank you very much. The fixie douche sums me up as ‘Mr. gear needing lycra-clad dork, middle age man, settled, ingrained in the establishment, sellout, diapers in the landfill, negative carbon footprint asshole’. Yup, that’s me. I’m looking forward to a hot shower in my house without 11 roommates, driving to work on Monday with satellite radio, and pulling the disc hand brake on my bike with one finger – the middle finger – when I see that fixie douche attempting a lame track stand at a stoplight.