Freaky Biker Dude

There is a guy who lives in my neighborhood who my wife and I have named "freaky biker dude."

I know his name, thanks to the local bike shop, but I won't use it here because I don't want to single the guy out for ridicule. If you have seen the guy and want to talk about him, ride up to me at a group ride and we can talk.

First the good. This gentleman is an outstanding physical specimen. He is not very tall and solid muscle thanks to hours a day spent on a bike. I wish I had the ability and determination to ride as much as him. It's July turning into August and when I saw him today his skin is already a dark coffee color reminiscent of the leather chair I am sitting in at Starbucks while I write this.

Anyway, atop his flat bar road bike or racing bike (I've only recently seen him on) he does miles a day in all sorts of weather. Rain, sleet or snow, the U.S. Postal service has nothing on this guy. When we see him, my wife and I make a point of calling or texting one another and saying, "You'll never guess where I just saw freaky biker dude?" It might be 20 miles from the house with a lot of difficult geography in between. I think this guy must do 100 miles a day. Easy. Probably on a rest day he does a century.

My friends and I used to see this guy around midtown we call AIDS Man. He probably does not have AIDS, which is no laughing matter, but he does have superhero abilities, of that we are certain. What he is is probably a heroin addict. Well, more than probably. Anyway, we have consistently amazed over the the span of, what two decades now, that this man still walks the earth. I saw him fall over one day at a bus stop and go into convulsions. I circled back to see if I should call 911, only to see him doing the same act again when another car passed. My guess is that he did not have bus fare and needed a ride. A friend of mine once saw this guy throw up in Barnes & Noble after riding an escalator.

Anyway, my obsession with AIDS Man has been replaced by Freaky Biker Dude.

So here is that bad part, and this is where I don't want to get too far into the story. He has a mental problem. He rides for a reason, namely, that I don't think he is allowed to drive a car.

And here's the worst part. He's going to get killed.

He rides a lot, but not fast. Ever. He's usually taking up a whole lane at a workman pace that is going to result in a fatal rear-end collision from a texting teen or distracted minivan mom. It's not a matter of if. It's a matter of when.

And if he doesn't get struck by a motorist, he's going to be gunned down after yelling at the wrong person.

Take today for instance. I pulled up behind him about a mile from our respective houses and he was angrily signaling to the car in front of him. I'm not sure why he felt slighted this particular time, but I can tell you it might be anything, including the mere act of passing his pokey ass. In fact, he'll yell at just about anything, including people walking dogs.

You see, I don't see Freaky Biker Dude every day, but when I see Freaky Biker Dude, Freaky Biker Dude is usually yelling at a motorist about something.

Someday I will stop seeing Freaky Biker Dude and wonder what happened.