Crazy Bicycle Guy

My morning commute used to take me down Santa Monica Boulevard, from West Hollywood to just about twenty-five blocks short of the Pacific Ocean. It’s a rough one, ten miles door-to-door that can take anywhere from forty-five minutes to well over an hour depending on numerous stupid LA traffic variables. The one joy I got out of my morning drive was seeing Crazy Bicycle Guy nearly every day.

Crazy Bicycle Guy was always decked out in a multi-colored jersey and matching bike shorts. No brain-cradling helmet for Crazy Bicycle Guy, he opted instead for one of those jaunty little caps, you know, with a ridiculously tiny bill that were popular the eighties (and for some reason beyond my comprehension, have yet to make a comeback). Crazy Bicycle Guy looked so much the part of a competitive cyclist that it was easy to pretend he was leading us through a dangerous mountain stage of the Tour de France rather than just weaving in and out of boring morning rush hour traffic. I was most impressed by his hands-free riding style, it was an amazing thing to watch. Pure grace and fluidity, as if he and the bicycle beneath him were one perfectly calibrated machine. Crazy Bicycle Guy could easily have been mistaken for a professional cyclist if he wasn’t, well, if he wasn’t…er…crazy. We’re talking koo koo for Cocoa Puffs®. His “look, Ma, no hands” stance was a necessity because his hands had to be free to flip off everyone he passed – while occasionally slapping the trunks of cars, cussing and clapping along with some tune no one could hear but him. It usually went a little something like…
Clap.
Middle finger to the right.
Middle finger to the left.
Clap.
Double middle fingers forward.
“fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.”
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Shimmy.
Middle finger to the sky.
Clap.
“fuck.”
Double middle fingers forward.
Clap. Clap.
“fuckyou.”
The entire time careening through traffic with a huge grin on his face…it was a beautiful. Crazy, and at first frightening, but beautiful. And there was a part of me that felt like Crazy Bicycle Guy was also expressing my feelings, my frustrations, my attitude toward the morning commute and the daily grind in general. Unfortunately I care way too much about what people think of me to go around flipping off strangers and yelling obscenities, regardless of how much I want to. But when I’d see a multi-color spandex blur approaching in my rear-view mirror I’d smile and think, “You tell ‘em, Crazy Bicycle Guy, you tell ‘em good.”

Last year I shifted my commute because my new route often shaves a whole five to eight minutes off my drive. The only problem is no more Crazy Bicycle Guy. I had to ask myself, if I’m not on Santa Monica Boulevard at 9:07am, does Crazy Bicycle Guy cease to make his morning rides? He’s like a tree falling in an empty forest…or am I the tree? Let’s pretend I was contemplating that very question as I sat at the stoplight on Formosa and Melrose last Saturday -- on my way to meet a friend for the meal of all meals, brunch – when who should fly by on his bike? Crazy Bicycle Guy! He flipped me off before clapping along with his inner soundtrack. I grabbed that “fuck you” gesture out of the air and pressed it close to my heart, like an Eric Clapton fan grabbing a guitar pick thrown into the audience. And then he was gone, pedaling off into late morning haze, launching f-bombs along the way.

He lives. He rides. He keeps it real. Thank you, Crazy Bicycle Guy, thank you.

Love,
Gretchen (Crazy Bicycle Guy’s biggest fan)


P.S.
If anybody has ever seen this guy, or even better knows him personally, please contact me. I’d love to find out whether he is fairly high functioning paranoid schizophrenic with a penchant for bicycling or if he’s just really angry at anyone and everyone around him and takes great pleasure in letting us all know about it.