Bicyclist or Cyclist: Who Shot Motorist?

“Police: Bicyclist fires shot in fit of road rage.” The headline from WISH-TV in Whitestown, Indiana sort of stuck out on my facebook news feed, not because it was alarming, but because I was offended at the use of bicyclist and cyclist and the complete omission of the term “a bike rider.”  While on any given day, I can be any one of the three, I am pretty certain it was not a bicyclist or cyclist that put the cap in the motorist, but likely someone riding a bike.  Oh there’s a difference.

Cyclists

The first clues are the .45 caliber bullets found at the scene.  A quick search of the internet reveals a .45 caliber hand cannon weighs between 27 and 37 ounces.  That’s a two pound gun, without bullets.  Clearly a cyclist would not carry a .45 caliber gun or anything weighing more than their bike frame.  A .45 caliber bullet alone weighs roughly 200 grams, as much as a Ritchey WCS stem.  There’s no way.  Cyclists don’t carry anything outside that which is absolutely necessary.  Instead of a wallet, cyclists opt for a zip lock bag with a cell phone, ID and the worst smelling sweat drenched $5 bill you’ll ever turn your nose up at.  If a weapon were necessary on a ride, say to drop the dead weight from a breakaway, it’d likely be a shiv carved from carbon fiber. 

Bicyclists

Clue #2 is the fanny pack, leading me to the bicyclist.  Bicyclists are known for over packing.  Judging from the three tail lights and seat bag big enough for a hoagie sandwich and a floor pump, a fanny pack with a .45 isn’t too much of a stretch.  However, the bicyclist is no honey badger.  The bright orange vest, helmet mirror and dual headlights blinking in the middle of the day are enough to tell any motorists to give them a wide berth.  Add a black tie and the good book, and I’m certain the bicyclist is not your man. 

A Bike Rider

The .45 caliber gun in the fanny pack clearly points to A Bike Rider.  Don’t be fooled by the photo of Beyonce.  While she falls into the category of bike rider, this category covers everyone from the person noodling down the bike path and cruising to yoga to those who lost their driving license to a DUI and the drug dealer.  The only thing that makes a bike rider a bike rider is the bike.  A bike rider is going about their normal everyday business on a bicycle.  Now if that business happens to involve a loaded three pound concealed .45 caliber pistol, I think you know who you’re looking for.

Double Drive-Train Unicorn of the North American Handmade Bicycle Show

As cyclists it's our mission in life to own every type of bicycle there is. I have a start. Carbon, custom steel, Ti, cyclocross, 29er, 26er, beach/grocery cruiser, vintage Schwinn, full boinger, hardtail, at one time even a footpegged bmx bike graced my garage. Headed into the North American Handmade Bicycle Show (NAHBS) in Indianapolis, I didn't know what I'd be interested in or, better yet what I'd like to take home if my Jimi wallet was stuffed with my share of cycling industry bailout money.

Like an old lady in the produce department at Kroger when the clerk turns his back, I found myself bouncing from booth to booth, taking a nibble of this and a taste of that. I marveled at the intricate pattern of leaves etched in Ti. I listened to a builder wonder aloud at how his all copper bike would look in coming years as he passed his work of art into the hands of the master of all painters-oxidation. As a sewing machine buzzed through a row of stitches, I stuffed my melon into a freshly custom hand made while-you-wait cycling cap. I saw a 29er dwarfed by a 36er, around the corner a bike with tires wider than those on a Yaris, and in the middle of the hall stood the immortal Chris King in the flesh.

I developed temporary ADD, too much too take in, too much to touch, too many times I said, "oh my god, check this out." Focus. Focus. Focus. I looked for a diversion. Then I saw it. I could vote for the cycling equivalent of the NAHBS's peoples choice award. I snatched up a ballot, and thought of my criteria.

It was simple really. I set out to find a bike that I could call my own AND that no one else had ever seen before. Suddenly I was set free. No need to fondle a another carbon road bike, custom 29er or a sub-16 pound steel cyclocross bike. No offense to the artisans in the house, I set out to please myself, so to speak. I passed the ballyhooed bamboo bikes with ease, gave a nod of praise to legendary Richard Sachs, and whisked by the stationwagonesque utility bikes.

And, there it stood, my double drive-trained unicorn from Broakland Bicycles. Blue. Simple. Unique. I wrote number #246 on my ballot and dropped it in the box.