I hate bicycles.
They have never made much sense to me. I see the world as comprised of three distances – walking, driving, and flying – and have trouble understanding the appeal of a mode of transport that goes twenty miles an hour and leaves you sweaty. If you want to cover a modest distance in comfort and not worry about parking, walk. If it’s too long or you want to stay out of the elements or you have to carry something heavy, drive. The bike is useless for getting to work – it guarantees a disheveled arrival, assuming there is even somewhere to park the bike – and a ridiculously complex method of getting exercise – surely there is a way to work out without crossing several ZIP codes. And the bike is the mode of travel most likely to get in the way of another mode of travel; pedestrians are slow-moving, buses are visible, boats and planes and trains obviously stick to their own networks, but bikes are guaranteed to weave their way on and off sidewalks, between parked cars, and the wrong way down one-way streets. Not to mention that crowds of bikes somehow evoke the poverty of Maoist China. Can’t stand them.
Still, every summer there is something wonderfully addictive about watching the Tour de France.