I don't know if you've noticed this, but I'm pretty cool. I listen to alternative music. I wear a lot of black. I have friends in successful underground bands. I ride a sweet fixie with suitably positioned stickers. I live in the inner city and spend a lot of time drinking coffee at totally hip cafes. I wrote a zine that was reviewed favourably in other zines. I occasionally attend parties and see B level Neighbours startlets getting drunk in the corner. I'm on the Three Thousand email list, and hell, even know some of the people who write it. I've been vegan since way before it was featured in partygirl diet plans. I read books that aren't about imaginary worlds, or, for that matter, fantasy child wizards. I have hundreds of friends on facebook. When I rock up to the velodrome, or to a road race out in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, I'm pretty certain that I'm the coolest person there.
But if this is the case, why do the jerks, douchebags, nerds and jocks and lame-os, internet dorks and dirty uncles, self-important pedants and angry narcissists who make up the majority of the cycling community keep fucking beating me? Could it be that I've entered some strange world where the values I've cultivated and held dear for years don't matter? Some weird world where success is determined by measures unknown to hipsters all across Brunswick? Where the fuck am I? What the fuck have I done? Do I have to find some red Sidis and click my heels three times to return everything to its rightful place? At some point am I going to wake up and discover it was all a dream?