You know you need Bikers Anonymous...

You are NOT a candidate for Bikers Anonymous, if:

You hear "spoke," and you think, "Past tense of "speak."
You think of horses when anyone mentions a leather saddle.
And "Brooks" makes you think of men's suits.
"Stay" makes you think of dog training.
"Going downhill" is a form of deterioration
"Chain" has to do with jewelry,
and "pump" is a shoe.

....when you see a member of the opposite sex riding along, and you CHECK OUT
THE BIKE.

BS (but not totally)

when you try to find ways to make the commute home longer.

--Cheers!
Duke

From an unnamed or anonymous source posted by
http://www.bikejournal.com user profile koadkill32:

Are you a candidate for C.A. (Cyclists Anonymous) ?
CYCLISTS ANONYMOUS
It never really hit me that I had a problem until the day I rode my
bike into Winn Dixie and was halfway down the produce aisle, scanning
heads of lettuce and idly wondering if the worms in organic apples are
organic worms, when a clerk politely enquired as to whether the bike
racks outside were all full. I braked, dismounted, purchased my
groceries in as dignified a manner as possible, went home, called
Cyclists Anonymous. "Help," was all I said.

Hi. My name is Geoff,(coincidental psuedonym) and I'm a cyclist. (Hi,
Geoff.) It started so long ago I hardly remember anymore.... My father
taught me. My mum knew about it; she said nothing. My brothers and
sisters encouraged my habit, at first. All the kids on the block were
doing it in those days. It wasn't a question of peer pressure. It was
simply a way of life.

I still remember my maiden voyage. It seemed so terribly dangerous at
the time. Then I got used to it. I was hooked. The speed. The wind in
my hair. The freedom. As I got older, my mates kicked the habit. A bike
wasn't fast enough for them. They bought cars. Not me. I couldn't stop
myself. Everyone gave me a hard time, said "Why are you still doing
it?" but it was in my blood and I refused all offers of a transfusion.
There was constant pressure to quit, to move on to four wheels. You
can't go a day without being assaulted by the advertising, the
wheedling. My resolve never wavered. I learned to live on the fringes
of society. Literally.

I met a woman. She was like me. It was us against the world. Sometimes
we'd go tandem. The gear changes were incredible. I thought it would
last forever. But she grew jealous of the time I spent away from her
and on my bike. I was cycling alone more and more often. Sometimes
before breakfast. Really blatant warning signals. And I'd come home
late, claim to have been working overtime at the office. Really I was
going far, far out of my way on my commute. I'd double the necessary
mileage; triple it. Anything for more saddle time. I saw others like
me. Cyclists who had no earthly reason to be where they were at that
hour. One guy took to circling roundabouts, just for that extra little
kick. I saw his eyes. I could almost understand.

I'd come home exhilarated and out of breath, rush to the shower to wash
away the incriminating sweat. She always knew. It couldn't last.

It broke my heart when she left me for another man. He only rode on
weekends. Someone told me he had a titanium bike. She said that sort of
thing didn't matter to her, and to be fair, it probably didn't. It's
just my over-active imagination.

It all got a little foggy after that. There were entire days I didn't
go home. My bike was my home. My work suffered, naturally. Everyone was
very supportive. It's a progressive company. They even have showers and
other facilities for people like me. Eventually something had to give.
They let me go. Gave me disability, which is a bit of a laugh. It was
very kind of them.

Through it all it never dawned on me to ask myself if I could control
my cycling. Why would I want to control it? I wasn't a problem cyclist.
I knew my limits. But I guess you never really know them until you go
over them.

I see the way you're all looking at me. You're feeding off my
innapropriate endorphin rush. You're like vampires. It's sick. Relive
your own memories! Don't siphon me dry of mine! No. I'm sorry. I'm...
could somebody please give me a water bottle? (Sucks greedily.) Thank
you. It's just... these mood swings. They told me I'd learn control. My
body would adjust. I'd channel my energy into something else. I want
very much to believe them.

After I was let go I laid low for awhile. Regrouped. Cut my cycling to
almost nothing, only five days a week. I kept 'commuting' anyway, two
round-trips a day.

The only kind of companionship I could get was the sort you find
advertised in phone boxes. 'Full service'. 'I'll true your wheels'.
'French mechanic'. I know what you're thinking. But it wasn't like
that. I just paid them to talk. Routine maintenance, race results, tour
reports. It ran the gamut. One girl specialised in urban transport
issues. God, she was good. I'm not ashamed. It filled a void.

One night I was coming home. I saw a guy with a flat tyre. Stopped to
lend a hand. He said he had it covered. I insisted. It got ugly. We
scuffled. I was still drained from my 'date'. He pinned me easily.
Asked me what my problem was. I started blubbering. Couldn't help
myself. And I don't even like to mend punctures. He said I needed help.
I told him I knew. Then he told me about Cyclists Anonymous. He fixed
the tyre while he talked. He admitted his own addiction. I said it
wasn't like that with me. He stared me square in the eye, on the verge
of shoving my face into my own lie of a life. Suddenly this incredibly
compassionate look came over him. He said "We all have to find our own
grid reference." Then he was gone. It was the next day that I cycled
into Winn Dixie.

I know I'm among friends. They've even given me the number of a cycling
buddy. Somebody I can call when I find myself topping up my
Continentals at two in the morning. I just have to take it one day at a
time.

So. Who's up for a ride afterwards? Just kidding!

No, really.

(I take no credit for above)

Veloise wrote:
Have at it, folks!

...when you clean out your pockets and find five bike shop receipts,
three of which have consecutive dates!


~~~~~~~~~
Someone started this thread on our club's yahoo group, and it quickly
devolved to spouse-bashing (not unlike the "How to hide an expensive
bike purchase from your spouse" thread).

--Karen M.

Applies to all cyclists-
When you know not one but two tailors that will replace chamois pads.
Applies to MTBers-
When the mud covering your brand new frame doesn't faze you.
Applies to roadies-
When you no longer think twice about wearing colorful spandex.
Applies to weight weenies-
When you spend $250 to replace a perfectly good component with another
because it's 30 grams lighter.

Regards,
Bob Hunt

....when you pick up a new ride at the city auction, then check stock in
your basement stash...

to find that you have a set of grips, toe clips, and a seat bag in
colors to match the new used bike...

and it's a color that you've never owned before!

--Karen M.

"Veloise" wrote in message
oups.com...
...when you pick up a new ride at the city auction, then check stock in
your basement stash...

to find that you have a set of grips, toe clips, and a seat bag in
colors to match the new used bike...

and it's a color that you've never owned before!

--Karen M.

Well I think just about anyone who has been cycling for any length of time
fits into that category.
Ken

I wrote:
...when you pick up a new ride at the city auction, then check
stock in
your basement stash...

to find that you have a set of grips, toe clips, and a seat bag
in
colors to match the new used bike...

and it's a color that you've never owned before!

and Ken huffed:
Well I think just about anyone who has been cycling for any length of
time
fits into that category.

Au contraire! Brand new product, still in the packaging, picked up on
clearance or at a swap meet "just in case."

--Karen M.
just got more bicycle fabric from An Auction Site today...