Bike Nazis

   I found this once-white bicycle in the shed at the Vineyard.  I have no idea who put it there.  The shed holds a wealth of discarded boogie boards, broken chairs, an old dishwasher and possibly Tularemia  (which is why no one wants to organize it).  The bike's lines and rich rust tempt me to do a painting.
   I once biked everywhere on Chappaquiddick.  It was such a simple pleasure.  This was a time before Kennedy drove off Dyke bridge and turned our rural island into a must-see bike destination.  The roads are narrow on the island. My father didn't drive his oversized station wagon as much as wield it, hovering over the center line (his driving was legendary).   I used to be embarrassed when he leaned out the window and yelled at the clots of bikers, "Single File!"   In retrospect,  I find it admirable.
  I work in Alexandria, Virginia which is a bike friendly city.  I am not bike friendly.  I long to veer into these arrogant cyclists as they blow through every stop sign.
   Yesterday as I drove down Union Street, navigating past the parked beer trucks, parked cars and traffic from the opposite direction, a biker decided that she needn't stay in the designated bike lane.  She pulled to my left, to middle of the road.  I had bikers to the right me, bikers to the left and oncoming traffic before me.  I leaned out the window and said, "get out of middle of the road."  Poppa would have been proud.