5 Reasons Why Runners HATE Cyclists

All the time. The head, the size, where it’s looking, if it should be ashamed; we try not to judge, but we do. And if your bib looks like you picked it up at a clearance sale (why else would you be sporting a flashy orange unitard), we don’t just see the outline of your junk. We see the flaccid guy, veins and all, staring at us while we are trying to eat brunch with our family at our favorite cafe.

Please drink your extra frothy espresso facing a corner or tuck your dick somewhere else. It’s called fucking manners. Thanks.

The creation of one of the biggest douches in sports history belongs squarely on you. As runners, we have our doping disgraces. Marion Jones, Ben Johnson, Justin Gatlin, any runner from Russia. However, none of them compare to whiny and arrogant Lance Armstrong.

At a certain level in racing, did almost everyone in cycling use performance-enhancing drugs? Probably. But no one has thrown more people under the bus and tried to blame others for their own misfortune more than Lance. Plus, he proved France right. Disgraceful.

Running is a reasonably cheap way to exercise. You just need a good pair of running shoes that will set you back about $150, and you are ready to hit the trails. But the amount of shit you cyclists have come up to don is astounding. Bibs, clip-in shoes, the Garmin heart monitor “you just have to wear,” the jersey from some local brewery so you can pretend you have a sponsor, eyewear that changes color, super-bright attention-seeking socks, aerodynamic helmets, gloves, arm warmers, the tiny fanny pack that hangs on the back of your seat (is this where the drugs are?).

So much crap!

Plus, the cash you have put into your bikes! Custom wheels, carbon frames, lightweight pedals, the teeny tiny seats that you probably get off on. Man, you guys are sick.

You do all realize you aren’t ever going to make it to the Tour de France, right? No matter how much money you spend on your outfit or how light your bike is, the Tour isn’t happening. Yet, you seem to find the need to ride in some sort of jersey matching pack, all across town.

It’s almost like you believe, as a middle-aged accountant, you have a slight chance of zipping up the French Alps next to Eagen Bernal while your teammates kick ass in your honor. Spoiler alert: no matter how hard you draft on your buddies wheel, you will never get to Paris.

Runners love to hash out problems in their head while their feet hit the pavement. It’s our form of therapy. We might be dealing with issues on the home front, editing that perfect finish to our novel, or finally figuring out the cure for cancer.

But, we lose all of our concentration after hearing “ON YOUR LEFT!” blasted out behind us. What? Where? Am I dying? Then you storm past, millimeters from us as if we were in the way, and all our precious thoughts evade us. And you just killed the human race’s chance to cure cancer.

Good job.

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