Blather on Bicycling

Little more than a week ago, my voice remained the only sound that could be heard echoing off the halls of this website. I had been meaning to send out a message to Reader prompting him to react to my entries. This is how my post would have read:

Yes, I’m talking to you. Yes you, the one in front of the computer screen. Don’t point your finger at your chest and glance behind you, like someone else is there. That’s right, I’m talking to you. I know you’re there. I’ve been tracking you with statistics. You visit my site regularly, even when I’m not posting. Why are you such a passive visitor to my site. Since I’m receiving no feedback, I’ve resorted to my own list of potential reasons for your silence:

1. Just like other East Oregonians, local cyclist Reader hasn’t advanced to Web 2.0 yet. The internet is some new-fangled technology that is no more than a fancy newspaper.
2. My prose is so magnific that Reader feels insecure and unworthy to comment for fear his inferior verbiage will degrade my literary masterpiece.
3. Reader doesn’t care.
4. Reader doesn’t realize he can scroll down the page and find more paragraphs and a comment section.
5. Reader has spent so much time reading and trying to understand entry, that he gives up and goes to bed.

Not only is Timberston the only courageous rider to take on Foothill, but he is the also the lone replier. I’ve had a bad dream. In it the evil west siders, in all their modernity, begin talking trash on my site. Then nary a soul comes to my rescue, not even in the form of a Spartan “Ha-ooh!” Timber and I are forced to disembowel ourselves to avoid the disgrace of capture.

That was then. This is now. My site has become an active chatterbox of social networking (in relative terms). Merely by happenstance I’ve solved the mystery. Apparently, the best way to illicit a response from Reader is to kick between the legs. This was only too obvious. Why hadn’t I figured this out a long time ago. I see this technique employed regularly in the sporting world. It’s typical male locker room behavior. Macho football player calls another a “faggot,” fight ensues. Baseball player calls the pitcher a “bitch” for some inside heat, benches clear. The ultimate threat to a male is to question his manhood. A reaction is instigated. After all, why else would lions eat their young, bull moose clash, or tom cats claw at the posterior were it not for an instinct to assert their authority of potency. Alas, homobicicletus pronus shares the same male instincts as lower order species like lions, monkeys, and humans.
So I’ve seemingly discovered the key to unlocking responsiveness here on my site. Let me give it a test:

Okay you Beaverton bitches. I see you on my site constantly. You check in more then La Grande. Where are your balls?

And again:

What’s up with you Portland pussies and your silent voyerism. Are you vicariously enjoying our snowy winters from your balmy eco-righteous digs? Why don’t you start typing with both hands and contribute a thoughtful comment.

And Boise. . .wait. You checked in just in time. Not balls out yet, but you’re growing some.