Monday, July 7, 2008

Gangsta Cyclist.

Few of you know that I’m a hard core gang banger. Some of you may have inferred this due to my usual salutation, e.g. “What up, gangsta?” It’s just my years of hitting the streets bleeding through into my everyday speech. As they say, “Once a gangsta, always a gangsta…beee-aauch!!”

I first joined a gang in second grade. It all started when Mrs. Conrad’s class, a.k.a., the “Rockin’ Roosters,” started moving in on our merry-go-round during morning recess. Our leader, Juan Carlos De la Virgin Santisima, rallied us to a game a smear the queer, where we would go toe to toe with the Roosters and finally send them home cryin’ to their mammas. Just as the game started to get interesting, the recess police put a stop to it. Needless to say…I spent some time with the principal that day. It was the first of my many experiences dealing with the man.

I bounced from gang to gang since that time, all the while improving my thumb wrestling and jack knife skills. Perhaps the meanest, most bad ace gang I joined after second grade was the Barracudas. We were a rough bunch, recently immigrated from south of the border. Our families were just trying to catch a break, but bigoted home-bodies kept tryin’ to bring us down.

The roughest gang we dealt with was the Bombers. These guys were hard core. Apparently to even join you had to know how to tap dance, sing in tune, and stab a cop. Their motto was “Once you’re a Bomber you’re a Bomber till your dyin’ day!!” They always sang that in harmony when they hit the streets for a throw down. The craziest thing I remember was when little Frankie of the Bombers tried to hook up with the little sister of Nacho de la Virgin Grandisima, ruthless leader of the Barracudas. To make a long story short, Frankie ended up with a torn hamstring, never to dance again…

My days with the Barracudas taught me some hard lessons, mostly that I can’t keep a beat for crap. I had various offers to join gangs since that time but nothing has ever felt right…until recently. About two months ago I was approached in a dark alley and asked to join a bicycle gang.

The leader was called “the Nutritionist de la Virgin Saludisima” and is known as the most exotic gangta dietitian east of the Spokompten valley. Her right hand man, simply known as “Soup,” is built like a cinder block. I’d heard stories about these two before. The word is that the Nutritionist won’t take no for an answer and doesn’t mess around when it comes to shakin’ your booty. The Soup doesn’t say much. All I know is he won’t think twice about biting your finger off. So, as you can imagine, I couldn’t resist when I was offered a lifetime membership, full protection from other biker gangs, and a brand new Diamond Back, 21-speed, steel beast from Hell…

We’ve been rollin’ hard since that time, kickin’ trash and takin’ names. The Nutritionist takes the lead, and Soup rides shotgun with me. Nobody messes with us when we hit the trail; most of the time other bikers just speed on by, afraid we might try to stick ‘em if they look at us the wrong way. Yeah. I think I’m in this gang for life, whether I like it or not.