May 6, 2005: In light of the media's recent focus on the NASCAR dad, I thought I'd offer some thoughts on some of our fellow denizens of the asphalt.

One State, Two State, Red State, Blue State

Left-leaning social critics have produced a veritable deluge of editorials, essays and polemics in an effort to explain the "debacle" of last Fall's election. "The left lost," they tell us, "because we've lost touch with the rural white male." If we were to follow the logic of such tracts to its conclusion, it would seem that the liberal focus on "identity politics" was the driving force behind Dubbya's triumphant return to the Whitehouse. Liberals need to embrace God, tone down our criticism of Wal Mart, back off on gay rights and squelch our efforts to attack racism and sexism.

In other words, we should stop being liberal.

Personally, I don't really buy into this thinking all that much, although the left's renewed focus on economic division, and their recognition that the class gulf widened under the supposedly "liberal" Clinton administration, is certainly welcome. Let's face reality here: the Republicans remain the party of the social elite, even if they have managed to distract certain segments of the population away from lower wages, dwindling benefits and mediocre schools by invoking the redneck's trinity of "God, Gays and Guns." For an excellent discussion of this trend, I emphatically recommend What's the Matter With Kansas, by Thomas Frank.

Before we get too smug—or we insist on sacrificing too many ideals or causes in the name of reaching the "man in the street," we might consider the example of a young, college educated woman who told an NPR news crew that she was willing to vote in favor of a candidate willing to focus on security at the expense of health care, education and job security because—hold your breath—these things wouldn't matter if you were killed by a terrorist.

In fact, I'm rather convinced that a substantial portion of Bush's voters were affluent shareholders and denizens of gated communities, the people the media ignored in its rush to focus on some form of populistic uprising against "intellectuals" (seemingly defined as anyone employing a polysyllabic vocabulary and ignoring Fox news) are the very privileged folks who almost invariably vote for those who roll back the regulations and fill the coffers.

But I digress. I promised a look at some of the fascinating individuals who frequently make my daily sojourns into Washington County so very interesting.

Now given our supposed newfound bond with the working class rural male, I should eschew the high road by avoiding any disparaging, if truthful remarks about these types and their ways. Road cyclists are by and large a rather privileged group—after all, not many people can afford the privilege of wearing padded, 10 gram, aerodynamic, isothermally breathable bib shorts worth more than the GDP of a sizable developing nation. And our steeds themselves employ more high-tech metals and exotic composites than many top flight automobiles.

We're a well-educated lot, we 2 wheeled types. Our local teams are sponsored by doctors, lawyers, insurance companies and hospitals, and there are times when I wonder if a master's degree is a prerequisite for joining a club ride out to the local coffee haunt of choice.

So if the reporters and fatuous handwringers are correct, then this may explain the fact that so many of my tormenters are teenaged boys and semi-articulate local types of undetermined professions. Particularly the latter, who are engaging in a form of "class envy" in reverse: working class conservatives attacking professional liberals.

That so many teenaged males hate us is understandable: their ball caps invariably restrict circulation to their underdeveloped brains, and their insults, ball bearings and firecrackers—generally employed from within the safety of a 2,500 pound Honda Civic replete with carbon fiber rear wing and funky decals—provide the fodder for countless tales of how the boys bravely faced down the godless bicycling hoards and saved western civilization from some fate beyond their limited comprehension and vocabulary.

But our young antagonists can't even wear their hats correctly, and they probably harass roadside critters and lawn statuary at every given chance, so we shouldn't feel too privileged at drawing their attention.

Nor can we count among our implacable foes the ranks of the automotivly incompetent who, while posing a major physical threat to our well being, aren't deliberately targeting us for harassment or extermination. The arrogant businessman would swerve in front of you if you were driving a hummer with spiked "Roo bars."

Which brings me to the real "enemy."

An Encounter

The red pickup pulls alongside, and a frenetic blaring of the horn breaks my concentration. Startled almost to the point of crashing, I glance to my left. I spy a pair of eyes so dull that not even the slightest glint of intelligence could escape. My shoulders tense as I half anticipate the driver's door swinging open, depositing me in a crumpled heap in some godforsaken ditch.

I'm lucky today; the driver yells "Git off duh road," and accelerates away. I'm not sure what I've done to antagonize him, other than to exist, but these encounters occur with a disconcerting frequency here in western Pennsylvania.

Were I to buy into the current apologia for such foibles, I would argue that the miscreant was venting his rage and frustration at leading such a miserable life. His job is menial, his pride belittled by a tyrannical boss, his values attacked in schools and his very existence parodied on a variety of media.

Screaming at a lone cyclist on some back road might be the one form of agency he has left, the one act of authority he has available.

In a more reflective moment, I might actually feel sorry for him, but it's hard to muster sympathy for people who are prone to verbalizing their frustrations by lobbing garbage at a complete stranger, rather than engaging in meaningful political activism aimed at improving his lot in life.

There is also a far more pernicious explanation, one that also involves the "cultural" discussions so in vogue in recent months.

It is quite possible that the sight of a grown man in spandex is an affront to Bubba's deeply ingrained sense of masculinity. Real men drive trucks, girly men ride bikes. Real men wear jeans and boots, girly men wear spandex and shoes with carbon fiber soles. Real men guzzle beer, girly men drink Extran and Enervit. Bubba's homophobia takes over when he sees any man who fails to display his masculinity in a conspicuous manner.

Unlike the ball-capped boys, who sling offense from the safety of a moving vehicle and operate in small groups, Bubba (and Bubbette) aren't quite so inhibited when it comes to sharing their views of the cycling hordes. Their epithets range from statements showing a modicum of intelligent thought—"Use the bike trail," "Git off duh road," to the utterly prosaic, all-purpose "faggot," to the completely indiscernible "heyyuhje."

So who is Bubba? We might approach this important matter by discussing who Bubba isn't. "Bubba" is not a synonym for the working class male, the vast majority of whom show me about as much respect as anyone else. Bubba is not a member of the construction teams who wave me by, nor is he likely to work for one of the ubiquitous lawn crews sprouting up in the warmer weather. Bubba isn't likely to be a typical next-door neighbor, nor can we say that he is representative of rural America.

Bubba may well have a bumper sticker that reads "The South will rise again," which strikes me as odd, although the Mason Dixon Line isn't too far south. Bubba probably believes that all you need to know in life can be learned from Fox News, the WWF and NASCAR, although many believe this, and they aren't all bike-bashers. Bubba doesn't seem to like environmentalists, female bosses, gays and lesbians (unless he's watching the latter on a tape rented from the local gentleman's club) or Democrats. He believes that real men win through sheer muscle mass, and he deeply resents the ascendancy of the educated classes. A man who listens to classical music is as much a target as a rider on a $4,500 Lightspeed.

He seeks a time when men like him dominated his subculture. This, despite the fact that his ancestors probably always occupied one of the lower rungs of society. The American Dream is both something to be pursued and scorned, because while Bubba hates uppity college folks, he probably has enough sense to pick up on the scorn consumer culture heaps on those who don't have the latest and greatest material objects.

He will most likely claim to be deeply faithful, without seeing the irony of his strikingly un-Christian actions. He may have a new sense of power following the Fall elections, this despite the fact that his job is even more likely to fall victim to the "free market" vision espoused by those in power. But he idolizes that power, believes in a rigid social hierarchy and lusts for a social order where every person knows their place.

There are Bubba's all over the country, but we seem to have a disproportionately high percentage here in the Pittsburgh area. I once rode nearly 200 miles on rural roads in South Carolina—supposedly a fertile breeding ground for Bubba's type—with nary a blared horn or hostile word.

While I frequently encountered firecracker-chucking, bottle-lobbing teenagers in Upstate New York back in the benighted 80s, their antics never approached the regularity of those of the troglodytes around here, where every other day seems to bring about yet another incident.

So what can we do? I often fantasize about the day when Colnagos and Merckxs come equipped with retractable laser-guided missiles, chain guns and death rays, but such exotic weaponry would no doubt add significantly to the bike's weight. I can see it now: "Campanolo Tachyon Death Missile, now with carbon fibre shell and titanium seeker head. Just 450 grams of pure defensive punch!" Some friends have suggested that I pack a pistol, and I've heard that this is a growing trend. However, the practicality of firing a pistol from a moving bicycle on rough roads in an effort to hit a fast moving vehicle is questionable at best. Besides, if they've done something that truly deserves extermination, you're probably not going to be in any position—or condition—to snap off a round or two.

We could always criticize them publically, but that seems to be passé even among the "cultural elite." In all seriousness, there is something lamentable in the fact that a fairly substantial groups of adults scorns the weak and cleaves to the most reactionary of anti-social behavior, even as they themselves are frequently the victims of power.

Besides, their own actions often prove to be the fodder for purely unintentional self-parody.

My currently philosophy is one of passive resistance: ignoring their actions, lest I encourage them more with a scowl or obscene gesture. Instead, once the brief moment of anger passes, I smile to myself when I think "Some day, I might have your child in my class, and I'll have a chance to encourage her to think" (Bubba hates critical thinking).

But in the grand scheme of things, improved education and a truly concerted effort to focus some attention into the plight of the working class would be far more constructive. True, it's difficult to summon a deep sense of respect for someone who will go to the mats to defend his boss's right to avoid OSCHA inspections even as the same individual joins a group protesting against evolution in the local high school. I really can't relate to the man who buys consumer goods at the local Wal Mart "because they care about the worker" when his company is in the process of succumbing to the push for low prices. Nor should we back down on issues such as racism, sexism and homophobia: such beliefs form much of the core of Bubba's thinking. However, we might also add additional concepts to the leftist's social cannon: classism is hardly dead. Perhaps if we were to expose the contradictions of a system which rhetorically espouses obedience but punishes those who obey, a system the extol the virtues of compassion even as it cuts support for those least able to help themselves, we could make some inroads.

We also need to give them something else to hope for, a real sense of being able to gain some headway in the morass surrounding many of the working poor. We could start by attacking a consumer culture that uses the promise of material acquisition as a yardstick for proof of salvation on Earth. We could also try to feel more empathy for them, but I concede that it's tough to feel a bond with someone who's just chucked a beer bottle at your head.