To we yuppies, the slow looking bicycle is as essential an accoutrement as the pooch, and clothes with paint splatters. Our desirable inner city neighbourhoods (please, don’t call them "suburbs") attract so many hermit crab types—you know, they bring their children in from "out there" to play in our children’s parks, then go to our local cafés, as if they’re actually from around here—that it grieves us to be counted among them. Ha, but let’s see them come in from burbs on a Gazelle!
From left: Gazelle; Gazelle; Gazelle; Gazelle.
Oh and they would never think to wear paint splattered old shirts to the café, as we do on Sunday, on our Gazelles, with only thongs on our feet, wearing no helmets, all things they could never do if coming from far away. The painting shirt is to show Barry Barista there, that you have bought in. He only rents. The dog of course—that followed you down, not on a lead—has been an essential accessory to we agents of gentrification for as long as gentrification has been occurring. I believe in New York, tourists can rent dogs, to not look like tourists.
On left: a dog. On right: "Oh shoot, did I really come to the cafe forgetting to take off this belt?"
Place inner city bike paths into this discourse, and you can see why those dears out in the burbs get so irate. Those of us living here in the city, lobbied the mayor for these paths. We needed them, to play on, with these go-nowhere bikes. They’re like little mini-ten courts, only parading as holy transit.
Of course I’m not being 100% serious here, and I know I’m only speaking for a handful of wreckers. Wreckers they are though, and they have a way of seducing you onto their team. Thanks to my friend over at ArchiTakes, for this link to an article with far greater probity than I have been able to bring to the topic. Suffice to say, I’m not the first to observe that cycle paths are a site of class bickering.