Just a bit of fun - let's laugh at ourselves!

Wannabe superheroes riding our streets
Author: CHARLES PURCELL
SMH March 22, 2010 - 1:07PM

Sydneysiders seem to have plenty of gripes about cyclists. Yet amid all the hubbub one rather obvious criticism seems to have been missed by most people. That is, their insistence on wearing skin-tight lycra. Memo to the shaved leg brigade: lycra belongs on superheroes, not cyclists.

Millions of cyclists in China, India and elsewhere around the world seem to get around perfectly without a figure-accentuating costume that might do Batman proud (the George Clooney Batman, who had nipples welded onto his rubber costume).

Nor do many female cyclists fancy braving the roads in the type of material that Wonder Woman might wear on her crime-fighting adventures, the cut of which is as prone to burst at the seams as the attire of a British female bobsleigh rider.

That leaves us with the Western male and his fantasies of omnipotence.

''‘Do you think their mummies never bought them a Spider-Man outfit?'' quipped one colleague as she raised the issue.

If there’s one thing those plums of Paddington and the buttocks cheeks of Balmain have in common, it's the love of lycra.

Seeing these cycling superheroes on the road, one half expects them suddenly to burst out of their costumes with a roar like the Incredible Hulk. Or perhaps accidentally unleash Thor's mighty hammer during a wardrobe malfunction.

There's no sign of Captain America, but Captain Annandale can often be spotted dispensing two-wheeled justice on the streets, his stars and stripes (or meat and two veg) on display.

Like Superman, they imagine that they're faster than a locomotive (if they're in the right gear), flying through lights on their way to the planet Peloton, leaving lesser mortals in their wake. Like Superman's alter ego Clark Kent, they wear their superhero uniform underneath their clothes, itching for the chance to rip off their merchant banker suits when the call for heroism comes.

They're no friends of the Phantom, the Ghosts Who Walks, because only suckers walk when you can ride a Ridley Helium like Tour de France hero Cadel Evans.

Sometimes you'll see the Cadel clones with their arms almost stuck out to accept beverages from passing civilians as if they're in the Tour de France, ready to down them in one, crush them in their mighty hands and then continue to race through small mountainous French villages that uncannily resemble inner-city Sydney.

The only thing missing from the superhero fixation is the cape, which is no doubt ruled out because it would get caught in the gears.

''Mate,'' my cycling friend will say, aggressively poking me in the chest with a tyre pump, ''maaate. What have got against cyclists, you car fascist? It's a healthy hobby and good for the environment. The road isn't just for cars. That lyrca prevents our thighs from chafing over long distances and absorbs sweat. My thighs can breathe in lycra.''

''Maaaaate,'' I’ll reply back, poking him back with a tyre iron from the back of my 4WD, ''I’ve got nothing against cyclists. I just don't fancy the sight of someone's lycra-clad basket sidling up to my window at the lights first thing in the morning. Surely lycra only belongs on superheroes. Do you think you're a superhero? Are you Batman?’’

He'll subconsciously adjust to a heroic pose, a frustrated champion living in a world that both scorns and mistrusts him, his sacred mission misunderstood. Somewhere across the city Commissioner Gordon will be shining the Bike Light into the sky, the silhouette of a Malvern Star appearing in the clouds, to alert him that the Joker is on the loose again.

''Batman was a DRIVER," he'll reply scornfully. "He should’ve traded the Batmobile for a Batcycle." He'll then look at my driver's physique scornfully. "And it wouldn’t hurt you to get on a bike and ride there,'' he'll add, with a final vicious blow to my stomach with the pump.

''But do you have to look like one of the backing dancers for Lady Gaga? Or Olivia Newton-John in the '80s?''

He'll pause for a long time, then say: ''Yes. Yes, we do, Mr Fat Man. Did I also tell you my buttocks are padded?''

I'm all for a city full of cyclists. But for god's sake, go and put some proper pants on. You're not Batman.

Charles Purcell is a Sydney Morning Herald senior writer.