Editorial: Seeing red over yellow jersey mob

For my sins I spent four days in Palmerston North last week.

With the onset of age comes heightened nostalgia and the inclination to wander through your old university, hankering for one's youth.

The aged humanities building still draws a tear. So too does wandering past my old English professor shuffling across campus, not recognising his former student who can still recall his magic description of Hopkins' sprung rhythm.

I say for my sins because Manawatu is green for good reason. Not only does rain persist down, it persists once it's down. The soil's clay base lies below pools that refuse to drain before being replenished by the next cold shower.

For all that it's a massively sporty province. The streets are a collective of runners, mothers jogging baby strollers and cars with kayaks atop. But without a doubt the most noticeable genre is cycling; swarms of this weekend ilk who subscribe to a kaleidoscopic, snug-fitting dress code.

At first I was mildly impressed considering the local climate is anything but conducive to outdoor endeavours. Impressed until I drove past a peloton of one such mob, legs pumping piston-like somewhere near the university, whereupon for some strange reason I was given the middle finger salute.

Now I'm technically obese and naturally consider anyone who exercises excessively not the full quid. Maybe they sensed we were from different camps.

About two years ago overtaking a few mobs of cyclists near Maraekakaho my 11-year-old son asked me: "What are they chasing Dad?"

What indeed. I still don't know. I suspect he suspected, like me, that there wasn't a worse waste of a weekend than dressing in ersatz European spandex to pedal yourself a new set of haemorrhoids.

But hey, I'd like to see more pedallers, preferably though of an ilk whose demeanours mirror their colours.

Sunday, I returned from Palmy to the Bay and wouldn't you know it I approached another group of cyclists on Pakowhai Rd. Riding at least two-abreast one turned, frowned and waved me on, like it was absurd for me to wait until the oncoming lane was clear to pass.

Twice in two days these road commandos had popped a cog in my direction. As a fat man it confirmed my suspicion that exercise is the new moral proxy. If this wholesome pursuit renders you miserable how about burying yourself in a book, good company or a Tim Turvey chardonnay instead.

Of course I wish pedallers no ill-will at all (it's how I get to work every day). But just a heads up to the next cycling evangelist who waves a finger in my direction - us jolly, portly, haemorrhoid-free folk are doing just fine, thanks for asking.