Hello?

In this month's CICLISMO A FONDO, Joaquím Rodríguez, almost-formerly of Caisse d'Épargne, writes of the declining tradition of cyclists saying hello to each other on the roads. Time was, he says, that it was just considered normal to greet anybody you came across because the mere fact that you were meeting someone on a bike meant that you belonged to an instant kind of fellowship - the Fellowship of the Chainring, as it were. The tradition, however, seems to have been dying out, to the point where saluting someone on the roads is more likely to get you a strange look than a hello back.

Ignoring someone who says hello to you is something I've never understood. Obviously, if we're talking about blowing someone off because said person slept with your wife or sank your business, then that's understandable, to a certain extent. I'm talking about just everyday saying hello to someone - or even just a nod of the head or a flick of the chin to acknowlege that the other person, you know, like, EXISTS.

Maybe it has to do with being from a small town, coming from a place where the failure to say hello to someone would be common knowledge amongst everybody in the town within forty-eight hours. (If you think I'm exaggerating, you're probably from a place that has a population greater than ten thousand people, and doesn't have a network of secretaries, bank tellers and supermarket cashiers whose knowledge of the townfolk puts the CIA to shame.) Maybe it's because my parents were raised in the 40s and 50s, where people tended to be far more aware of their manners. Maybe it just comes from being Canadian. But damn, the number of times that I've said hello to people and just not gotten anything back makes me wonder where Spaniards get that reputation for being friendly. Outgoing, yes. But friendly.......?

So I decided to conduct a little experiment.

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Tuesday's workout was pretty straightforward - two and a half hours of not particularly strenuous riding. I decided to head down to the Casa de Campo at mid-morning, thinking that there would be a fairly sizeable number of subject to observe. And here's what I've found. Note that my observations are subject to highly questionable methods, and it wasn't like I could write down what I saw while I was riding (aside from never learning to ride no-hands, it would have messed up my heart rate):

Chicks never say hello. Yes, I know it is politically incorrect to call a female a "chick" (unless one happens to be Selene Yeager, The Fit Chick from BICYCLING Magazine - see link on the right.) But there are female cyclists and there are Chicks, and the distinction can be made by the choice of top and riding companions. Is she wearing a tank top that allows you to see right down to the elastic of her undies as she bends over the handlebars? She's a Chick. Is she wearing makeup in 95ºF heat in August? She's a Chick. Is she, all of five-four feet tall, riding a Decathlon Rockrider with a 57" frame and turquoise knobbies? She, poor thing, is a Chick with a Giant of a Boyfriend - and either or both of them is too cheap to invest in a decent bike for her (or one that is small enough to let her touch the pedals.) Not that there's anything wrong with being a Chick. Some females love to embrace, trot out, show off their inner Chick. More power to them. But if said female is so unstable and so unsure on that bicycle that she can't stop staring at the ground directly in front of her (or looking over her shoulder at the boyfriend riding behind and yelling inane comments), you might as well save your breath and start talking to the prostitutes or the recycling bins that line the roads of the Casa de Campo.

Guys with Chicks never say hello. Probably because your bike is nicer than theirs are, and the Chick in question would probably flagellate him with the bike chain.

Old-Timers on Aluminum Frames will sometimes say hello unless they're dressed in yellow Saunier Duval kit, which seems to beam some kind of radiation into their retinas and make them stare at you, the Female Cyclist, with a look that lies somewhere between Hangdog and Oh God Pass Me The Visine.

Guys on Really Expensive Bikes will never say hello, especially if they're riding tri bikes. This one has always made me curious, simply because almost every male cyclist I know has some kind of sixth sense that permits him to distinguish between carbon, aluminum and steel frames at a distance of one hundred metres. It's like watching a bunch of guys yabber on about cars, but with far fewer components to talk about (Carrie Bradshaw and her Manolos have absolutely NOTHING on a gearhead in a bike shop.) So why doesn't this extend to women? Perhaps they think that most women who ride high-end bikes don't know their Campys from their Shimanos, or use Speedplay pedals because they like the colors better. Who knows. But I've had so many guys on high-end rides blow by me without so much as a by-your-leave that any time I see a dude on a bike that's worth more than mine -- ESPECIALLY if he's wearing white cycling clothing -- I just think "asshole" and move on.

Guys from your own club will never say hello unless they're over sixty, have broken chains, or are from other countries. I try not to spend too much time thinking about this one.

Mountain bikers will never say hello. Backhanded snobbery, methinks. They don't like roadies and many roadies aren't exactly wild about fat-tire types (especially the ones who carry 30L backpacks, stuffed to the breaking point).

Guys wearing hockey helmets (oooooooooh, I WISH I were making that up) will say hello. And tell you their life story. And ask you a ton of questions about your bike. And not listen to the answers and ask you the same question over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. And then tell you about all of the meds that they need to take to make the voices in their heads go away. Guys riding bikes and wearing hockey helmets, ladies, are the reason why your bike comes equipped with a 50x11 configuration - to help you give life to your inner Fabian Cancellara and get the f*** away ASAP.

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Like I said, these are just observations which were conducted without any kind of scientific protocol. At some point, I may get inspired and follow my buddy Lysander Cross' lead and invest in a helmet-cam to back up my observations. But for the time being, I think I'll run the risk of being considered an antisocial little snob - unless I happen to cross paths with Purito Rodríguez, in which case I expect a hearty "hello", the likes of which I've never seen before.