You know it's January in Adelaide when...

There are more blokes than chicks in town with waxed legs. Believe me, I kid you not.

Ah, Tour Down Under. For non-Adelaide people (ie, most of youse what is sane), this is a cycle race. Our premier (Jedi - this equals "governor"), Media Mike, likes to think that our cycle race is about to take on Le Tour de France. Ha. Sadly, Media Mike is wildly delusional and also thinks that he can catch arsonists. But that doesn't mean that this isn't a fun ol' Adelaide time. Yeehah and all.

Frankly, I have no interest in cycling. I haven't been able to love it much since that Nasty Incident where I was trying to avoid looking at a really annoying neighbour and ended up pranging my Malvern Star up the back end of a stationary Ford Zephyr when I was 11. I was chewing grape-flavoured bubblegum at the time and (allegedly) my neighbour said, "Here's where it happened! Here's her gum!" So, bikes and me = not that friendly.

I do see the benefits of the Pretty European Cycle Boys, though. They're very picturesque. Toned boys in lycra, even if they're not that tall, are a distinct enhancement to any streetscape. Adelaide is a far cry from Paris, but a PECB brings one that little bit closer. Eh, bonjour! Tu es un bien barraque! Voudrais-tu coucher avec mois, ce soir? Non? Meh! Va te faire foutre!

I used to work in Victoria Square, which, apart from being courthouse-central in Adelaide, also happens to be home to the Tour Village (ie, a lot of tents) and the Hilton Hotel (where most of the PECBs stay). I'd drag my sadly unglamorous arse into work in the mornings and there would be piles of PECBs at the cafes, downing coffee. You have to pity the poor little bastards, even if they are built like jockeys and wearing athletic socks and Nike slides - coffee is the only drug they're allowed.

But it doesn't matter if one is out of the CBD (yes, Adelaide DOES have one!) because one can still get an eyeful of the PECBs in the 'burbs. I live by the beach and if one gets one's fat arse out of bed early enough in the a.m., one can see the PECBs training. For some reason, they prefer to ride by someplace purdy. Buggered if I know why. I'd way rather train in a place that was known for carjackings.

However, sometimes one can be gypped. Like this morning. I was driving to work and went, "Phwoar! PECBs!" But it wasn't really a pelleton. Instead, it was just bunch of wannabes. Even worse, some of the wannabes turn out to be chicks. You have no idea how this challenges one's sexuality.

"Phwoar, look at the PECBs! Oh, CHRIST! Chicks! Noooo! Really, I wasn't attracted to their arses at all! No! It's not my fault! How the hell am I supposed to know? They've all got shaved legs! Sob!"

Sadly, January is also the time when any wanker with a pushbike gets the thing out of the shed. You never, ever see so many cyclists in Adelaide as during the Tour. Suddenly, it's cool to risk death. Suddenly, people forget that Adelaide drivers are among the biggest pricks in the country, and will run a cyclist off the road before breakfast without even batting an eyelid.

So, hurrah for the cycle race. It's over on Sunday or something. Bah, humbike.