Back in the day - one of the first Pro-seys that came in contact with me was this Shaklee pretty boy who loved to display his plumage and talk up the game.
As in all things, i tried my best to absorb what looked pearly-white and dismissed to the mental dumpster that which had a bit o' the ego-stank on it.
One day, after a particulary hard bit of racery ... he was laying down sermon about what was rightly and what wrongly attended to during the lycra'd fistfight. Held hostage to this me-me recital of the racey-race, i turned an ear away to notice a fellow biker-type approaching, other direction-like, on the opposite side of the roadway.
Now, yeah ... if you saw this cycler you'd have probably slapped a mental 'FRED' label across his forehead. I mean, the guy did splash out something fierce on the unhip-factor.
But, as far as I'm concerned, all fellow bikers are brothers y sistahs in arms - so, I threw out my universal and always used biker-boy wave.
"heyo cyclista type-person," was my unheard attachment to the hand greeting. The Fred paused, mid-pedal, and after a beat - returned the wave double-fold in cheerful response.
A mental 'hello and goodbye,' said I and returned to the Pro-seys blahbittyblather.
However, the Prosey had stopped in mid-recounting of his 'ball-crushing attack.' He was staring at me in a kind of disgust usually reserved for Lieboldian porto-potties.
My encouraging smile sent the Pro-sey bristling even stiffier as he spun his recovery gear in silence for a few revs. Finally, Pro-sey boy blue turned to lay down some serious unwritten rulery on the subject of waving to your fellow cyclists ... especially those of the Freddy persuasion:
"Mike - winners don't wave."
yeah, right bub - there endeth the lesson.
I haven't stopped waving since.
fuk him, yo.