Bike Lane Bullies: How the Patriarchy Pedals Through Our Parks

A Therapist’s Rant on Entitlement, Aggression, and the Male Ego in Motion

Call me the angry therapist, but I have a question—and a rant.

Over the past few years, one pattern has stood out to me more than I ever expected: the most aggressive, entitled group I consistently encounter is… male bikers.

Now hear me out. This is based on lived experience, and I welcome other perspectives. But after 10 years living in Manhattan and biking leisurely across the city, no group has yelled, cursed, or aggressively confronted me more than men in bike helmets.

There’s an overwhelming entitlement some of them carry—like they own the roads, the paths, even the air you breathe when you’re too close. And the worst part? They don’t seem to carry an ounce of shame about it.

Case in point: A random Tuesday night on Randall’s Island, biking on an incredibly wide, open path. Out of nowhere, a man flew by and shouted “ASSHOLE!” at me—presumably for being in his way. His tone felt less like a warning and more like a punishment. I was stunned.

And if you’ve ever tried to cross the street in Manhattan, you know the drill: step one toe into the bike lane, and someone—often a man in gear—will scream at you like you’ve committed a federal offense. “Don’t you know the bike lane belongs to them?!”

Yesterday, while biking the West Side Highway with a friend, it all came rushing back—literally and figuratively. Male bikers zoomed past us in full Tour de France regalia, shouting at anyone who dared to disrupt their sacred sprint. We were on the correct path, but apparently not riding to code. One man barked something unintelligible as he passed. I immediately felt like a scolded child. Shame flooded me—and then rage.

Here I was, simply trying to enjoy a beautiful afternoon on a bike, and somehow I’d violated the invisible rulebook of male-dominated cycling culture. But why couldn’t they move over to the adjacent, clear lane if safety was such a concern? Why is aggression the default?

Let’s be clear: I quickly adjusted my position—not out of respect, but out of fear. I didn’t want to be yelled at again.

And here’s the contrast that really struck me: not long after that confrontation, a female biker approached us from behind. She gently rang her bell to signal her presence, then passed us with a warm “Thanks so much!” and a soft “So sorry!” as if she was the one inconveniencing us. It was a perfect example of how differently we’re conditioned to take up space—she asked for permission where the men had demanded authority.

On the return trip, I watched a man scream at a literal child who veered slightly in front of him. And again I thought: Why are these men so angry?

I rode single file behind my friend, trying to be a “good girl” cyclist. Yet still, a man speeding in my direction with his child in tow screamed “WATCH OUT!” at me like I was a reckless obstacle in his high-stakes race. And that’s when I finally lost it and yelled back: “FUCK OFF!”

I’m sick of being attacked for merely existing in a shared space.

Now, I’m not here to bash all men or all cyclists. But I am here to question the way male supremacy subtly (and not-so-subtly) shows up in daily life. This experience reminded me of “mansplaining,” “manspreading,” and all the ways women are taught to take up less space—physically, emotionally, socially.

Don’t tell me it’s about testicles. I’ve been holding my legs tightly together on the subway for years. The difference is socialization. We’re trained to shrink. Men are trained to sprawl.

Even in Zoom meetings, studies show women tend to sit farther from the camera, while men often dominate the frame. It’s not about positioning—it’s about presence.

And that’s what this is really about: who gets to take up space—and who gets punished when they do.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not claiming moral high ground here. I also feel entitled in certain spaces when I’m on the move. I’ve often joked that no one has a bigger ego than me behind the wheel of my Jeep Cherokee. I am fully that person who feels entitled on the road as a driver—and then again as a pedestrian.

I’ve had those moments: “I have somewhere to be—get the fuck out of my way.”

The difference is, I’d never actually say that to someone’s face. That’s where my social filter kicks in. That’s where inhibition regulates my behavior. But that regulation seems to be absent in these male bikers. They feel not only justified in their entitlement—but empowered to pronounce it, loudly, publicly, and without hesitation.

And it makes me wonder: Would these men treat me the same way if we met at a friend’s dinner party? Would they shout across the table? Scold me for passing the salt too slowly?

Or is this aggression somehow tied to the armor they wear—the spandex, the helmets, the speed—a kind of costume that permits dominance?

Because that’s what it feels like. That once they gear up, they’re no longer just men—they’re soldiers in some self-declared war for control over space and speed. The bike path becomes a battlefield. And anyone in their way? An enemy.

Today, my feelings are a mix of anger, curiosity, and concern. What’s happening to us? Are we so detached, so dysregulated, that shared spaces have become battlegrounds?

What if instead of shouting, we shared? What if instead of policing, we paused? What if the bike lane wasn’t just a symbol of speed—but of collective movement?

I don’t have all the answers, but I know this: I’m tired of apologizing for taking up space. And I’m done riding in fear.