And at last I am part of the machinery

Evidently "Mountain Bike" is a crime under Scottish law. In an attempt to retain the undisputed title of expert on bicycle-sex-related websites, Substance McGravitas called our attention to a not-quite-news story, spelled out in the approved style with no more than one paragraph per sentence:

Bike sex man placed on probation

A man caught trying to have sex with his bicycle has been sentenced to three years on probation.
Robert Stewart, 51, admitted a sexually aggravated breach of the peace by conducting himself in a disorderly manner and simulating sex.
Sheriff Colin Miller also placed Stewart on the Sex Offenders Register for three years.

[...]

"The accused was holding the bike and moving his hips back and forth as if to simulate sex."

Of course Stewart may have been auditioning for a lead role in a J. G. Ballard novel. But the Scottish seem particularly prone to sex with inanimate objects:

• In 1997 Robert Watt, 38, was fined £100 for trying to have sex with a shoe in an Edinburgh street
• In 2002 the same man was arrested for simulating sex with a traffic cone in front of a crowd of people
• Earlier this month, sentence was deferred on teenager Steven Marshall, from Galashiels, who admitted simulating sex on a pavement while drunk.

Grasping the implications of the Molecule theory, Sheriff Miller in the Stewart case was concerned by the potential for confusion as the agitated molecules of the aroused and fast-moving defendant pass into the bicycle, to be replaced by bicyclic molecules moving in the opposite direction in a reciprocal and circumbendulous manner. Were the bicycle to be imbued with more than a certain percentage of the personality of its fetishist owner, who knows what indecency and scandal would ensue?

Flann O'Brien warns us that these things seldom end well:
Ian Watson has also written about the special-requirement burials resulting from bicycle propinquity:

Sheri, and the bike she had been riding, both occupied exactly the same space on the altar. The Moulton cycle had been inserted impossibly into her torn stretched naked body, crucifying her mechanically. Her bloody hands hung limply from the ends of handlebars which must run right through her arms, as bones. [...] Her right ear had been stretched to accommodate the bell. Her mouth gaped, lockjawed by the lamp.

[...]

Disentangling proved impossible. Sheri and the Moulton were part and parcel of each other as though an insane surgeon-magician had decided to create a new hybrid, of machine and human.

[...]

By then a shallow grave was ready, dug with spades from the neighbouring garden sheds. When Jack and Bert had manhandled Sheri out to it, however, they had to lay her on the turf and broaden the hole considerably to take her outstretched, metal-braced arms.

Here at Riddled we are brave enough and principled enough to speak out against sex with bicycles. Next people will be wanting to marry their partners. And then we will be on the slippery slope to polyandrous bicyclic relationships.
Also relevant.


UPDATED with bonus shocking depravity. Bicyclic menage-a-trois!