This is nothing new. I believe I initiated the practice as a way to relieve stress when I commuted from the east side along John Nolen, which tended to be hairier, more bike revolutionaries (of which I am not one) facing off against the motor tide. Singing about the antics and the idiocy somehow kept them from getting tangled in my muscles and moods.
And, I developed such songs as the homopunk masterpiece chik-in hol.
I've kept it up. Witness a July 2 tweet--
BalletArthritiq: Yesterday's pm bike commute, I rode behind a guy with the most amazing ass. I sang to it all the way home.
Today, in-bound lyrics, similarly unapologetically objectifying, included "Delicate neck," "Nice underwear band: the fit of the jean," and "No socks: sexy." Just now, I'm focused, rather inexplicably, on the male ankle.