Daylight savings is around the corner, meaning it’s time to shave the legs, break out new tires, and psych the hell up.
“Reynaldo,” fellow cyclists have repeatedly asked, “how the heck do you hang so well when you can’t sprint worth shit and we ride twice as much as you?”
I’m only going to explain this once so get some paper and a pencil. I do it several ways, from more to less obvious.
- I have human growth hormone sent to the crib in the Good Wife’s name. I have not had to throw her under the bus yet, but I’m prepared for that inevitability.
- I employ a small, undetectable motor in the frame of my bike.
- I draft as if I came attached to your back wheel.
- When I get to the front, I immediately pull off to the left, turn back while raising my right arm, and ask “Where are we going again?” Or “Did someone say someone flatted?” Or “Are we all together?” Variety is critical.
- I attack during nature breaks.
- I attack right after sprints.
- I attack at the slightest hint of a mechanical.
- I attack at yellow lights and then pretend not to hear when the others yell “HOLD UP!”
- It’s probably the roids, but whenever things start getting stretched out, I demand that the person in front of me “Bridge up dammit!”
- I wait until I hear a train before I dare lose touch.