I don’t know where many of you bike, but in Little Rock, Arkansas, there’s really only one place, there are others on which to train or ride, for the daring, and hardcore, but you will probably get killed by trucks on the streets and highways, immediately, if you don’t know what you are doing. Where everyone else goes, though, its safer and flat, but the testosterone levels are increasing down at this area, which I call “the strip,” which is a 13 mile flat strip surrounded by two rather steep hills. All of the roadies and triathletes round up there, in gangs.
This has to happen elsewhere. I think this is a testosterone thing, called “Recreational Road Bike Competitiveness Disease.”
I bike by myself, 90% of the time. When I do, if I pass some biker, or bikers, I find that more and more of them, try to pass me back. Normally, I am “Kwai Chang” about it. Some offense has occured, some injustice or something. Go ahead, pass me back, if I pass you. Not sure what is going on here, but go on. “High, how are you doing?” “Pretty good.” Later.
Cordial at first, but then the following happens.
I try to keep it at just 22 or 23 MPH, for about 12 miles. If you are lollygagging around at 19 or 18, and I go by, and then you speed up to 26, and go hard, and then go back to lollygagging, I’m still going 23 or 24 and I will pass you back. I’m not out to race. I’ll slow down a little bit and back off, but I’m coming right back on you in my piece of shit Raleigh R700, if you do this and die on me. But apparently some of these morons, think this is a race. I think if you pass someone, you need to just break away.
During one month, biking down on the strip twice a week, this kind of testosterone “ballet” goes on, for me, about 12-13 times. Normally, I just let this go by, back down and let them win. But finally I have had enough. This afternoon, I went down there to kick some Orbea ass. I played a little game today and resolved that, if somebody “rabbits” me down there, and its somebody on an Orbea bike, I’m racing that son of a bitch. This is due in large part to the fact that many of them who have done that to me, were on Orbea’s. Due to a large, local LBS Chainwheel dealership in Orbea, we have tons of people riding Orbea’s. Young roadies even have Orbea stickers on their cars and bike racks, all over the place. For some reason, I can’t stand the bikes. Its because of experiences like that. I have nothing against Spain, but this stuff is everywhere and it must be stopped. And those bright orange and yellow colors don’t help anything either.
Sure enough. I’m coming back from the turn around a minute ago, and out pops Orbea dude and his wife, with all the birght Orbea garb on. I have dropped way down to 19 mph. I’m tired. They go around me. And, what do they do? Die. Not good. This is my chance. No Orbea shall pass.
Now I’m hanging with them about 10 yards back. And they aren’t escaping. This is my chance. I hammer it, and go right around them. I’m on husband dude’s wheel, around to the left, and shake him. I’m not looking back but hammering the pedals. 26, 27, 29 mph, finally up to 32 mph. Its as if my Raleigh understands. It, too, has been victimized by these expensive bikes. I’m not looking back at first, but I could hear Orbea dude panting. I finally turn around and he has left his wife or girlfriend or son, or whowever he was riding with to give me chase.
Finally, we have to turn at the bridge, for the final 2 miles to the finish, where the parking lot is. On the final mile strip down by the River, he passes me on my left after I thought I had him beat. He’s going as hard as Orbea legs could take him. Just to get around me, it was killing him. I could tell he was hurting, but his pride was at stake. For gods sakes, that was a Raleigh beating him. He then barely takes me on my left. But I had saved some up, and in the final 200 yards, I pass him again. I actually started laughing at him.
Winner. Me.
What kind of stupid crap that was, I don’t know. I’m going back to Kwai Chang biking because I didn’t have anything left in my legs to get the hell up the mountain back home. Plus, I run back and forth right after I get off the bike, too.
