When I started cycling, I never realized I’d have a problem with the “real” fat bikers.

I’m talking about those 250-plus-pound guys riding Harley’s. They fucking follow cyclists everywhere — like a pack of fat flies carrying loud speakers.

We all like the two-lane curvy highways near a river, or a lake or a mountain. Especially some fucking big Mt. Lemmon kinda mountain.

I pedal up the fucking hill, just so I don’t have to pedal down.

Then from behind a corner, some pack of lawyers or engineers (or whatever other shitty nerdy thing they do for a living) come rumbling at 60 mph.

It’s like aliens teleported me from a meditation garden to the busiest runway at the fucking airport. It always makes me jump off the seat and wonder if I just crapped my pants.

In a group of 4-6 riders, there are always two “special” douchebags. The first douchebag has his radio blasting over the top of his “jet” engine playing some country band with a fiddle and a fucking flute. He’s usually near the front of the pack.

At the back, is the double douchebag. He’s either 300+ pounds or has a woman on the back, and his Harley is wider and louder than everyone else. The double douchebag always hugs the white line on the right side of the road and buzzes within an inch of anyone on a bike.

He never seems to notice that he almost killed me. He can’t hear my screams.

Usually somewhere around halfway up the mountain, I need to stop: I must breathe, get my heart to stop racing, keep my legs from cramping, drink and eat — before I die.

The Harley riders like to stop at the same places. They are just sitting and talking. They aren’t sweating or breathing hard or even stretching. It looks like they just got off the couch.

One of the douchebags will always say something like: “That’s a hell of a hard ride, isn’t it? It’s a real workout to ride up here. I’m exhausted.”

You’re fucking exhausted? Are your hands worn out from turning the throttle. Did the vibrations from that massive fucking motor rub your thighs the wrong way?

Usually, I try to wait them out and have them take off first. But I have a 6-minute limit on breaks. Wait longer than that, and the legs get extra stiff, and it just hurts to continue.

These fat fucks have no limits. They will sit on their asses for 20-minutes or more.

So I pedal off and start climbing again. 20 minutes later here comes the rumble and the fucking fiddle, and the double douchebag will miss my elbow by a couple of centimeters.

Goddamnit, those shit heads annoy me. But at least they’re not those fucking millennials on the rice-burning sport bikes… Those little punks are fucking crazy.