I never thought it would happen to me. Riding on the flat dirt path next to a canal, I got passed — by an even fatter biker.

I’m the one who surprises the skinny fucks with a burst of speed on the flats. I’m the one who has my own imaginary champagne party when I “fly by” someone who would crush me on any other terrain or at any other time.

I’m the one who glances over to see that look of bewilderment on their face as my fat ass slides passed. Sure they might be spinning or doing a “recovery ride”, and I’m huffing and puffing and killing myself to have this little personal victory.

Not this time.

I was enjoying my new gravel tires I set on my S5 Trek Domane. The one with the disc brakes so it had handle a 32mm wide tire. Got the gravel tires and thick tubes after another 2-flat ride that forced me to call the Sugar Mama and beg her to give me a ride home.

Salt River Project in its infinite non-wisdom had ripped out the pavement on key parts of the Eastern Canal. They let the developers pave only 3-foot wide paths on the Western canal. Now seemed like a good time to set up to ride on the dirt.

Wider, thicker tires, big thick tubes, lower air pressure equals a soft, firm, safe ride on the hard packed dirt. Fuck you SRP, I’ll adjust to your little game.

Sure it may cost me a little speed, but not having to spend an hour a week changing tubes and re-inflating tires with compressed CO2, or walking the last mile home seemed worth it.

Until… until a fatter guy with skinner tires went whirling by me on the dirt 4 miles from home. He passed me near the crossing on Baseline Road on the Eastern Canal. At first I thought he had just timed the traffic right. I was stopping, he was rolling. I’ll catch his fat ass before the freeway.

I couldn’t. I hit the pedals harder and harder. I could catch a draft and let him pull, but I couldn’t pass. I could hear his gears squeaking and squealing. Shit, he didn’t even lube his chain. That skinny bike with the narrow handle bars make him look like a rhino riding a broom stick.

I should know. That’s exactly how I look in all those fucking pictures they take and try to pawn off on your for those group rides. I refuse to buy those images — they make my attempts “to compete” look like a silly circus act.

We crossed Greenfield road together. I let him go first. Have him break the wind for a while, maybe he will wear down and I can reclaim my pride.

He’s so big, he had to bow his legs to ride. He can’t lean forward and draw his knees up straight without bumping into his belly. His cadence is even slower than mine. He’s just pushing on a massive gear — dropping his elephant calves and thighs over the top of the pedals and rolling just out of my range.

I get close enough to draft a few times, but have to stop peddling to breath. God damn asthma. We are going too fast for me to reach back for my puffer. When I slow, he just rolls out of range, again and again.

We head toward Southern Ave, and I’m hoping he will have to stop for cars. Nope, he just turned off. Shit, now I will never know if I could have caught him over time. Did he just start his ride and he’s fresh, while I’m coming home after an hour riding into the wind? Did he go easy and just sprint passed me for a few minutes? (That’s how I roll on those skinny fucks on the canal).

Strava stats

I get home and post the ride on Strava. Later that night, I slip back into the app to check “Flybys”. That’s right, big brother Strava will show you other Strava riders who were on the same roads at the same time as you.

“Cody…” He was “testing” his new bike. Looked like a classic Trek from 2000. Probably pre-carbon fiber. Aha… he only did 11 miles to my 25. Aha… his average speed was 14.2, compared to my 14.7. That’s right this fat fuck was “saving” it and only used his “fast” energy to pass me. Cheating bastard.

I invented that trick, Cody. You should be paying me a royalty for this shit…

Wait… his profile picture doesn’t look right. No double chin, no gray hair. Looks average weight in street clothes. Holy shit, he’s not even a fat biker. He’s a middle-sized biker.

Never mind this rant. Let’s forget it ever happened. I don’t want to think about what that makes me…