I was struggling to get up Las Sendas when these four 70-something, fat ass, snowbirds from Michigan floated past me like they were riding on a cloud.
Fat Bikers are hell on wheels.
For years I wished the town of Gilbert would pave the canal path from Guadalupe to Warner Road. Sometimes it's better for wishes not to come true.
Just because you are wrapped in two tons of steel and plastic doesn’t mean you get to run over anything that slightly annoys you — especially a fat biker just out for a ride.
It's an instinct that probably goes back to our days chasing mammoths over a cliff. Cyclists see another rider ahead and do everything they can to pass that bastard.
How can you spot a happy bikers? Count the bugs in their teeth. I know that's an old terrible joke... but it sort of applies to bicycles too. I've swallowed my share of "free protein" -- especially riding at night.
For more than half a century I took breathing for granted. Sure I would get out of breath on a mountain climb or a sprint, but then... hit 55 years old and dun, dun, dunnnn: exercise-induced asthma.
Ohh God it burns, when these little balls of salty sweat roll or drop right into the corner of your eyes. It doesn't happen every ride. Sometimes it happens when it hot, sometimes when it's not.
I once went cycling up a giant mountain with a drug lord from South America. Sure, sure Angry Ed denies he is, or has ever been, a drug lord. But if ever there was a witness protection name for a cartel double agent, it's "Ed Vegas."
Being a fat biker (pedaling not Harley) with no pigment leaves me little choice. I have to ride at night or risk Satan's kisses (sunburn all over). I'm a night person anyway. I put on two motorcycle power headlights, a flashing red tail light and head out once the sun turned off.