One of the few joys of road biking is dominating the bike lane — easily passing runners, beach cruisers and mountain bikes.
I’ve spent thousands on a good bike. Hundreds on shoes and clothes. I spent $1.29 on a snickers bar that fucked up a perfectly good ride.
Covid-19 has forced us to replace sports with documentaries about sports. Kills time, but fucks up the betting.
ESPN played “The Last Dance”, Michael Jordan’s ode to himself, and 30 for 30’s series on Lance Armstrong practically back-to-back.
Covid-19 Quarantine has sent many of us scurrying back to our bicycles.
Some for the first time since childhood. I see them on the bike paths, wearing a T-shirt and jeans shorts with no pads, gears squeaking from the spider webs they didn’t bother to wipe, and weaving all over the road like drunks.
Put tires on my road bike that are 3 millimeters wider (25 to 28 mm), so I could ride on a little dirt. What did I get? A berating from two “expert” trail users.
I don’t want to admit how many tens-of-thousands of dollars I have spent on road bikes in the past decade. But in this pandemic, worth every fucking penny.
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.”