Champions

I came mighty close to breaking my rule that if you can’t unlock your bike you can’t ride it and I failed according to the principle that if you’re unable to fix it, you aren’t allowed to pedal, but thanks to the ministrations of Evil Mike—twice!—I managed to keep my chain on long enough to make it home with just one spill on the black ice, but that was the only hiccup in an otherwise perfect night of cycling-related hijinks centered around the Greenlake Race of Champions, the annual end-of-season challenge bringing together most of the winners of the monthly competition held each Critical Mass Friday at midnight on the path around the big Ravenna pond.

It was a fine turnout of drinking, drunk, and sober cyclists on a clear and chilly December evening for the big race, which was won in stirring fashion by green bike jersey Patrick, whose alleged gastrointestinal difficulties did not prevent him from prevailing in the final sprint, edging out (IIRC) Andrew, resplendent in shiny black skinsuit with pink highlights, rocket scientist Denny Trimble, Captain America Matt, whose whole family, including his Dad showed up to represent, DJ Strokey in there somewhere, and Trevor Trike for fourth despite leading for most of the contest.

And woe be it to naysayers like yours truly, Henry didn’t get totally smoked either, acquitting himself as admirably in the saddle as he is known to on the karaoke stage, take that.

Much mingling and destination planning followed the competition, but no trackstand or ghost bike events as near-freezing temperatures inspired the assembled to head towards warm bars; I played the drunken holiday reveler with a group at the Nickerson, then bombed over to the CIP to finish people’s half empty glasses, before the traditional hangover-busting sprint up Interlaken and then to bed with just the aforementioned knee-skinning spill on the final turn to put the star on top of this Christmas tree of cycling joy.

Riding

The thing I like best about bike riding is bike riding.

Sure, getting all liquored up and being obnoxious (but charming) is fun, and sitting around some pitchers of beer ragging on people who aren’t there has its charms, and who doesn’t enjoy scarfing down food purchased from the inside of a truck or seeing how loud and annoying you can be in a karaoke bar before they toss you out?

But my favorite part of most bike rides, with .83 or whomever, is the part where I’m on my bike, turning the cranks, leaning into turns, bombing down hills, riding no-handed on straightaways.

Last night, on the way back from the Pacific Rim Brewery in White Center, Joeball Andre led half a dozen of us on a cyclocross jaunt through the grounds of South Seattle Community College, on gravel paths, through closed gates, up and down landscaped berms, around circular sidewalks in a mini-bike Greenlake Race; that’s what I liked best—the whole BMX bike chase scene in the movie E.T. feeling thing. These are the moments this old man is clearly chasing as he rides around on two wheels: the chance to be 12 years old again; that River Phoenix in “Stand By Me” kind of freedom and adventure, no parents around, anything’s possible.

And self-sufficiency: while there was the usual grousing and moaning about one thing or another, it was one of those rides where no one had to be babysat; even verge-of-an-alcoholic-blackout Derek Ito managed to take care of himself, his drivetrain clattering angrily between two gears as his gyroscoping wheels kept him miraculously upright when his own legs might not have been able to.

I got my first .83 ride flat, too, a snakebite in the front, probably caused, in part, by the weight of the vaporizer and 12-volt battery in my handlebar bag; field-testing of the system was a failure, anyway; it’s way too fiddly; nix on whatever detracts from the ride.

Enough

Epic doesn’t have to be epic and if conditions are right (that is, wrong), a relatively mundane ride can embody all the spirit of adventure usually reserved for far more ambitious routes.

You have to really like bike riding (or at least beer) or just be unwilling to miss an opportunity to see Specialist Sean get shit-faced drunk one more time before his hush-hush military duties take him away to consider it a fun way of spending an evening to gather in the steady rain after dark for a sodden ride through flooded streets in the first real Pineapple Express of the season.

But about twenty hardy souls did and we set out from Westlake Center and then down the slippery cobblestones of Pike Market past the gum wall with nary a crash but gales of laughter at the brash stupidity of it all.

And pretty soon, we were approaching the West Seattle Bridge, soaked, but apparently not wet enough until standing around grumbling through what seemed like the longest flat fix in history but maybe it was just the feeling of feeling too stupid to come in out of the rain.

All was forgiven, though, by the time we had raced through Alki to the Celtic Swell (pronounced “Swill”) and were quaffing stout, stealing fries from Derrick’s plate, and regaling dry patrons with tales of our hard-core, let-no-weather-stop-us velocitude.

And best of all, just when you’d think that any sensible person would call it a night and head home to get out of his wet clothes and into a dry martini, the Pugsley Pod pelaton pedaled to the Boxcar in Magnolia where Specialist could end his riding for the evening curled around a pint glass and I could fulfill my fantasy of singing “Carry On My Wayward Sun” in public.

And if that weren’t epic enough, I even managed to be sufficiently distracted by the time I left to leave my debit card at the bar.

Resiliancy

The next to last thing I remember was somebody saying “where is everybody?” and then someone said, “Well, Nova’s here, so we’re all here,” and then we were cruising down First and she hit a pothole, her feet popped off her pedals and then what I saw was her front wheel turning, crumbling beneath her and then she was diving over her handlebars and her bike rolled over her.

She lay there for long enough that it seemed like she might not get up, but then she did; Derrick in his Santa costume checked her over and we all decided to escort her to the hospital which we managed eventually, even though Kris Fucking Kringle insisted on taking a detour including at least two through traffic, but then, there we were and our hero had her bike on her shoulder carrying it into the emergency room.

Resiliance. That’s what I like about my bike gang; we persevere.

And counterpoint: one minute we’re like some sort of Special Operations Unit taking over the street to care for a fallen comrade, the next we’re a bunch of drunks in Mustard Bottle costumes, furry monkey suits, and Buster Brown outfits weaving through traffic on our way to Dick’s.

And mechanicals: A safety meeting before Ravenna Park, where the zip line provided limitless opportunities for innovation and entertainment, capped off by four on a swing and bruises for Cowgirl Laura on her Bianchi horse.

And exuburance: Cackling like a madman as we rode up the Ave; the Halloween spirits beginning to emerge.

And then it was Duncan with Tyler bragging about how many times he had already crashed on his way to Aladdin falafel, but they made it: that’s perseverance.

I’ve heard a chain is only as strong as its weakest link; I say, it’s only as strong as it mends the broken ones.

This chain of fools carried on and I’m sure without me, but no missing links; that’s resilience.

Aww...

When I was a scrawny four-eyed geek of a teenager, I got called “homo” all the time; not because I wanted to have sex with males—except my social studies teacher, Brother Bernard, but that was to get an “A" in the class—but because, I think, I simply loved my friends too much and was just geeky enough to let them know in inappropriate ways for an adolescent boy: like giggling and waving my hands about saying something like, “Aw jeez, guys, aren’t we all like the best friends ever?!”

So that’s kinda how I felt like a big homo on the bike ride last night; pedaling along behind the dozens of blinkies winking at me from cyclists up ahead, eavesdropping on conversations of riders behind, shouting “wheee” as we poured down a winding hill to a secluded beachfront in Magnolia; I was all “Awww, ain’t these guys the greatest?" especially after the pre-funked stink butter kicked in—coincidentally, same as last time along the Myrtle Edwards trail, and even before we ended up at Gasworks Park overlooking a hilariously charming skyline view of Seattle, so picturesque that it seemed like a model put together in a Tokyo film studio to be stepped on by Godzilla at the movie’s climax and well before getting all smashed and bleary-eyed sentimental at the Knarr.

In between, I got to talk to the magical Daniel Featherhead at this pizzashop in Ballard about his epic bicycle trip to a piece of land he inherited in New Mexico; I love the idea of setting forth on two wheels to end up at a place whose location you’re unsure of until you get there—which was kind of last night, full of surprises, but none as unexpected as seeing Henry crash sideways on a concrete seam and then DJ Strokey go endo-ver him but fortunately, no broken bones for anyone which I’m glad about because aw man, I just love those pointy-threes, all of them.

Stupidity

The world is a serious, scary place: murder and mayhem everywhere, bird flu virus mutating to a strain more easily spread, K-Fed getting custody of the kids; and the only good news in today’s paper is that Bush’s approval rating continues to spiral downward and the Yankees got pounded 12-3 in game one of the playoffs.

So, I’m glad I live in a place where (relatively) grown men can put on kids’ glow-in-the-dark Halloween skeleton costumes and ride bikes and drink beer in the middle of the night without being arrested, maimed, or thrown in the loony bin; fuck representative democracy, a free press, and 24-hour health clubs—this is what makes our great country great!

Last night’s .83 ride had all the elements that, for me, result in a positively transcendent cycling experience: a reasonably hilly route to an outdoor location in town I haven’t been to before, plenty of recreational intoxicants applied liberally to one’s nervous system, and purely random idiocy taken one step beyond the place it’s annoying to become joyously stupid all over again.

It’s a rare opportunity to ride a bike in a group of more than twenty-five fellow cyclists, drunk on bike love (and cheap beer), while escorting a trio of glowing rib cages and femurs—one with a magenta mullet rattail—and not to be missed if it presents itself, and my only regret is that I didn’t snag the last costume myself at the Grocery Outlet store we stopped at for provisions on the way.

It was Tim Burton's Beetlejuice meets Breaking Away with a hefty dose of Dumb and Dumber thrown in for good measure and I was saved, too, from being a complete dunce by good samaritan Matthew (IIRC) who rescued my bike bag I’d left in the field as we rode away and so pathetic fool that I am, fortunately I’ve got sense enough to ride with people who may be stupid, but at least, unlike me, aren’t dumb.

Freedom

Last night, sort of to commemorate the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, and sort of just for the hell of it, .83 Fattypants Subcommittee member (and noted nutsack-puncher) Derrick Ito organized the 9/11 Never Forget (How Fat You Really Are) Freedom Fries Eat-Off. About 40 people showed up at Red Square on the UW campus, rode bikes to the Northgate Red Robin restaurant, and proceeded to engage in a fierce competition to see who could consume the most fried potatoes. Longshot newcomer Mike Snyder outlasted everyone, eating eight plastic baskets of the deep-fried delicacies, and paying 40-1 for the win.

A pretty hilarious time overall, capped off with a good deal of projectile vomiting from the upper parking lot of the mall two stories high to the level below. And, fairly amazingly, not a single competitor suffered a myocardial infarction on the ride back, although reports of restless nights and dyspeptic mornings are still coming in.

Pedaling home, I reflected on the event and wondered if someone—a 9/11 victim’s family member, for instance—might take umbrage to it. Could our silly hijinks be construed as disrespectful to the memory of those who lost their lives on that fateful day six years ago?

Sure, I guess, but fuck that.

If there’s any lesson to be taken from 9/11, it’s that fundamentalist dogma in any form is to be rejected. And it seems to me that claiming there is a “right” way to commemorate the tragedy represents just the sort of intransigent view that true patriots should push back at.

One could even argue that the Eat-Off embodied an array of characteristically American values: community, self-reliance, and certainly when the food and drink bills came due, free-market capitalism. So in this collective spudfest, participants were not only paying homage to the victims of 9/11, they were also standing up for very way of life the terrorists tried—unsuccessfully—to defeat.

Until, of course, they fell down puking in the parking lot.

Fondue

Certain things just naturally go together: rice and beans, sex and drugs, Republican congressmen and sleazy behavior in public restrooms; but now we add to that august group of ideal collaborations, bike-riding and melted cheese.

Last night, during what I hope promises to be at least an annual event, I savored the dual pleasures of cycling and coagulated milk, on the .83 Fondue Ride, organized by young Remington, fresh from his summer spent, I think at least in part, in the land of fondue, Switzerland, and his co-conspirator in that apogee of 1970s haute cuisine, dear Lucia, who not only slaved over fondue pots all evening, but also came equipped with dozens of those ever-so-tasteful long forks specially made for dipping hard things in runny things.

We rode from Westlake Center over Beacon Hill the long way with a charming descent down to Rainier Beach and then north a bit along the lake to Seward Park where, in a flurry of activity that reminded me of a scene in a Keystone Cops movie, fondue pots, woks, and cheese graters appeared like magic from panniers and shoulder bags. Moments later, thanks in part to DerekIto's industrial size can of nacho “cheese” sauce, people were dipping, eating, and drinking, but only as an appetizer to the subsequent main event: at least three different flavors of cheese fondue, two of which—a stout beer/Swiss combination and an authentic Helvetian-style with port—absolutely rocked my world, and a seemingly bottomless vat of melted chocolate which at first sort of grossed me out but after a post-prandial safety meeting was pure ambrosia.

I particularly enjoyed standing just outside the park shelter looking in at the flying forks and beaming faces of loudmouthed cheese eaters; it resembled a mechanical diorama from the Disneyland ride, “It’s a Small World,” albeit minus that terrible song.

The subsequent ride back along Lake Washington Boulevard was unusually fast; again, testament to the natural affinity between biking and fonduing.

Pedaling

I felt like the .83 ride last night got off to a kind of ragged start. Seemed to me that there was just too much negotiating (read pissing and moaning) about where we were gonna go and too many chefs involved in cooking up the route. The tension was alleviated somewhat by the irrepressible Henry stripping down to don the ceremonial Elvis suit and by broken-armed rider Pete showing up on old-school trike bike, but even when we set out from Westlake, I just wasn’t feeling the love.

Things got more interesting when we hiked our bikes down the hobo trail from Beacon Hill towards Georgetown but by the time we got to the Grand Central bread dumpster, I was thinking I might bail early. I even remained unmoved by some classic parking lot shenanigans: bread ball wars, 2x4 jousting, and even Honey Bucket tipping; it looked like it might be an early night for the 50 year-old.

But I decided to tag along across the Duwamish towards Alki and by the time the straggler group I was with arrived to stand around on the west side of the West Seattle Bridge and kibbitz while another rider fixed yet another flat, I was feeling much more into it (of course it coulda been what we smoked while waiting, but still…).

I was grinning and spinning all the way to Alki Beach more beer was drunk (and thrown) and stars were pointed out and argued about. I particularly enjoyed the subsequent ride to Magnolia, especially through Myrtle Edwards Park where the first tents of Hempfest were being constructed and from which the initial clouds of pot smoke were wafting as we rode by.

I didn’t have the heart for karaoke, neither to watch nor to sing, so I missed the most squalid of the evening’s festivities at the Boxcar tavern.

But I did get another nice ride through Myrtle Edwards and some more tasty wafting from the tents.

Nowhere

On last night’s .83 ride, we spent some time on the so-called “Bridge to Nowhere,” the unused and apparently abandoned section of freeway overpass at the north end of the arboretum in Montlake. It was a lovely evening, with ochre and pink cotton-candy cloud skies at dusk—we’d even seen a rainbow earlier in the evening—perfect for bike riding and beer drinking. And something about the post-apocalyptic quality of an empty elevated roadway just added to the beauty of it all.

I’d been to the BTN, also called, I’m told, the “Ghost Ramp” on several occasions, but never when it was still light, so I never so much appreciated its desolate charm. This gives me hope for our post-oil future, when we’ll have no end of such places to gather together enjoying the sun-drenched concrete giving up its warmth as twilight descends.

I love the concept of a bridge to “nowhere,” because, of course, it does lead somewhere, just not anywhere that people, at least people in cars, are headed. When the several dozen of us were languishing about, slapping mosquitoes that rose from the marshy lagoons of Lake Washington below us, we weren’t “nowhere;” even in my slightly intoxicated state I knew I was in some place that existed as an identifiable location in space—athough probably not on Google Maps.

When I pointed this out, someone mentioned that old Buddhist (or is it George Carlin) saw, “wherever you go, there you are,” and there was no doubt this was true: each and every person standing or sitting there was there, even if our minds (well, mine, anyway) weren’t entirely present.

If this is the bridge to nowhere, I wonder if we, having followed it, were all in the middle of nowhere, a funny concept, not unlike the idea of being at the center of the universe.

But that’s what we were talking about later, when some of us were in that new bar, Smith, on Capitol Hill.

Free

The peak moment for me on the .83 ride last night was near the end of the evening when the remaining cyclists were enjoying a final nightcap in a pirate skateboard park off of Alaskan Way. I was lying down with my head resting on the gently curving side of one of the homemade half-pipe ramps gazing up at the stars, but the image was one I couldn’t resolve. The celestial sphere seemed to be quilted somehow, with thin lines like metal cables partitioning it off into sections. “What the fuck is with the sky or am I just really stoned?” I mused aloud.

The two guys within earshot of me burst out laughing and so did I as I realized my question was answered by my asking: it wasn’t the sky I was looking at at all; it was the black painted underside of the viaduct!

Ooops.

Safe to say, I’d achieved the level of disengagement from the ordinary I’d been reaching for all evening.

Which is roundabout way of saying it’s probably good I rode the Quickbeam on the freewheel side of the rear cog after all; doing so allowed me to concentrate a little less on the mechanics of riding and more on experiencing transcendent weirdness in last night’s route.

We took the Longfellow Creek trail from near the West Seattle Bridge to White Center, a charming off-road meander highlighted by Aaron’s carrying on the front of his Baksfeits a Lazy-Boy recliner chair he’d picked up off the street.

After the designated southwest-end taco truck stop and requisite pitchers at the Pacific Rim Brewery, we piled into another forest-trail adventure, an wooded overlook somewhere above Delridge which afforded a dynamite view of the Duwamish industrial zone as long as you didn’t fall off the edge of the eroded cliff, which remarkably, no one did.

One final safety stop during a mechanical on the route back downtown and my night—and night sky—was made.

Adventure

I’ve been asked what the hell I’m doing drinking, smoking, and riding bikes with kids half my age and less—and I’ve asked myself that, too.

All sorts of none-too-flattering answers could be given, I’m sure: it’s my midlife crisis; I’m denying my age; I’m just a creepy old guy, and maybe there’s an element of truth in all of those.

But I think the real reason I’m drawn to these regular .83 rides is the opportunity to infuse my staid, middle-class (and middle-aged) existence with some small sense of adventure.

T.S. Eliot said, “Old men should be explorers,” and I agree. When I’m not making at least minor discoveries in my life, having at minimum a few unexpected explorations, I start to feel really old and in the way.

So what’s particularly satisfying about setting out on an evening ride with the bike gang is that, more often than not, I don’t really have a clue about where we’re headed or what’s going to happen.

Last night, for instance, about twenty of us swarmed from Westlake Center in a disorganized mob that somehow re-congregated at Dick’s Burgers near the Seattle Center. Then, after those who wanted them got their meaty gutbombs, it was off down Western, racing traffic towards the Magnolia Bridge.

Another stop in lower Magnolia for beer and Slim Jims, then it really got interesting. We pedaled up into Discovery Park and then dove down a very steep and dark hill to the water, where we rode single-file along the trail to a secluded cove.

Quaffables were quaffed and then came the most adventurous part of the night: we hiked up through the woods, at a fairly furious pace, carrying our bikes to the top of the hill we had descended earlier.

It sort of sucked and was nothing I would have done on my own; I’ll bet few of us will ever do it again.

But there’s no denying it was an adventure.

Decompartmentalizing

The acquaintances in my life are separated into four fairly distinct groups: I know the teachers I work with, the yogis I practice with, the cyclists I ride with, and the rest—fellow parents, old friends, and neighbors—who I guess I mostly drink, eat, and hang out with.

There doesn’t tend to be much overlap among them.

The yogis, for instance, I hardly ever see outside the studio—and I know only a handful of names—even though with many I have had this strangely intimate but totally detached experience of bending and sweating profusely together three to five times a week for half a dozen years or more.

As for my fellow instructors, all of whom I really appreciate and deeply respect: our time together is pretty much restricted to school. In five years, I’ve only been to one of their houses; I’ve never opened my home to any of them.

My cycling buddies are another class altogether; although Mimi’s met them at the FHR and Jen made the acquaintance of several at the Patchkit, for the most part, their realm is a completely different orbit I travel in.

So it was particularly swell for me last night when, on the regular Thursday evening .83 ride, I had a chance to see two of these groups—the cyclists and the teachers—together in one place for a while.

.83 rode from Westlake Center, over freeway and down Interlaken to Montlake and then up the Ravenna ravine through Northgate with a stop at the Taco truck and ended up at the Pinehurst Pub where a group of Cascadia teachers was celebrating the end of quarter with beer and conversation.

Our wild bunch of around twenty cyclists arrived en masse and pretty took over the joint to the delighted cries of the table of teachers. I felt like the Marlon Brando leading the cavalry, a weird combination to be sure—but so was the one in the Pub.

FHR

photo by Denny T.

Every parent thinks his or her kid is the bomb; I’m no exception, but I have especially strong justification for my belief as illustrated today by her full-on rocking of the Fucking Hills Race, .83’s 33 mile-long checkpoint race on Bainbridge Island that follows the same route (and day) as Cascade Bicycle Club’s Chilly Hilly Event.

Mimi got right up today at 7:30, even after going to bed at 12:30 last night. She assured me she’d rise no problem because the race was something she wanted to do. And she was true to her word.

It took virtually no cajoling to get her onto the tandem by 8:15, even in this morning’s chilly drizzle.

We arrived at the sign-up location in time to get one of the few remaining pirate flags which we affixed proudly to the back of our bike and enjoyed milling around and ogling bikes as we waited to board the ferry for Bainbridge.

The race started near the Winslow terminal and we began threading our way through the throngs of spandex clad weekend warriors on their fenderless Treks and Cannondales, making solid progress on the flats and uphills, and major gains on the downhills.

The route was pretty up and down, with a few fairly serious steeps. At least twice I suggested we get off and walk, but the girl would have none of that; we pedaled up even the steepest grades and flew on the downhills.

About halfway through there was a rest stop; I was ready for a break, but my pint-sized stoker egged us on.

The last four or five miles were a test of my legs, her butt, and our shared wills, but we persevered, finishing a respectable 33 out of 40 or so, and would have done half a dozen places higher had we not gotten lost near the finish.

“Pretty good for my first race,” was the kid’s assessment; I’d say way fucking (hills) better than that.

Waffle

photo by Denny T.

Last night,.83 conducted this year’s version of what is now an annual tradition (“tradition” meaning anything you do twice): the WWW or Winter Waffle Wide.

Some thirty riders loaded up their messenger bags, panniers, and Xtracycles with flour, eggs, syrup, camp stoves, waffle irons, distilled spirits, and cases of PBR then rode to a park on Mercer Island that, for some strange reason, features—in its picnic shelter—electrical outlets that are full of juice all year long. There, batter was mixed, butter was melted, and dozens of waffles made and consumed.

I missed the start of the ride from Westlake Center because I was at school listening to a frightening lecture by Red Cavaney, who is CEO of the American Petroleum Institute. As you might expect from someone who is the public face of Big Oil, his talk was mostly about how we’ve got to all pull together as Americans to ensure that we have a steady supply of burnable hydrocarbons for many years to come. The good news, from his perspective, is that if we can just get Congress to lift those silly restrictions on drilling in the Gulf of Mexico and Alaska, we can count on being able to keep sucking crude from the ground at an increased rate until way off in 2030, by which time, he assured us, “technology” will have found a replacement energy source that conveniently will use the same infrastructure already laid in place by Exxon, Shell, et al.

By the time he was done, you could have powered a Hummer off the steam pouring from my ears.

A bike ride through the streets of Bellevue, then west on the I-90 trail to Mercer Island was an ideal pressure release; to then come upon my fellow cyclists creating a shared outdoor feast was perfect.

I had forgotten all about Red Cavaney by the time I finished my first waffle; way before the bottle of Maker’s Mark was spent.

Greenlake

I partipated last night in the regularly-scheduled post-Critical Mass Greenlake Race. It’s held at midnight on final Friday of each month, the same evening that the usual parade of “Massholes” (I can use that word; I am often one myself) takes place.

Riders race a lap around the lake, generally unlit (well, their bikes are; participants themselves are often well-lit), the winner being the first cyclist who can make it all the way from start to finish, avoiding late-night joggers, dog-walkers, homeless people with shopping carts, and in the summer, lawn sprinklers and garden hoses.

The first time I raced, last summer, I was under the impression it was all good fun, and, while it is, some of those boys (and the occasional girl) are really serious about the competition. In my career, I’ve come in second to last, last, and yesterday, in a personal best ever, third to last.

And I will note that in the January 2007 race, for first time ever, I was able to see the taillights of one group in front of me for two-thirds of the way before they completely disappeared in the distance.

It was a lovely—if slightly chilly—night for a bike ride. The half full moon was bright behind a veil of fog and there was virtually no wind.

The ride over to Greenlake, slightly cannabis-enhanced, was just enough of an adventure while still allowing the reflective space to think of all sorts of fleeting ideas for teaching, writing, and making the world a better place.

As cyclists were massing for the start, another rider, Jeff, asked our organizer, Derek Ito, if there was time to get stoned before we took off. It was clear that we’d be gone before he could pack a pipe, so I whipped out a joint.

“Ah! Professor McStoney comes through again!” cried my fellow rider.

I may not be known as a fast cyclist, but at least I’ve got a reputation.