Dear Club Rider,
Yes. I know. I’m an average cyclist – maybe even slightly below average. When your paceline comes past me at 25 miles per hour, I might grab a wheel and sit at the back for awhile, but we both know you’re going to drop me eventually. Just don’t make me take a turn up front.
Oh, I dress the part, mostly. My socks don’t match my jersey and I only own black shorts. My wheels came stock and weren’t built by hand. But, weekenders on cruisers might think you and I are on the same level. Don’t let it bother you.
Could I be as fast as you? Maybe, if I had fewer commitments or the days had more hours. Perhaps that’s why you hate me; maybe you realize how easily you could become me. Perhaps that’s why you ignore my waves, smiles and nods. It’s possible that when you’re riding alone and, by some magic, I come up behind you, having worked hard to close the gap between us, and sit in your slipstream you look under your arm and, seeing me there, you put on the pressure because you’re afraid you’re becoming like me. Maybe you’re proving that all that riding you do while I’m sitting in my cubicle is paying off.
I don’t know what you’re motivation is. I’m just out there to have fun.