My mountain bike gets far more use than my road bike. It's been five years since my last AIDS/LifeCycle ride, and many months since put any miles on Gromit, my trusty aluminum frame goliath.
Yesterday I got back on my steed and rode from Los Gatos to Sunnyvale, in an attempt to turn my commute into an exercise opportunity. Except for the last couple of miles, it's a straightforward, mostly flat 14.5 mile stretch of smooth road. I arrived at work feeling charged up and self-satisfied.
The ride back to Los Gatos at the end of the day was more of a challenge. The sun was out in full force, a slight headwind slowed me more than it should have, and portions of my body above the thighs were becoming painfully reacquainted with Gromit's narrow saddle.
As I climbed one of the last small hills before the descent into Los Gatos, I spied a meandering cyclist head of me. He was about a hundred yards distant, and my competitive instincts kicked into gear, pulling my tired legs with them.
Maybe I wasn't so tired after all. Maybe, in spite of so much time away from the bike, in spite of all those empty calories and sedentary days at the keyboard, I still had enough of the inner athlete to vanquish a foe. "Ah hah! This guy is my victim! I'm going pass him so fast, he won't even know what happened. Bwahah!" Gromit's wheels started moving faster as I relished my impending victory.
Suddenly I became aware of something on my left. In a flash, a small, trim rider effortlessly passed me as if I were standing still. I looked down at the tiny bike computer on my handlebar. I was going at a plodding 12 mph. My usurper was already 20 yards ahead of me by the time I looked back up.
I chuckled at myself and thought of the Dramarama song, Modesty Personified. It's a tongue in cheek declaration of smug superiority. The signature line for me is, "Nobody's perfect, but I figure I'm close." I suppose "close" is a relative term. If that's true, then we're all close to perfect. Even me.
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