I have been thinking about myself lately and have come to the conclusion that I am, in many (perhaps most, and possibly all) ways the epitome of what a cyclist should be. Which is to say, I pedal smooth circles. I wear my glasses on the outside of my helmet straps. I shave my head to increase my aerodynamic properties.
I carefully match my shorts to my jersey, which are both matched to my socks. I have both a black helmet and a white helmet, and my selection of which I shall wear on a given day depend on a carefully-considered algorithm that takes weather, duration of ride, and what I am wearing into account.
I shave my legs thrice weekly. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, since I am sure you are wondering.
I have a bike for every occasion I can think of, as well as a couple of bikes for which I have not yet thought of occasions, but anticipate some appropriate occasion arising, at some point in the future, and thus want to be prepared for this hypothetical cycling opportunity (E.g., I have a track bike, just in case a velodrome appears nearby; I also have a second track bike, in case a friend wants to come along to the suddenly-existing velodrome).
I also have a cyclocross bike, although I defy the current cyclocross fad by not using it. Once all the cycling magpies have turned their attention elsewhere, I shall commence to race cyclocross, and am confident I shall dominate my racing category, just as I do in any
Further, I revel in all aspects of cycling. Which is to say, I relish a good climb and celebrate the agony of really good climb. I ride with unparalleled power when on the flats, my quads a bottomless pit of smooth strength.
I take my turn pulling, and keep the group together with an almost preternatural sense of how the paceline behind me is doing. I pull just hard enough that nobody gets a free ride, but not so hard that I drop others. When people finish riding with me, they often describe the experience as “transcendental,” even if they are not familiar with what the word “transcendental” even means.
I hold my line.
I offer advice, but only helpful advice. I avoid indulging in passing along speculative opinions offered by others, preferring instead to offer practical, time-tested guidance based on an unimpeachable source: myself.
I am well-versed in the goings-on in the world of pro cycling. I do this primarily because pro cyclists are always contacting me, asking me for advice on nutritional strategies and race tactics. At some point, I am going to have to call Levi Leipheimer and tell him to stop giving out my number, because it’s starting to get tiresome. If they offered to pay for this advice, that would be different, but you’d be astonished at what cheapskates most pro cyclists are.
I know exactly what to wear for any cycling occasion. Is it sunny now, but the weather prediction is for sleet in one hour, followed by rain, followed by wind and then sun again? I will layer properly for the ride and never be uncomfortable during said ride. My weather / clothing sense is uncanny. It cannot be canned. Don’t even try to can it.
I am willing to hear other opinions. When I render a verdict, however, you can be confident that it is correct, and you will be well-served to adopt my point of view as your own.
I pick the right line. Follow it without question, and your riding experience will be vastly superior to the one you would have had in the event you had followed any other line.
When I race, I race to win. And yet, I am able to separate the experience from the objective, so that even as I am turning myself out with an intensity you can’t even imagine (go ahead and try. There. You failed.), I am likely to notice the beauty of both the site and sound of a leaf as it rustles on a branch as I go by. After the race is over, I will congratulate those both those I defeated, and those whom I allowed to go on ahead of me, as a courtesy, because I know that some people are not self-actualized and therefore need external validation to feel good about themselves.
I use nothing but the very finest lubricants for my bicycle chains.
I can ride for hours — or, should I choose to prove a point, for days — without food or drink. However, when I do eat something while riding, I easily and fluidly reach behind me and grab whatever it is I am going to eat, remove the wrapper, eat the food, and then put the wrapper back in my jersey pocket — all without any difficulty whatsoever. During this process, I do not deviate even half an inch off my line.
Finally, I can ride no-handed.
I assure you that as efforless as I make this look, It is not easy — indeed, it takes a great deal of work — to be the finest cyclist in the world. I do it for you (and others like you), however, because I want you to have something to aspire to.