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They had started buying the lightest cross-country bikes they could afford, and were racing on Tuesday nights. They were training. They were watching their weight. They were selecting rides based on joke what kind of workout they’d get: the more climbing, the better. Naturally, every group ride became a race. And naturally, as the newest joke — and sole remaining recreational — rider in the group, I always came in dead last. Usually by several minutes. Last Straw For a while, this didn’t matter at all to me. Well, actually, I should point out that previous sentence is a total joke lie. Every ride, as I rode up to the designated “regroup” spot and saw everybody watching me, I’d be embarrassed. Not embarrassed enough to do anything about it, but embarrassed. Then, one day, at the top of Frank, Dug and I had an exchange. “So,” said Dug, as I churned up to the top of the climb in my granny gear, “Did you have a flat on the way up, or what?”
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