My Group Ride: A Cautionary Tale
03-13-24, 07:57 AM
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My Group Ride: A Cautionary Tale
I headed out on the weekly group ride full of optimism and joy. With my new Rapha Pro Team Aero jersey, I was sure to lead the pack as our paceline rolled through the bucolic countryside. My riding buddies would finally respect me – and, as the strongest man in our peloton, I would have the honor of buying the first round of Caffe Lattes at our local coffee shop after the ride. One of our riders, Todd Periwinkle, had held that honor for four weeks in a row – but tonight I would wipe that supercilious grin from his face.
My dreams ended early in the ride when we hit our first big climb, as I struggled to maintain contact with the pack. I could feel the immense weight of my disc brake rotors and hooked rims fighting me with every pedal stroke. It felt like I was pushing a boat anchor up the hill! Finally, when the grade hit its peak, I suffered the most terrifying and shameful fate known to cyclists: inch by inch, I lost contact with the pack and had to ride solo all the way back to town – a crushing distance of three miles. As I lamely rolled up to the coffee shop with my tail between my seatstays, the guys had already gotten their Lattes and were occupying all of the leather-clad seats of a nice booth. Todd gave me a smug look and said, “I left a tab open at the counter; feel free to add some mocha syrup to your Latte – looks like you need it,” and pulled up a chair for me. A damned wooden chair. The condescending bastard.
When I got home, I told my wife, Gladys, about my humiliation, and she was not sympathetic. “Well, honey,” she said, “I’ll bet Todd isn’t running those silly disc brakes and clincher wheels. I told you not to believe that salesman, but he suckered you anyway. Todd is too smart for that.” Her tone of voice and the look on her face told me everything I needed to know: I would not be getting a second ride tonight. And even if I did, Gladys would be thinking about Todd Periwinkle’s lycra-clad thighs the whole time. And the lycra would be Voler – the horror.
The next day, as I was taking care of some cavities for some brat named Timmy, I kept replaying the previous night’s group ride in my head. The anguish was overwhelming, and it didn’t help that little Timmy was crying and screaming like a banshee – I had been so lost in my grief that I forgot to give him the Novocaine. A bit of laughing gas helped – me, I mean, not Timmy. The kid needs to learn that life is painful. As I drilled his next molar, I came up with a solution to all of my problems.
After work, I poured myself a stiff IPA, took another shot of laughing gas, and steeled myself for a difficult conversation. “Gladys,” I said to my wife, “I need to use the Gold Card. Please give it to me. This is important.”
Gladys looked at me dubiously. “The last time I let you use the Gold Card,” she replied, “we ended up with a $4200 charge from some call girls in Dubai. I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“Well,” I said, “this time is different. And if you’re worried about making the payment, don’t fret. Something tells me that a kid named Timmy just might need some braces. Hell, maybe even an implant or two. We’re going to have plenty of cash.” With a skeptical look, she hesitantly handed over the Gold Card - the key to my salvation.
The next week I rolled up to our group ride on my new whip, complete with rim brakes and tubular tires. As we rode out of town, I could feel the bike surge under me with each pedal stroke. It felt like a wild Stallion, raring to race ahead of the pack! The true test came when we hit The Big Climb. As the road turned up, the guys all shifted down into their 34-34 gears to storm the monstrous 2.7% grade. I gritted my teeth, jumped off my saddle, dialed it up to 400 watts, and surged to the head of the pack! As I crested the hill on my new steed, I turned to glance over my shoulder and gave Todd “the look;” he frantically tried to downshift, but had run out of gears. The victory was mine.
Later, at the coffee shop, I told the gang, “Drink hearty, boys! Order Grande Lattes, if you wish, with double shots of caramel – it’s on me!” Todd slunk his way to the counter, pretending that there was some problem with the laces on his cycling shoes. Ha! As if that explained why I had wiped the road with him.
As I drank my Latte, I was looking forward to telling Gladys about my triumph. She’d be so impressed that I might even get some lovin' tonight, even though it wasn’t yet the fourth Sunday of the month. My redemption was complete. And I owed it all to Dave Mayer.
My dreams ended early in the ride when we hit our first big climb, as I struggled to maintain contact with the pack. I could feel the immense weight of my disc brake rotors and hooked rims fighting me with every pedal stroke. It felt like I was pushing a boat anchor up the hill! Finally, when the grade hit its peak, I suffered the most terrifying and shameful fate known to cyclists: inch by inch, I lost contact with the pack and had to ride solo all the way back to town – a crushing distance of three miles. As I lamely rolled up to the coffee shop with my tail between my seatstays, the guys had already gotten their Lattes and were occupying all of the leather-clad seats of a nice booth. Todd gave me a smug look and said, “I left a tab open at the counter; feel free to add some mocha syrup to your Latte – looks like you need it,” and pulled up a chair for me. A damned wooden chair. The condescending bastard.
When I got home, I told my wife, Gladys, about my humiliation, and she was not sympathetic. “Well, honey,” she said, “I’ll bet Todd isn’t running those silly disc brakes and clincher wheels. I told you not to believe that salesman, but he suckered you anyway. Todd is too smart for that.” Her tone of voice and the look on her face told me everything I needed to know: I would not be getting a second ride tonight. And even if I did, Gladys would be thinking about Todd Periwinkle’s lycra-clad thighs the whole time. And the lycra would be Voler – the horror.
The next day, as I was taking care of some cavities for some brat named Timmy, I kept replaying the previous night’s group ride in my head. The anguish was overwhelming, and it didn’t help that little Timmy was crying and screaming like a banshee – I had been so lost in my grief that I forgot to give him the Novocaine. A bit of laughing gas helped – me, I mean, not Timmy. The kid needs to learn that life is painful. As I drilled his next molar, I came up with a solution to all of my problems.
After work, I poured myself a stiff IPA, took another shot of laughing gas, and steeled myself for a difficult conversation. “Gladys,” I said to my wife, “I need to use the Gold Card. Please give it to me. This is important.”
Gladys looked at me dubiously. “The last time I let you use the Gold Card,” she replied, “we ended up with a $4200 charge from some call girls in Dubai. I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“Well,” I said, “this time is different. And if you’re worried about making the payment, don’t fret. Something tells me that a kid named Timmy just might need some braces. Hell, maybe even an implant or two. We’re going to have plenty of cash.” With a skeptical look, she hesitantly handed over the Gold Card - the key to my salvation.
The next week I rolled up to our group ride on my new whip, complete with rim brakes and tubular tires. As we rode out of town, I could feel the bike surge under me with each pedal stroke. It felt like a wild Stallion, raring to race ahead of the pack! The true test came when we hit The Big Climb. As the road turned up, the guys all shifted down into their 34-34 gears to storm the monstrous 2.7% grade. I gritted my teeth, jumped off my saddle, dialed it up to 400 watts, and surged to the head of the pack! As I crested the hill on my new steed, I turned to glance over my shoulder and gave Todd “the look;” he frantically tried to downshift, but had run out of gears. The victory was mine.
Later, at the coffee shop, I told the gang, “Drink hearty, boys! Order Grande Lattes, if you wish, with double shots of caramel – it’s on me!” Todd slunk his way to the counter, pretending that there was some problem with the laces on his cycling shoes. Ha! As if that explained why I had wiped the road with him.
As I drank my Latte, I was looking forward to telling Gladys about my triumph. She’d be so impressed that I might even get some lovin' tonight, even though it wasn’t yet the fourth Sunday of the month. My redemption was complete. And I owed it all to Dave Mayer.
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03-13-24, 08:08 AM
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The great thing about being a casual rider is that you dont have to CONFORM to ANY of the rules "real cyclist" claim you have to. Simply ride any bike or trike the way you want to, wearing anything you want to, at any speed you want, at any cadence you want. Simply enjoy riding.
(Apologies to rydabent for the copy/paste. Looking forward to seeing you guys square off.)
(Apologies to rydabent for the copy/paste. Looking forward to seeing you guys square off.)
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03-13-24, 08:40 AM
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I'm sorry you have to work as a dentist.
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03-13-24, 09:32 AM
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It's possible the failure on the first ride was caused by the armband on the jersey or the Cervelo you were riding at the time. Did you have tire noodles on the first ride? It could have been the weight of the tire noodles. I'm guessing you were running 3" tires with negative air pressure for aero/smoothness advantages on the first ride. The noodles that go in those tires are heavy. The exposure to the harsh chemical fumes at the pool equipment outlet store could have had something to do with it also.
The real failure though, was making up a story just to insult another BF member.
The real failure though, was making up a story just to insult another BF member.
03-13-24, 10:09 AM
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03-13-24, 10:46 AM
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There’s a guy who lives around the corner whose wife is named Blanche.
03-13-24, 10:54 AM
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Sorry you have to drill teeth AND are not strong enough to turn all of that extra mass from those beefy road bike disc brakes.
Must suck to be you.
Must suck to be you.
03-13-24, 11:20 AM
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I switched to rim-brake tubulars filled with sealant, after being stranded 2 dozen times, because I couldn't re-seat the tire on my tubeless disc-brake wheels. The benefit of no longer being dropped on climbs, was an unexpected benefit. You know when your tongue's hanging out over the front tire, like a dog, and that extra 100 grams of rotational weight causes a gap to open up...and then you have to ride the final 30 miles of uphill without the benefit of being in the peloton?
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03-13-24, 12:02 PM
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03-13-24, 12:42 PM
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03-13-24, 04:35 PM
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03-13-24, 04:37 PM
#16
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Love the R600 Dura Ace reference. Only thing missing is a chic in a bikini on a cervelo.
__________________
You could fall off a cliff and die.
You could get lost and die.
You could hit a tree and die.
OR YOU COULD STAY HOME AND FALL OFF THE COUCH AND DIE.
You could fall off a cliff and die.
You could get lost and die.
You could hit a tree and die.
OR YOU COULD STAY HOME AND FALL OFF THE COUCH AND DIE.
03-13-24, 04:40 PM
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03-13-24, 04:44 PM
#18
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Understood. I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be first one in with the Seinfeld reference.
__________________
You could fall off a cliff and die.
You could get lost and die.
You could hit a tree and die.
OR YOU COULD STAY HOME AND FALL OFF THE COUCH AND DIE.
You could fall off a cliff and die.
You could get lost and die.
You could hit a tree and die.
OR YOU COULD STAY HOME AND FALL OFF THE COUCH AND DIE.
03-13-24, 04:53 PM
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The Food Lady has spoken...
“Well, honey... I’ll bet Todd isn’t running those silly disc brakes and clincher wheels.."
“Well, honey... I’ll bet Todd isn’t running those silly disc brakes and clincher wheels.."
__________________
No matter where you're at... There you are... Δf:=f(1/2)-f(-1/2)
No matter where you're at... There you are... Δf:=f(1/2)-f(-1/2)
03-13-24, 05:37 PM
#20
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The only thing missing from this piece is an @ before the name of the muse that inspired the redemption.
Bravo!
Bravo!
03-13-24, 08:29 PM
#21
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03-13-24, 09:10 PM
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I can't believe I'm the first.
I carefully read every post, even the lame ones, just to make sure I wouldn't embarrass myself.
I am the first...huzzah ! ! !
If it ain't on Strava it didn't happen...
Any chance I can get Gladys' phone number...
I carefully read every post, even the lame ones, just to make sure I wouldn't embarrass myself.
I am the first...huzzah ! ! !
If it ain't on Strava it didn't happen...
Any chance I can get Gladys' phone number...
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03-13-24, 10:05 PM
#24
Junior Member
I headed out on the weekly group ride full of optimism and joy. With my new Rapha Pro Team Aero jersey, I was sure to lead the pack as our paceline rolled through the bucolic countryside. My riding buddies would finally respect me – and, as the strongest man in our peloton, I would have the honor of buying the first round of Caffe Lattes at our local coffee shop after the ride. One of our riders, Todd Periwinkle, had held that honor for four weeks in a row – but tonight I would wipe that supercilious grin from his face.
My dreams ended early in the ride when we hit our first big climb, as I struggled to maintain contact with the pack. I could feel the immense weight of my disc brake rotors and hooked rims fighting me with every pedal stroke. It felt like I was pushing a boat anchor up the hill! Finally, when the grade hit its peak, I suffered the most terrifying and shameful fate known to cyclists: inch by inch, I lost contact with the pack and had to ride solo all the way back to town – a crushing distance of three miles. As I lamely rolled up to the coffee shop with my tail between my seatstays, the guys had already gotten their Lattes and were occupying all of the leather-clad seats of a nice booth. Todd gave me a smug look and said, “I left a tab open at the counter; feel free to add some mocha syrup to your Latte – looks like you need it,” and pulled up a chair for me. A damned wooden chair. The condescending bastard.
When I got home, I told my wife, Gladys, about my humiliation, and she was not sympathetic. “Well, honey,” she said, “I’ll bet Todd isn’t running those silly disc brakes and clincher wheels. I told you not to believe that salesman, but he suckered you anyway. Todd is too smart for that.” Her tone of voice and the look on her face told me everything I needed to know: I would not be getting a second ride tonight. And even if I did, Gladys would be thinking about Todd Periwinkle’s lycra-clad thighs the whole time. And the lycra would be Voler – the horror.
The next day, as I was taking care of some cavities for some brat named Timmy, I kept replaying the previous night’s group ride in my head. The anguish was overwhelming, and it didn’t help that little Timmy was crying and screaming like a banshee – I had been so lost in my grief that I forgot to give him the Novocaine. A bit of laughing gas helped – me, I mean, not Timmy. The kid needs to learn that life is painful. As I drilled his next molar, I came up with a solution to all of my problems.
After work, I poured myself a stiff IPA, took another shot of laughing gas, and steeled myself for a difficult conversation. “Gladys,” I said to my wife, “I need to use the Gold Card. Please give it to me. This is important.”
Gladys looked at me dubiously. “The last time I let you use the Gold Card,” she replied, “we ended up with a $4200 charge from some call girls in Dubai. I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“Well,” I said, “this time is different. And if you’re worried about making the payment, don’t fret. Something tells me that a kid named Timmy just might need some braces. Hell, maybe even an implant or two. We’re going to have plenty of cash.” With a skeptical look, she hesitantly handed over the Gold Card - the key to my salvation.
The next week I rolled up to our group ride on my new whip, complete with rim brakes and tubular tires. As we rode out of town, I could feel the bike surge under me with each pedal stroke. It felt like a wild Stallion, raring to race ahead of the pack! The true test came when we hit The Big Climb. As the road turned up, the guys all shifted down into their 34-34 gears to storm the monstrous 2.7% grade. I gritted my teeth, jumped off my saddle, dialed it up to 400 watts, and surged to the head of the pack! As I crested the hill on my new steed, I turned to glance over my shoulder and gave Todd “the look;” he frantically tried to downshift, but had run out of gears. The victory was mine.
Later, at the coffee shop, I told the gang, “Drink hearty, boys! Order Grande Lattes, if you wish, with double shots of caramel – it’s on me!” Todd slunk his way to the counter, pretending that there was some problem with the laces on his cycling shoes. Ha! As if that explained why I had wiped the road with him.
As I drank my Latte, I was looking forward to telling Gladys about my triumph. She’d be so impressed that I might even get some lovin' tonight, even though it wasn’t yet the fourth Sunday of the month. My redemption was complete. And I owed it all to Dave Mayer.
My dreams ended early in the ride when we hit our first big climb, as I struggled to maintain contact with the pack. I could feel the immense weight of my disc brake rotors and hooked rims fighting me with every pedal stroke. It felt like I was pushing a boat anchor up the hill! Finally, when the grade hit its peak, I suffered the most terrifying and shameful fate known to cyclists: inch by inch, I lost contact with the pack and had to ride solo all the way back to town – a crushing distance of three miles. As I lamely rolled up to the coffee shop with my tail between my seatstays, the guys had already gotten their Lattes and were occupying all of the leather-clad seats of a nice booth. Todd gave me a smug look and said, “I left a tab open at the counter; feel free to add some mocha syrup to your Latte – looks like you need it,” and pulled up a chair for me. A damned wooden chair. The condescending bastard.
When I got home, I told my wife, Gladys, about my humiliation, and she was not sympathetic. “Well, honey,” she said, “I’ll bet Todd isn’t running those silly disc brakes and clincher wheels. I told you not to believe that salesman, but he suckered you anyway. Todd is too smart for that.” Her tone of voice and the look on her face told me everything I needed to know: I would not be getting a second ride tonight. And even if I did, Gladys would be thinking about Todd Periwinkle’s lycra-clad thighs the whole time. And the lycra would be Voler – the horror.
The next day, as I was taking care of some cavities for some brat named Timmy, I kept replaying the previous night’s group ride in my head. The anguish was overwhelming, and it didn’t help that little Timmy was crying and screaming like a banshee – I had been so lost in my grief that I forgot to give him the Novocaine. A bit of laughing gas helped – me, I mean, not Timmy. The kid needs to learn that life is painful. As I drilled his next molar, I came up with a solution to all of my problems.
After work, I poured myself a stiff IPA, took another shot of laughing gas, and steeled myself for a difficult conversation. “Gladys,” I said to my wife, “I need to use the Gold Card. Please give it to me. This is important.”
Gladys looked at me dubiously. “The last time I let you use the Gold Card,” she replied, “we ended up with a $4200 charge from some call girls in Dubai. I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“Well,” I said, “this time is different. And if you’re worried about making the payment, don’t fret. Something tells me that a kid named Timmy just might need some braces. Hell, maybe even an implant or two. We’re going to have plenty of cash.” With a skeptical look, she hesitantly handed over the Gold Card - the key to my salvation.
The next week I rolled up to our group ride on my new whip, complete with rim brakes and tubular tires. As we rode out of town, I could feel the bike surge under me with each pedal stroke. It felt like a wild Stallion, raring to race ahead of the pack! The true test came when we hit The Big Climb. As the road turned up, the guys all shifted down into their 34-34 gears to storm the monstrous 2.7% grade. I gritted my teeth, jumped off my saddle, dialed it up to 400 watts, and surged to the head of the pack! As I crested the hill on my new steed, I turned to glance over my shoulder and gave Todd “the look;” he frantically tried to downshift, but had run out of gears. The victory was mine.
Later, at the coffee shop, I told the gang, “Drink hearty, boys! Order Grande Lattes, if you wish, with double shots of caramel – it’s on me!” Todd slunk his way to the counter, pretending that there was some problem with the laces on his cycling shoes. Ha! As if that explained why I had wiped the road with him.
As I drank my Latte, I was looking forward to telling Gladys about my triumph. She’d be so impressed that I might even get some lovin' tonight, even though it wasn’t yet the fourth Sunday of the month. My redemption was complete. And I owed it all to Dave Mayer.
03-13-24, 10:15 PM
#25
Senior Member
I think Koyote failed or forgot to mention the stuffed pizza he made sure was available at the start line, while he was too busy checking his rime glue/tape to partake. Teach them fat*** fakers a lesson in strategy.