One cold, sunny morning in February, I rode with Pete Clark.
His bike was nothing to write home about: nicked, scratched, full of amateurish repair work. Even something about his attire suggested Mickey Mouse: fingerless work gloves, tattered, baggy pants tucked into white socks (goodness knows what was underneath that!) cheap shoes, eyeglasses that had seen better years, and weirdest of all, he sucked on a whistle (or so it appeared: "Slurp, shlurp!" Ew.)
Disguising my embarrassment, we took off together down the road. Pedaling, he looked like some sort of funky chicken. And it was all I could do to stay with him, he was so slow! I felt ridiculous every time he tweeted on that whistle, I wanted to hide! In fact, the first time he blew it was in my direction, spraying me with spit! "Oh, I'm sorry," he kept apologizing. But it never did any good--I'd rather ride with Jethro Bodine!
Several times he made stupid turns and repeatedly endangered me in traffic. Every time he swerved into the center of the lane, he'd get a symphony of horns blowing at him, and each time he'd
yell back at them, "Learn Effective Cycling techniques! Bikes belong!" What a bozo.
My advice to anyone is: stay away from Pete Clark. He'll get you killed!