I was once going up a popular grade (Torrey Pines in San Diego). I am a bit Clyde, so am really used to getting passed by younger, lighter roadies up this hill. One day I hear this faint creaking behind me that started growing louder, then there he goes past me. The guy was a little younger than my fifty something, wearing cutoff jeans, flip flops, and nothing else, skin the tone of well cured leather, riding a single speed cruiser with a wobbly rear wheel, and baskets front and rear filled with bottles and cans. I never did catch up to him.