Man! It was a beautiful day. I was out spinning around the park on my brand new Trek Madone, wearing my full postal kit, cruising easy without a care. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the birds were singing and all was right with the world.

Then suddenly I saw him, ahead on the bike path, one of those loser-boy tri-geeks. You know the type. He’s a yuppie scum bean-counter by day, yuppie-scum carb-counter by night. Sits at his desk waiting for 5:00 so he can slip out of the corporate pinstripe and slide into the speed-o, singlet and helmet. Thinks a six-pack is a muscle group. I see him up there hunched over his aerobars, back so flat you could iron shirts on it, and I know he’s mine. I can’t help it. I just have to mess with these guys. I kick it up a gear and sprint for his back wheel. With his head down like that he can’t see me. He can’t hear my freewheel clicking over his own ragged breath. I sit on his wheel like a tick on a hound, happily sucking away until I’m good and rested. Then I clear my throat. He raises his head just in time to see me speed by.

Now, I’m grinning ear-to-ear showing the tri-guy nothing but ass and elbows, when out of nowhere some punk on a MTB goes by me like I’m standing still. I mean, hell’s bells, this guy has rattly old SPD pedals, a Rock Shox fork, mud on his downtube and a jersey that fits like a parachute. He’s riding on knobbies, for Pete’s sake, and he goes by me so fast I feel the rush of air. There’s no freekin’ way I’m going to stand for this. He caught me by surprise. That’s all. He’s messing with me and, so help me, it pisses me off!

There’s only one thing to do. I take the shortest route home, hang the Madone up, swap the spandex for a pair of cut-offs and an old Black Flag concert t-shirt. I grab my 70s Peugeot fixie conversion, and roll out for the park again. I’ve got a pretty good idea where I can find that mountain biking show-off, and when I do, I’ll smoke him like a ham. After about three laps of the park, I scope him. He’s standing on the pedals now, struggling up a little rise. It’s not even a hill really. So I drop the hammer and blow him away like Dorothy’s house in Kansas. That’ll teach the little bar steward! Now I just have to see his face. I look back the way Lance looked at Ullrich. No expression. No emotion. Just a long, cold, pitiless glare.

And what do I see? Some bozo on a downhill rig closing on me. That bike must weigh 60 pounds. It’s got like 8 inches of travel front and rear. He’s wearing body armor and a full-face helmet and there’s nothing I can do. I blew myself up passing the MTB punk, and this DH jerk goes by me so fast that I see a red shift. Honest.

Well, you know I’m not going to take that. He dropped the gauntlet, and I can’t let it lie there. I bust my butt for home again, lock the fixie to a lamp-post, run inside, pull on my elbow pads and chrome helmet, jump on the 20” BMXer and head for the park once more. That downhiller is going to look like a chump when I spank him on my FBM. I’m hustling along now, doing maybe 20-25 mph, sniffing for my prey, thinking how sweet it’s going to be when I bunny hop right over him…

And that’s when this soccer mom on a pink Huffy complete with basket and tassels, pulling a five-year-old on a Trail-gator has the colossal nerve to go blazing past me. She’s not even a real cyclist. I mean, she’s wearing a sundress and strappy sandals! She’s got a little black yappy dog in the basket! What’s worse, she actually dares to smile and wave at me as she goes by! And the little girl on the Tag-A-Long sticks out her tongue! You have got to be crapping me! I mean here I am enjoying a beautiful, sunny day in the park when this woman comes along and totally pees in my cornflakes. She’d probably been drafting me for a couple of laps of the park, and I just didn’t notice it. Then she blows by me and grins like it’s funny or something. I’ve had it!

I’m going home now. I’m going to pull on my skin suit and my aero-helmet. I’m going to put the disc wheel on my Quintana Roo. Then I’m going back to the park to find that soccer mom.

She’s meat.

And so’s her five-year-old.

And her little dog, too!