Coming back to Denver is a less-than-subtle reminder that you probably don’t exercise enough. Sure, people across the country are slipping into Lycra as we speak, clipping into a bicycle that costs a year of city college and channelling their inner-Lance to ride in a big circle for two hours, only to come back to a coffee shop and chow down on a breakfast burrito and copious cups of strong coffee.
I say this because I’ve done it, and I’ll do it again.
Sometimes you can’t help but feel inspired, pushed, by the mettle of man. You might have never thought you could be a cyclist; if you see the right folks, you’ll swear you could climb the Alpe d’ Huez without breaking a sweat—or die trying, anyway.
Other times, however, you’re borrowing your sister’s old Mazda Protege with a stolen stereo that your dad still keeps because it gets “better gas mileage” and you’ve got no other option. For some reason, the last thing you want to hear at the coffee shop is the click click of clipless bike shoes, the winded testosterone, the talk of drafting or mileage.
If you see someone in a fading black, economy-sized sedan scowling at you on your new carbon fiber steed, know that it’s out of love. And disregard the gestures.
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