As a husky young boy, I dreamed of being a husky grownass man wearing spandex in public. That dream was reached when I discovered cyclering. I remember it like it was yesterday — rolling to Pioneer Chicken on certain Fridays for the “Midnight Ridazz” binge drink masquerading as an alternative lifestyle group ride. Remember Sparks? I used to drink those as I recall, orange driblets running down my chin to purp shirt and denim cut-off shants. My “energy packets” were burritos, and my “base miles” were made up of my 2 mile work commute on a fixie. After a few months of those rides I was very fat. Fast forward a few years, I’m in Indiana, and in law school, having traded in the purp shirt and shants for pleated khaks and purp tie. I eventually starting riding and racing with the University of Notre Dame Cyclering Club, usually in 20 degree, 30 mph wind weather over at best vaguely paved roads. After a few months of that, I was skinny. After my return to California, I started racing the CBR crits, cat 5 — 5 am being when the races started. A few of those races quickly shook off my learned Midwestern kindheartedness and I now regularly resort to post-race litigation to ensure my median 37th place. Ironically, my callous and reactionary L.A. persona is juxtaposed with a softening physique and fear of sub-60 degree temperatures.
I now race crits and track fairly regularly, and am a cat 4 in both.
The “race” most memorable to me is the 2013 Belgian Waffle Ride (BWR). It was extremely difficult and I didn’t finish the entire course, having unknowingly veered well off course, and then knowingly skipping the Twin Peaks climb, but my girlfriend did take me to Del Taco afterwards.
I’ve always wanted to step on the top step of the podium, and be asked a question by someone, and no matter what the question is, I answer “I dedicate this one to all my haters.”