Fuzzy Legs

What to do on a chilly winter's day with rain in the forecast? Stay dry? Mostly. Climb a hill to touch a cloud and get wet? Of course.

Today's group was a faster one, and I was pleased to keep up with them. The front group charged off at a pace that was not impossible and I was swept along nicely, drafting a guy riding a fixed-gear bicycle and our ride leaders on their tandem.

Am I spending too much time cycling? The San Francisco Chronicle recently profiled another local cyclist and her cycling addiction. Whew, that's not me. I am not signing up for any double centuries, much less Paris-Brest-Paris. I'm not addicted. No intervention needed. Nothing to see here. Move along, please.

Still, when you recognize at least one cyclist [not riding with you] on every ride, does that mean you're riding too much? When men in Lycra with fuzzy legs look weird to you, are you hanging around too many bike racers?

The tandem flew past me on a straightaway descent; the urge to draft was irresistible. Another rider tried to insert himself as we passed; I defended and held my position on their wheel. Coming up on the fixed-gear as we crested a little rise, I seized the moment (and momentum) to attack. My breakaway would last only until the next uphill, but I knew that. It was fun anyway. Out of the saddle and rocking the bike, he powered past me like I was standing still. I'll never have legs like that.