The morning started thick. Our remote thermometer said that it was 70° at 5:45 AM. I could tell it was humid. The lake was glass, hidden in the low fog. The sky was slowly turning a cotton candy pink as the sun struggled to reach the horizon. The pedals were moving effortlessly under my feet, and I was on my way. "Jesus Christ!," the runner exclaimed as he nearly jumped into my path. (It was his fault.) I was holding a nice pace and felt quite good all the way around the lake, until I passed a fellow cyclist. I politely gave him a heads up that I was passing, and then he promptly sprinted by, zooming through an intersection, darting around the queued cars. I politely crossed in the appropriate cross walks, and caught up to him one more time. After I passed him again, he kept my pace and started drafting. At the next crossing, I again slowed and used the appropriate crossing. He sped forward, crossed against traffic, and started along the path again ahead of me. Bastard. For the third pass, I flew by and he had no hope to catch up. I never looked back, but I don't think he was there.
It was after this duel that I decided to name my bike. Kris & I had tossed around bee-related names, "Yellow Jacket," "The Bumble Bee," etc. But it was right then that I decided to go with "Sting."
(197.2 on the scale)
