This blog is not about cycling.

Even though it sure looks like it.

I got home from work today at around 6:30 and decided that, having figured out that the sun would set tonight at 7:57 p.m. according to some potentially unreliable Internet information, that that gave me plenty of time to go for a bike ride.

I was right.

I set off towards the bike path and headed south (west?). I didn't want to go the other way (towards the horses) because that section of the path, though lovely, was still unknown territory. Also, there were some tunnels and really narrow spaces below the boulevards and I wasn't comfortable with that in broad daylight; I didn't know how I'd feel at dusk. The other way was just fine.

I had a good time pushing myself, but I have no idea if what I was doing was good for me as a cyclist or not. I can only tell you that I had a ball. Once I was actually on the path, I got my speed up to 20 miles per hour. That's pretty fast for me. That's really fast for me. I knew couldn't maintain it, so I set my sights on doing just a minute at that speed. My bike computer is awesome for that kind of thing. I did it and then I slowed down, and then I tried it again. 20 mph was crazy, so I lowered my standards: my new goal was 18 miles per hour. I told myself, "18 is the new 20." I did that for about five miles, off and on, resting, speeding up, maintaining a speed, resting, etc.

And then the unthinkable happened:

I passed a dude.

I think I was going about 16 miles per hour, and I realized I was gaining on some guy. He was riding a nice bike: he had the bike shorts on, gloves like me (I like my gloves), he was cruising along - and I passed him. I fuckin' passed him. Not only did I pass him, I smoked him! I almost laughed out loud (remember this detail). Now, who knows, maybe he'd just ridden 100 miles. Maybe he just had surgery. Maybe he was, I don't know, tired. Up until now the only people I've been passing are like, children, the aged, people on beach cruisers or piece of crap mountain bikes, people towing trailers. This was a middle-aged, reasonably fit guy on a real bike. I think he was shocked, too. It was awesome.

Then, later, I got yelled at by a different guy who I'm sure thought he'd schooled some newbie idiot - I was going down one of those hills that go under the major streets, and I was following a man and a lady who were on bikes. The man was towing a kid in one of those bike trailers. I realize now that passing them while going down was probably a bad idea, but I was impatient. I didn't see the real cyclist approaching me until we were heading back up. We passed while I was on the left of the woman. I was definitely in his lane. He yelled at me, "Try to stay in your lane!" I called back, "Thank you!" as un-sarcastically as I could - he was right. But later, when I saw that same couple with the kid on my way back, and they smiled and waved at me, I thought, what a jerk that guy was. Sure we were in his way, sure, we could've all collided, sure, a collision with a baby involved would be bad news - but if he had time to yell at me, he had time to get over. Whatever. I decided that I am not going to be that guy. Ever. The bike path is for everybody, not just the "real" cyclists.

After awhile I realized that sunset and dusk are two separate things. Sure, it was still light out, but the sky was darkening and there I was, on a secluded bike path. I'm not saying I was worried for me or my virtue: I was worried about my beautiful bike. I started imagining that on my way home, I would be beset upon by marauding gangs of juvenile delinquent bike thieves and that by then I'd be so tired I couldn't outride them. So I turned around and headed home. I thought I'd take it easy but there is something about riding a bike that is so much work and so much fun at the same time that I can't help it: I want to go fast. I wanted to feel my legs burning. Remember I took those spinning classes and how much fun it was? Imagine that feeling with the sun setting all around you, beautiful El Dorado park on your right, the wind on your neck. It was gorgeous and yet I didn't want to be a tourist.

So now 14 miles per hour was the new 20, and I let that be my goal. I kept it at 15 for awhile. Then, I heard a noise, and I looked behind me. A guy (another different guy) was approaching. I got over and prepared to let him pass. He did. We went down one of those hills and up under the boulevard, and then I started keeping up with him. I think we were going about 18 miles per hour. He was taking it easy, I could tell. I wondered if he knew I was behind him? Not close enough to touch or anything, not drafting, just keeping up. It was fun.

And then?

Then we passed another pair of cyclists, and suddenly, I was the second cyclist in a group of 4. Then another cyclist caught up with us, and I was the third cyclist in a group of 5. Then, I had this ridiculous thought: "I'm in a fucking peloton."

And the silliness of that thought made me laugh.

I kept up for awhile, and then those two peeled off and, as they say, ate my lunch. It was fine, because I had to turn off to go home, and then I soon realized that the sound I thought was laughter was actually me, gasping for air.