The Final Tuesday Night Club Ride Of 2019- The Watt King Pulleth- -

“Good pace today, boys,” he says.

For fifty-one weeks, the Tuesday Night Club Ride has been a democracy of suffering. We have rolled out at a civilized 6:00 PM, clipped in with our plastic fenders and blinking taillights, and pretended that cycling is a hobby of leisure. We have soft-pedaled through the neutral zone, told jokes about saddle sores, and dutifully pulled turns at 240 watts. But tonight is the Final Ride of 2019. The rules change. The veneer of civility is stripped away like an old tubular tire. Tonight, the Watt King pulleth. “Good pace today, boys,” he says

I cross the line thirty seconds later. My lungs taste of pennies and regret. The group regroups at the 7-Eleven for the cool-down. Mark is already there, sitting on a curb, eating a cold gas-station burrito. He is not breathing hard. He has the audacity to smile. We have soft-pedaled through the neutral zone, told

My computer reads 490 watts. I am breathing in the key of despair. My front wheel is exactly four inches from Mark’s rear tire. I look down at his cassette. He is in the 13-tooth sprocket. He is climbing a 6% grade in the 13-tooth sprocket. He is not a man; he is a Danish time-trial robot sent back in time to make me regret every rest day I have ever taken. The veneer of civility is stripped away like

Then he does the unthinkable. He looks back. Not with malice. With pity . He taps his power meter. He shakes his head, almost sadly. And then he accelerates.