The skintight aerodynamics of your cycling onesie lead me to believe you were not just going for a ride. This succession of pedaling had a purpose; you were pining for some sort of feeling of reward, some sort of psychological trophy. What you didn’t know was that I was also racing for the podium but my medal was made of cheese, salsa and tortilla chips and destined for my belly. I knew once my lead wheel was in line with your rear I had it.
I pushed harder as we went uphill, gaining and passing, my broken spoke banging against the others in a victory song. We’d almost reached the top and I could hear you panting behind me, hope audibly sucked from the polyester of your suit. When I reached the peak I took a right. You didn’t follow. I’m not sure what silver tastes like but gold is guacamole.