The first thing you do when you wake up in the morning is scratch your balls, then pee standing up. You may or may not shower after that.
You consume a breakfast that is primarily composed of last week’s steak dinner, yesterday’s chicken wing fiesta, and a Twinkie, just so you can get one of your daily servings of the bread/grain food group.
You drink orange juice…okay, orange drink, with added sugar and carbonation. But it’s five percent juice, so that counts.
You get dressed. You leave. You work. You play. You return home. You poop. You sit down and watch TV, play XBox, eat, sleep, and repeat.
You are a man. Your day is done, your life is complete.
You’re a cyclist.
The first thing you do when you wake up in the morning is grab your syringe and inject yourself with Winstrol. You try to scratch your balls, but they’re nowhere to be found, a result of the aforementioned steroids and the fact that you spend hours a day slamming those jewels against your banana seat.
You shower for posterity, then shave your entire body for speed. No hair means faster to the finish line. You look like a skinner, dorkier, less-endowed version of a male porn star, but you’re okay with that.
You pick out your favorite spandex suit and cram yourself into it. The world can see the outline of your penis, and that’s the way you like. It’s not just camel toe. It’s a cyclist’s camel toe.
You head to the kitchen and carbo load: trail mix, a granola bar, and a glass of fiber to keep you regular. You drink a mixture of raw egg and fish oil because you read about it in a magazine. You fill all eight of your water bottles and prepare for a day in which you’ll piss off hundreds, if not thousands, of pedestrians and commuters who actually have real places to go.
You grab your Schwinn and embark. You don’t know exactly where you’re going, but you’re going, and that’s all that matters.
You will ride for no less than eight hours, wherever the wind takes you. On trails, and side streets, thoroughfares and boulevards, even the occasional highway.
On average, you will cause three vehicular accidents during the typical training day. At one point, you will run over a squirrel that has a family and three children with a wonderful lady squirrel.
You will see the sign that says “45 MPH” and ignore it. Twenty-five is as fast as your motorless two-wheeler can go, and that should be good enough for anyone.
You will hear the honking from the car behind you and respond with a hand signal. You’re adept at hand signals.
After a full day of training in which you’ve contributed absolutely nothing to society, you will return home and empty your spandex of your own excrement; stopping while riding is blasphemous.
You will return to the kitchen and refuel with a dozen-egg omelette. Not only have you been a detriment to the working world today, but now you’re hijacking more than your fair share of food, too.
You will grab your syringe and reinject the Winstrol. Your muscles are under there somewhere, they just have yet to emerge.
You will study film footage of cycling legends, such as disgraced fellow dopers Floyd Landis and Tyler Hamilton. You will scour and re-scour video tapes to better learn the tricks of the trade. You will eventually fall asleep thinking you’ve done good in the world today.
You are a cyclist. Your day is done, your life is complete.