“I was 28 years old. The previous 15 years of my life had been spent as a cyclist. Not the kinda cyclist you see in a bike lane at rush hour, or out dinging bells on rail trails, ha, I turned my nose up at those types. “Freds”, I’d say to myself as I looked down at my heart rate monitor while muscling my spendy spindly Italian race rocket over the next imaginary finish line.

My attire was a zebra print lycra leotard, my legs had been shorn before I’d even hit puberty. I was quite comfortable with being uncomfortable while pursuing my passion for bicycles and my petty amateur victories aboard them. So what happened?”

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