I know an old guy... Calling him a "friend" feels a bit awkward, because honestly, he is an extremely difficult guy. He lives alone in an old house at the end of the street. His wife died a few years ago, and his children have all moved out, perhaps because they also wanted to find some peace away from their father's constant grumpiness. Now he just lives with Lucky, an old dog just as unpleasant as its owner. I’ve visited his house I don't know how many times, drank how many cups of coffee, but Lucky still barks loudly in my face as if a stranger had just arrived for the first time. Both master and pet are prickly, sullen, and no one wants to get involved with them.
. But... there is one single place where that old guy changes completely. That is when he puts his butt on the bicycle saddle. Last weekend, we had a big group ride. That day, a few new faces appeared in the group. Young guys, equipped "to the teeth": Shiny aerodynamic carbon bikes, stylish Rapha and Pas Normal Studios kits, the latest Garmin computers. They stood huddled in a corner, laughing and talking loudly, discussing Power numbers, FTP, and races enthusiastically. Confidence radiated from their eyes, from the way they stood with hands on hips, full of energy. They glanced past my old guy – who was standing leaning against a rusty old steel bike – then casually turned away, continuing their story.
To them, old guys like us are just ghosts on the sidelines, invisible and harmless, not worth bothering about. He saw it all. But he didn't react at all. He just smirked slightly, his hand slowly lighting a rolled cigarette. He took a long drag, exhaled smoke into the air with a look of indifference, then stubbed out the cigarette right as the start command sounded. Today, the group's goal was to conquer the Black Rock Pass route, more than 100km long.
Honestly, mentioning this name makes my spine shiver. Not because of the length, but because of the 5km "Death" slope located in the middle of the leg. That is the section I have always been most apprehensive about: Average gradient of 10%, with hairpin turns up to 15%. It is the place that buries so many arrogant egos, the place where your heart rate shoots up to your throat and your legs feel like lead. The first 20km passed peacefully.
But when the "10% Grade" sign loomed in front of us, the real game began. Right when hitting the foot of the slope, the instinct of youth arose. The young guys couldn't stand going slow. They immediately "attacked". They stood up to pedal (out of saddle), legs spinning furiously, shooting forward, leaving us old guys to eat dust behind. They looked like arrows shot forth, strong and full of pride. After about 3km of steep climbing, silence took over, only the sound of whistling wind and gasping breath remained. I started seeing the backs ahead wobbling.
Those "A95 gasoline engines" started overheating. They were fading. Their shoulders swayed, their pedaling rhythm started going chaotic like figure eights. And then... from behind, I heard a steady, slow but stubborn "whir... whir..." sound. It was him. He still sat still on the saddle, back slightly hunched, sweat dripping onto the handlebars wrapped in frayed cloth tape. But his cadence... oh my god, it was perfectly even like a top-notch Diesel engine. 80 rpm, not missing a beat. Just plodding, plodding forward. He glided past me gently, then started swallowing up each young guy one by one. The most priceless moment was when he passed the guy in the lead - who was gasping like a fish out of water, face pale from lactic acid.
He didn't mock, didn't provoke. He just turned, looked at him for a second, and gave a slight, deep nod. That nod wasn't disdain, but a wordless lesson: "Just calm down kid, the road is still long". Then he continued pedaling,his skinny back gradually disappearing behind the curve, leaving behind the astonishment of the young crowd.
He reached the summit, sitting and waiting for the group for up to 10 minutes.
When I got there, he had already relit the unfinished cigarette, sitting and petting some stray dog by the road – strangely, that dog didn't bark at him. Only then did I truly understand. His usual unpleasantness and prickliness, when put onto a bike, transformed into iron discipline and frightening endurance. His power is "Old Man Strength" - something forged over decades, durable like an eternal Diesel engine. So, a blood lesson for anyone behind the handlebars: Don't look at gray hair, don't look at an old bike and rush to judge. Never underestimate an old guy on a bicycle.
A badge of honor for the veterans of the road. Get your 'Never Underestimate' T-shirt her
Never Underestimate An Old Man On A Bicycle
