Quixote

We are veterans and newcomers, old-timers and first-timers. We are dawdlers and racers and everything inbetween: weekend warriors, Freds, BMX hooligans with nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon. We are your neighbors, your coworkers, your baristas, your bankers, your long-lost cousins and 40-year-old virgins. We are idealists and realists, luddites and technophiles, riding to our nine-to-fives and riding to forget our nine-to-fives. We are Albert Einstein and Napoleon Dynamite and Calvin's Dad from Calvin & Hobbes. We are that asshole riding in the middle of your lane; we are that asshole wreaking havoc on the sidewalk (don't be that asshole wreaking havoc on the sidewalk).

We ride to reclaim our daily fill of adrenaline; we ride to reclaim our right to the street. We ride because we can't afford the gas; we ride because we can't afford to risk hurting someone from behind the wheel. We ride to feel the breeze blowing through our hair. We ride because you can't say hello to a passing stranger from the driver's seat. We ride to find our sanity. We ride because we can't stay off our bikes. We ride our flabby asses off, because on a bike, it's sink or swim, pedal or fall, ride or die.

We are Don Quixote, tilting at windmills, and we ride because it makes no sense not to.