I used to be a fat biker… but now I’m worse. I’m a fat biker who only rides with his dog. Don’t laugh too much, odds are my dog rides more hours a year than you.

Like most things life changing, it started as a joke. We bought a little bike basket for the now 12-pound chiweenie (possible Chug) Carol Baskins. Short trips to the groomer. Carol didn’t much like the bike. 

Then I started taking her on the 8-mile ride to agility class. When the weather is under a billion degrees, we go to agility on Saturday mornings and sometimes Thursday nights.

Somehow that 8-mile joy ride turned into twice-weekly “workouts” of 15-25 miles each — no matter the heat. More than a 100-degrees doesn’t bother Carol Baskin.

When I fill the water bottles and put on my cycling shorts, Carol follows me around the house. Crying at the garage door until she can get on the bike. If I try to leave, she cries at the window until the wife calls me back to “get this dog out of my house…”

But we gotta keep our little Carol safe.

No longer does this fat biker climb mountains. Or even do small hills. Now I just ride the flats and avoid the traffic and the speed of descending.

No longer does this fat biker ride his “best” road bike — the one with the carbon frame, electronic shifting and skinny tires (25c). Carol prefers the wide tires (32c) and disc brakes on the Trek with the sort-of “gravel” set up. The best bike just sits in the garage tempting me to sell it.

No longer does this fat biker share the big roads with the cars going 50-miles-an-hour to ride the fastest routes with the biggest drafts. Now we ride through school zones and cross at the street lights when the “walk sign” is on. 

No longer does this fat biker strive for personal bests or high average speeds on the Strava (the app that makes bikers and runners care about sharing “data”). Now I don’t even hit pause when we stop at the dog park. My average speed has dropped 25 percent since it became “our” rides.

Carol whines at the corners with all the cars. She doesn’t like to wait.

Carol prefers we ride the banks of the canals. Some paved, some dirt. All full of trash and fish and most of all collections of ducks that she can silently harass while quickly “riding” passed.

Carol used to just be a passenger. Silently sitting in the basket. She has become a rider. Putting her front paw on the safety strap to sit higher. Bending to anticipate the bumps. Absorbing the bounces with her legs like a mountain biker balancing on the pedals. Leaning into the turns to smooth out the ride for her and me. Rocking forward and whining to go faster if there is a biker ahead that must be “caught.”

When I get passed by a real biker, an e-bike or one of those fucking scooters for rent, she looks back with just a little disgust. Or maybe that’s the same disappointment I saw in my father’s eyes when I was a teenager?

Carol looks back from her basket… Is that just a little bit of disappointment in her eyes?

Either way, the ears go up and the head goes down as she pushes me to pass whatever weaklings dare to ride in her path.

Bike Hours

I assumed with all of these changes, I had completely fallen out of favor with Strava. Destined to drop off the map of “cyclists” and relegated to the back bench of wannabe “stravaletes”.

At the end of every year, Strava engineers put together a “personalized” video of your “accomplishments”. Bullshit marketing with “positive” messages wrapped in “cool” graphics.

It created a confusing mixed message of “you are doing great” words on the screen while failing to meet any goals and watching all my stats drop at least 35 percent. I dropped from more than 200 hours a year to barely 158.

But guess what mother fuckers, that mere 158 hours of effort put “Carol” in the top 12 percent of Strava athletes. That’s right, the 88th percentile. Solid B, maybe an A-minus if there’s a curve, and you are good at kissing ass. Good enough to get into most public universities on the SAT. 

Carol did it sitting down. So go ahead and laugh at the fat biker with the little dog, we are still better than 88 percent of you…

No animals were harmed in the making of this blog post, but my self-esteem continues to be damaged in ohh so many ways.