Being the fat guy at the start line in a cycling event is like being the hairy 300-pound dude at the beach in a speedo.

I’m in my tight-ass shorts surrounded by all these skinny happy fucks talking about their “race” goals. They are setting up their cadence counters, heart monitors and the other bullshit data.

They are giving me the “dude, keep your shirt on” look.

I’m thinking. “How far is it to the first food stop? I hope they have cookies.” I don’t say that out loud because these skinny fucks look at you the same way douchebag millennials do at the Noble Hops when you order a Bud Light.

This ride was out of Prescott, Az, and dropped out of the trees down into the desert and back up to 6100 ft. It was only 300 or so riders.

Fat bikers do great on the drop — mass TIMES gravity = acceleration. But the math and gravity hate us on the climbs.

If the Tour de France started at the top of the mountains, you would get to see a lot of our fat assess on TV. But they finish on the mountain tops, so it’s nothing but emaciated extras for every concentration camp movie you have ever seen.

My Savage brother-in-law invited me and was riding with a few of his prison guard friends. All young, all healthy. All lean — except 1. Albert.

Me and Albert were going to be friends.

But on the first hill, Albert sprinted away to join the Savage group. Fuck.

All alone again.

I don’t mind. But I hate getting passed by a fucking mountain bike, or a recumbent bike, or the worst are those fucking elliptical bikes with some skinny shit head smiling and “jogging” along with his head 8 feet in the air.

“You are doing great, just keep going,” two mountain bikers said as they are chatting and spinning past me up a 4-percent hill.

I fucking know what I’m doing — I’m working harder than you and burning more calories than you — skinny little piece of shit. Get off that bike and I’ll snap your collarbone like a chicken.

I was thinking that, but I couldn’t say any of it. My heart was pounding out of my chest, and there was no air left for words.

A small group of us hit the 12-mile downhill. I start picking off riders, 1 by 1. No one passes this fat biker on a downhill.

At the bottom it’s flat with a strong headwind. The last group I passed tucks in behind me. I can hear their gears whining as they stop pedaling and let the draft suck them in on my wheel. Lazy skinny fucks.

“You’re a great windbreak,” one says. Hey, I do the Micro-Aggressions around here, fucker.

4 miles later, one jumps out in front and takes a pull, and eventually another, and I can feel my hatred subside.

We get to the first stop together. No fucking cookies. But there’s Albert. We are going to be friends after all.

There’s a long slow slog up a 3-4-percent grade for the next 8 miles. We pass another fat biker. I’m already hurting and can’t talk. Albert slows down and asks the guy how he is.

“I’m cramping,” he says. Ohh fuck we haven’t gotten to the mountain yet, you might as well call for a car right now.

Albert gives him his last bottle of pickle juice. It’s some bullshit product that is supposed to help with cramps. Tastes like shit and makes your breath stink. Apparently, Albert is not an asshole. He’s still young. He’ll learn.

We hit the last stop before the road gets really fucking steep. And they have cookies. Sweet — raisin, chocolate-chip cookies. (Just so you know Pussy Joe, I finished every fucking cookie I touched.)

Now the climbing starts. Albert jumps out in front by 200 hundred yards. But as the road gets steeper, I slip into my granny gear 34X32, and just spin without leg pain. Money for that bike well spent, mother fucker.

Albert’s legs are burning in some hard ass worn-out grinding gear on his used bike. He starts cramping. I can hear him beg one of the support cars for pickle juice. “I only got gatorade,” the support guys says. That’s what you get for helping someone else — fucking cramps.

Eventually, I end up a few hundred yards ahead of Albert. Ahhh age and cheating over youth and strength again. Feels fucking good. Makes me think about buying one of those little electric motors. Gives you 25 minutes of power to keep up with the skinny fucks.

I kept Albert in sight till we hit the “top” and then I rolled downhill as fast as I could to the finish.

Ended up 30-minutes behind the Savage group. But I made it in time for lunch. A bunch of other skinny fucks are standing around making excuses for why they didn’t meet their goals: “bad day, bad wind, bad tire…”

Don’t give a shit what you think I look like at the start of the race. As long as I get cookies and make it back in time for lunch — Fat Biker Goals Met.