BurbleChaz

A pleasant evening, with only a moderate southerly gale, so I head down to South Melbourne along the river. Pottering gently back, I have to wait for a roadie to pass before joining traffic. I watch for a bit as Captain Lycra advances towards the horizon. The plan is for a gentle ride, and a gentle ride I shall have. The competitive instinct cuts in about three nanoseconds later. Oxygen consumption goes up, common sense goes down. Four minutes later (not that I was measuring), the poor roadie is somewhat startled by a sound like Darth Vader with pneumonia close behind him. After a few hundred metres in his draft, I pass him. He hangs on for about half a mile before I gradually pull away. Now comes the hard bit. It would be devastatingly, humiliatingly, ego-crushingly terrible to be caught again. Down goes the hammer, and I drop him. He'll blame it on the turbulence from my baggy shorts.

Smug? Moi?

For no particular reason, here's a picture that's not a sunset.

Tug