Bicycling magazine has a win-a-bike competition going. To enter, you have to parody the writing of Bill Strickland, one of its regular writers.

Here’s my entry:

Eddy was going to ride — when I rode with them. Off Vera Cruz, he said afterward over expressos. Instead, I turn before I emerge onto Sixth and head uphill once more. This time, one of the local pros blurred by. The handlebar instantly whipped sideways.

Bobby appeared beside me, said, “Hey, you stuck in there for that second one, didn’t you? You killed yourself.” Afterward the ragged field came by and ended up having a good day, a few more hours, down that hill and up the hill. We ride together so much because I admire this quality.

I thought again about this cathedral of a great ride, and choosing the wrong gear for the love of being where they dangle swelling at the back with him gagging and spitting. I was in a 12-year-old girls’ sports multiverse coinciding with a smooth pop of power to the drivetrain.

Update July 2014: Incredibly, this was not the winning entry.