When you’re waiting at the agreed spot in the morning, and he finally rolls in, everyone instantly knows what kind of ride it’s going to be.
This rider has only two settings: on and off.
And once he flips that switch to on, there’s no holding back. Full gas. No warm-up. No easing into the day. The moment the wheels start turning, he’s already pushing tempo—and then pushing it a little more.
“Easy riding” doesn’t fit into his vocabulary. Neither does “relax.” And indeed not “hands on the handlebars,” because he somehow manages to ride at high speed with a confidence that defies logic. For him, the pace only has one direction: upward.
He’s happiest when the whole group forms a long, smooth line behind him—a perfectly stretched-out train. Order, speed, and discipline… that’s his ideal scenario. But if he drifts back for even a moment and senses the pace beginning to sag, he’ll surge forward again with laser focus, ready to restore the “proper” tempo.
Pacing is not a skill he struggles with.
Pacing is a skill he avoids entirely.
And yet, for all his power, there’s one inevitable moment everyone anticipates: the final acceleration. Those last explosive efforts can occasionally force him to drop off the back. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, the group knows what’s coming next.
Coffee time = lesson time.
Not about riding technique—no, about cowardice.
How the group “should have kept pushing.”
How “no one committed.”
How “he would have held the wheel if someone else had shown courage.”
It’s a ritual. A tradition. A performance the group secretly enjoys.
Despite his intensity, he brings energy, humor, and a spark that lifts every ride. He sets a standard, turns routine mornings into memorable stories, and ensures that no one ever snoozes through the early kilometers.
He may only have two settings, but with him around, the ride never feels flat.
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