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As I accelerate up the bridge the first time, glass pops under my tires. I smile. Fat tire worries not about little pieces of glass.
A woman passes me, then settles in front, legs at a good cadence. I pass her. She passes me. I pass her. 'You won't get rid of me that easy.' She passes me again, and I hang back, just out of drafting distance.
'Hey, you've got Fat Tire locked up!' A real cyclist, a racer, smiles and passes me. 'Too bad I didn't enter.'

The run was flat, and boring. I go on the grass for some variety.

Coming down the bridge, two miles to go, I watch the speedo tick upwards - 18.0, 18.7, 19.2, 20.0, 20.5, 21.5, 22.5 . . .
I crouch over the handlebars, legs grinding, mouth open wide, stretching, as wide as the intake on an F-18, as wide as a whale shark. The ram effect feels like it's forcing air into my lungs and its all I can do to exhale and try to get more oxygen.
23.5. 24.5. 25.5. 26.5 27.5 28.0.

I pick out the next biker. That one I'm gonna pass that one fasterfasterfaster

Twenty yards before the finish, I scream by, legs churning.

Gotcha.