Pulleth- | The Final Tuesday Night Club Ride Of 2019- The Watt King

When he goes, he goes like a dispensation of justice. The wattage spikes not from 250 to 400, but from 250 to a number that cannot be displayed on a standard head unit without an error code. His pedal stroke is a piston; his back is a flat table of cruel intention. For the first thirty seconds, we cling to his wheel like drowning men to a life raft. Then the elastic stretches. First, the weekend warriors pop, their legs turning to balsa wood. Then the crit racers, who thought themselves fit, begin to gurgle and fade. Finally, only three remain: the Watt King, his faithful lieutenant (who will be dropped in precisely 47 seconds), and me, clinging to the ragged edge of my anaerobic capacity.

I cross the line thirty seconds later. My lungs taste of pennies and regret. The group regroups at the 7-Eleven for the cool-down. Mark is already there, sitting on a curb, eating a cold gas-station burrito. He is not breathing hard. He has the audacity to smile. When he goes, he goes like a dispensation of justice

Then he does the unthinkable. He looks back. Not with malice. With pity . He taps his power meter. He shakes his head, almost sadly. And then he accelerates. For the first thirty seconds, we cling to

For fifty-one weeks, the Tuesday Night Club Ride has been a democracy of suffering. We have rolled out at a civilized 6:00 PM, clipped in with our plastic fenders and blinking taillights, and pretended that cycling is a hobby of leisure. We have soft-pedaled through the neutral zone, told jokes about saddle sores, and dutifully pulled turns at 240 watts. But tonight is the Final Ride of 2019. The rules change. The veneer of civility is stripped away like an old tubular tire. Tonight, the Watt King pulleth. Then the crit racers, who thought themselves fit,

See you in April, Mark. We will be stronger. And you will still be the King.