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An Ode to the Drafter (To the Tune of Real men of Genius)

Today I salute you, Mister Weston cyclist who took advantage of my back wheel today. No, I didn't feel that headwind, and neither did you, because you were tucked in my draft so quietly only your shadow gave you away. That, and the fact that when you hopped on my wheel without asking, I actually felt heavier. I hope you enjoyed the view of my swimmer butt, rider thighs, and runner calves working the crank in my spandex, because if your riding etiquette is in any way a reflection of your manhood, you come up a little short. And we always notice.
But ride on, sir, and I hope your legs felt fresh at the top of that beast. Don't mind me, I'm going to take a little break. After all, I did just pull up two people. But I don't mind. Because in the next draft-illegal race when I pass you and your sleek QuintanaRoo bike that costs more than my future car, you'll think of the time you jumped on the back wheel of a girl.

Wuss.

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