"What?! Obama can rap? Dude, that's frickin' awesome!" No. We don't know if he can rap. It's a hypothetical question. "Oh, gotcha. Well, if he can't rap then my money's definitely on Jonny Stewart. I've never seen him rap on that t.v. show of his, but..." Again, it's just a hypothetical question. We don't know if Jon Stewart can rap. "What? He can't rap either? Dude... this question sucks. But honestly, if neither of them can rap, that'd actually be a REALLY AWESOME contest! Imagine an intellectual version of the first few episodes of American Idol..."

As a kid, Clydesdale Jones sat in the back of the classroom. When not staring out the window, he drew pictures of all the places he'd rather be. Usually, those pictures were of bike seats.

When everyone in that classroom turned 16 and became obsessed with cars, Clydesdale got a new bike.

At parties, he always wore padded spandex shorts under his jeans. He tells me this during a brief interview at his favorite cafe. Hearing how a younger Clyde used to get funky at parties, I quietly laugh to myself. Thinking, "I suppose they do say, chamois time IS training time."

Clydesdale responds to my laugh, "Dude, I'm very proud of the fact that when I'm too drunk to walk, I can usually ride. AND few things are worse than riding, drunk, upon an unpadded taint!"

Though I have a n idea, I take the bait and ask, "What's a taint?"

"What? C'mon, dude! It taint your balls and it taint your butt."

Though it's not pretty, I get the picture.

Though he's based out of Seattle, WA, Clydesdale is about to embark upon a West Coast bicycle adventure. This will allow him to be a nomadic citizen of many coastal campsites, hostels and cheap hotels.

Clydesdale is the director of the Doppio Cycling Team. He and his Doppio teammates regularly shave their legs, tuck themselves in spandex shorts and ride around on bicycles in very big circles.

"It cooler than you think." Claims Clydesdale.

When asked "Why?" Clyde just stares at me. After what feels like a solid minute, I press the question again.

"Dude! Why? C'mon! I can't believe you just asked me that AGAIN! Is that really one of your questions?! WHY?! I mean, you might as well ask me 'Why is macaroni and cheese?' I mean, c'mon dude!"

Another minute passes with Clyde's bulging eyes locked upon my own. I watch as the sweat slowly collects on his brow, it pools and begins a slow trickle towards the tip of his nose. Right before the first sweat droplet breaks free, Clyde stands. His chair falls backward, crashing against the floor. Slowly, he lifts his arm. Admittedly a little creeped out, I scoot backwards, unsure whether he's going for my throat, or my hand. Instead, he reaches for my voice recorder, perched between us on the table. With an efficient flick of of his fore finger, he turns off the recorder. And without a word, he spins upon his heel and walks out of the room.

I sit there for another few minutes, staring at Clyde's fallen chair. Slowly, I reach down, turning the recorder back on. After clearing my throat, I begin, "Note to self; Never ever, EVER ask a bicycle racer 'Why?'"