Mounting my custom-built Bianchi, I feel like a big, stupid idiot in these big, stupid jeans and this big, stupid T-shirt. I lean forward and try to pedal, but my pant leg catches the chainrings so hard that I catapult over the handlebars. Families pass by, parents shake their heads, children laugh at me. When I explain to them that this has never happened before and it’s only because I’m not wearing the proper attire, they laugh even harder.

I pull myself together and climb back onto my bike. This time, I turn my feet outwards and pedal with my heels to keep my blimp-like jeans away from the chainrings. But then a sudden gust of wind flips my flappy shirt over my face and I fly straight into a barrel of used fryer grease. A nun pokes her head through a window above me and tosses down a filthy handkerchief. “Here,” she says, “clean yourself up, dickhead.”

I strip down to my underwear and pedal on, liberated from those bulky, greasy rags for all of five seconds, when the police pull me over and fine me for indecent exposure, citing a “visible, albeit small, bulge.” They pop the trunk of their squad car and toss me a burlap sack with holes cut out through the sides and bottom, along with a pair of huge clown pants.

“We pulled these off a dead guy just a few hours ago,” one of them says. “Put the pants on and wear the sack as a shirt, or we’ll have to tase you in the face.”

I do as they say. They tase me anyway.

Fifty-thousand volts later, I tuck the burlap sack into the clown pants to prevent another “shirt flap” incident. But the pants are so big that the only way I can pedal is to fold them into a massive wedgie. After just one block, the burlap has rubbed my nipples raw, and my thighs are so chafed that I can never have sex again.

I pull up to the local cyclist café and find my friends waiting outside. “Hey, guys,” I say, letting out a shriek as I unfurl my wedgie. “Sorry I’m late.”

They toss back their macchiatos and approach me like an all-alpha wolf pack, the sun glinting off their bright-colored bibs and jerseys.

“Kyle?” one of them says to me. “We want you to know that you can’t ride with us anymore. Also, your wife is having an affair with all five of us at the same time. Also, we hate you.”

And with that, they ride off into the distance, the wind softly gliding against their moisture-wicked bodies. I stand on the street corner and cry so hard that I throw up.

But just then, like an angel sent from Heaven, an adorable French Bulldog comes riding toward me on a little dog bike. He stops at my feet and looks up at me with a big, reassuring smile that melts away all my misery. Then he lifts his leg and takes a piss on my clown pants. A four-year-old girl posts a video of this on Instagram with the caption “stupid friendless clown 😂😂😂” and makes six million dollars.

“You know what?” I shout. “I don’t need friends! I don’t need a lightweight, ultra-aerodynamic cycling outfit either. As long as I’ve got my Bianchi, I can survive in this cold, heartless world. As long as I’ve got her, life is worth living!”

A garbage truck comes to a stop in front of me. A burly, red-faced man steps off the back, yanks my bike from me and tosses it in the trash compactor. He claps the side of the truck and as they drive away he shouts, “Next time, wear the proper attire, buddy!”