welcome to derailleur

stories for people who also think time trials are a genre of poetry

I wake up groggy at half past eleven to the smell of my husband heating up leftover pasta for brunch. Quick check of the weather: It’s abnormally warm for a Chicago January, 46 degrees — of course we have to go riding, it would be a waste not to. I fish out a jersey and bibs from their dedicated drawer (when did I accumulate so many bike clothes?), drag…