I like stripping it all off right there in the parking lot, standing beside the truck, either cab-ward or hood-ward of the open door to shield whichever side seems most likely to unexpectedly host a spectator. I like peeling the armwarmers first, if I have them, over my gloves inside-out, then the jersey unzipped instead of over my head then easing the bib straps off my shoulders so they dangle as I stand wobbly for a few seconds before raising each foot in turn onto the lip of the open doorway to lessen the bend I make to depress the buckle and pull out the serrated tongue and rip loose the straps. I like this moment, sock-footed on the tarmac, and in an undershirt, most often sleeveless, damp with sweat, and me besotted and insouciant with the efforts I’ve just some short time ago put out, and I like deciding whether to take the shirt off, too, or to instead just pull on a fresh T over it, then maybe a jacket or just a vest, and where is my club cap, and why do I still have my gloves on and maybe I should leave them on because it is chilly now with the sun disappearing. I like feeling furtive and vaguely criminal pulling my bibs off while I stand there, and I like, too, the little unreasonable instant of panic when one leg band or another snags on my heel, and I like sliding jeans up over my calves slick with embro then yanking them up over my knees and quads and spasming glutes. I like stuffing and placing and basketball-shooting my pieces of gear into my old, old gear bag, and sighing, and tossing my gear bag onto the passenger seat.
This is kinda hot. And the way he loves every part of the ritual of cycling is pretty awesome.