Has Been and The Gonna Be

I consider myself a cyclist.
Back in the day I used to be a pretty good racer.
I was a USCF certified fitting specialist and worked 50-hour weeks in a bike shop, racing on weekends and training before the shop opened in the morning.
I moved back to Canada, hurt my back and found out carbohydrates make you fat unless you ride 10,000 kilometres a year.
Still, I own a ton of gear, two bikes and fix my neighbour's bikes in exchange for beer or babysitting.
But truth be told, Alex is the real biker in the family.
He rides every day; I ride three times a week.
He has the newest bike in the family; my Bianchi is three years old.
I own a set of the coolest free-riding pads in the universe, but Alex, who wears my forearm pads as leg armour, is the one whose crashes have scratched them beyond recognition.
I have two bike-related scars--one on my cheek and one on my elbow; Alex has scars on both knees, both elbows, his chin, his butt and a bruise on his tummy from landing on the handlebars.
But the real kicker is recognition.
When we went into West Point Grey Cycles yesterday, the shop dude called: "Hey Buddy, how's the riding?"
He was talking to Alex.