Scott Martin

Dear fellow roadies :

A terrible secret has been weighing on my conscience and it is time for me to unburden myself, take responsibility for my actions, humbly beg for your forgiveness... and hopefully get just a slap-on-the-wrist punishment.

You've doubtlessly read rumors of bike racers using small, hidden motors that could save a rider a massive 60-100 watts of power at a given speed. "Motorized doping," they call it.

"We were first told about it last July during the Tour de France," one observer told a European newspaper. "We first heard about it from the USA and it set alarm bells ringing."

I, dear reader, am the alarm-bell ringer.

I didn't mean to cheat, but the pressures were immense. There was my spouse, constantly asking why do you need to ride 4 hours every Saturday when the spare room needs painting, and why are we storing your stupid bike-that-costs-more-than-our-car in the spare room anyway ?

Then there was my cycling club, which threatened to yank my 10% shop discount if I didn't finish at least one race before the marshals pack up the orange cones. Hey, 10% is a lot of money, if I actually bought anything at the shop instead of going online.

I contemplated a pharmacological solution, but rejected it because I believe my body is a temple (albeit a pudgy, lazy temple). Plus, I'm not real keen on ripping testosterone patches from my, um, testosterone-producing area.

So I ordered a Lil' Cheater battery-powered engine. Fits neatly inside the seat tube and turns the bottom bracket axle. Suddenly on my daily commute I could go mano-a-mano with the cigarette-smoking guy on the e-bike.

But my conscience got to me, and I've decided to retire. Right after the next club ride.

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