One day, not long after I started working at Destinations, I decided to take a lunch break and go for a ride. It was a slow March day, and nothing much was going on, so an hour out of the shop wouldn't hurt anything.
I took my mountain bike and headed across Cherry Creek. There was some dirt work going on in one of the open fields, and the contractor had piled up soil into a large pyramid about 20 feet high. There were a couple of packed tracks where the front loders had driven up and dow, so I spent some time riding up, then over this huge dirt pile.
After that, I rode some trails which ran through a couple of fallow fields, and practiced getting air off of the humps in the trails.
I got back to the shop after an hour of this, pretty sweaty and tired.
"How far did you go?" Dan asked. He was a road racer.
I looked at my cyclometer. "Six miles..."
"A whole hour, and you only went six miles? How can you be so slow?" He couldn't comprehend that I had not gotten on a road and ridden as fast as I could, while I was out. Dinking around on a mountain bike was not an arrow in his quiver.
"Just lazy, I guess," I said, as I walked away.
Dan just shook his head, slowly, and went on with what he was doing.