“Mountain biking across the African planes was the brainchild of my semi-intelligent friend, Biff,” claimed Oren, high stakes mountain bike professional and part time hit man.  “The main problem is that there are very few mountains there.  It’s totally flat.  We didn’t account for the boredom… or the gazelle scrums.”

                His condescending way of speaking to me was initially a big turnoff, but as he spoke I began to realize that having an overly inflated ego—constantly insulting people, strutting, and kibitzing—might be part of being a legitimate professional athlete.  I tried to circumvent his nearly palpable pompous qualities and focus on the story.

                “There’s not that much to tell.  Biff is a mediocre camera man and poor biker at best—one moment I was just coasting along, giving the cherubic little guy a chance to catch up, the next I was laying on my back in the dirt with my bike on top of me.”

                He turned to me and the air of superiority was gone, transitioning into a more worried, secretive state.  He spoke in sotto voce, “I don’t know if Biff has a crush on me or what, but he certainly was too rapt with fear to even be helpful.  I was so angry that he didn’t instigate rescue efforts sooner.”