It was spring break of 58’. I was cruising the strip in Daytona with the old Schwinn. Like I always did back in the day I started the ride with my signature cargo shorts and sleeveless v-neck tee. I suppose you could imagine the ladies. Lots of em’ and they were all lookin’ my way. I was doing mile intervals in a loop on and off the beach. As my body, or as many of you know it, ‘The Machine’ started to heat up I had to start shedding some clothes. I removed my tee to take in some of that Florida sun. The next thing I new a flock of women were running from the beach and they were headed straight for me. I knew things were about to get crazy. But it was going to take more than a few hundred women to slow me down. After an hour intervals things were really heating up and the pack of women was growing fast. By this time a number of these women were chasing me on anything from bicycles to 50cc scooters. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but the women were picking up the pace and the heat was becoming overwhelming…. I stripped my baggy shorts to reveal Zeus and Poseidon embodied in nothing but spandexed glory. That was the apparent tipping point. I looked back and saw a row of shiny new 58’ Chevy’s racing for me. By the looks of the suddenly emptied car dealerships along the strip I knew these unruly, yet exceptionally sexy, pack of wild women meant business. Meat was on their minds and I was a 165 lb rare USDA Choice Filet, aged and seasoned to perfection. But the ladies were just going to have to wait. Cycling was on my mind and I was just starting the business of kickin’ some ass. Eventually the ladies ran out of gas and I left them spent and begging. Word is the local ladies started a race to remember The Man, The Machine. They now call that race the Daytona 500.