The Tour de France it is not.
“Hold up your bicycles, four inches from your chest,” Mike Dee, camouflage and dreadlocks standing in for yellow jersey and helmet, bellows like a drill sergeant to a scrappy platoon.
“Now, repeat after me,” he commands. “This is my bicycle.”
“This is my bicycle,” the chorus shouts back.
“Without my bicycle, I am useless.” More shouts.
“Without me, my bicycle is useless.” Shouts, and grunts.