Ten miles for a McMuffin. That was the deal. Breakfast had to be earned on a Saturday morning in July, Florida heat already building by 8 AM, and the only currency accepted was sweat.

Armin van Buuren and Martin Garrix on the speakers — proper trance and EDM for a proper distance. Hi-Lo dropping bass while the miles dropped behind. Sixty-two minutes of pedaling toward a drive-through window that didn’t know it was the finish line.

10.3 miles. The extra .3 was the parking lot. The McMuffin tasted like victory and salt and everything the body asked for after an hour in the sun.

Some people run for medals. Some people ride for breakfast. Both are valid.