Nobody loves me, which I don’t understand

Fathers know how it feels. We’re away for weeks, months, years even, hunting to bring home the bacon. Fighting for truth, justice, and better cycling conditions. Then at some time we call them, these bacon eaters, our loved ones, on skype for a chat. We do so because we genuinely miss them.
  
Now witness my Primrose’s reaction when I told her MIT want my scalp for exposing their Copenhagen Wheel as a hoax. Laughing she is! Laughing! And see my youngest son’s response when I told him I bought him an authentic Italian team jersey, and made a wish at the Trevi Fountain that he and his brother Quinby would soon start racing bikes. Witness Za Bear telling me he’ll never race bikes. He likes trampolining.
 
Well Za Bear, let’s see you trampoline your way across Holland, as I did last month, or ride a trampoline all over Manhattan, instead of cramming into the subway. Trampolining won’t get you nowhere at all son, not in this world. Whereas, if you started now with your training, you would soon be beating sons of my club mates in races. That’s all I ask: that you and your brother race at club level, and beat the sons of my club mates. Through you, those boys fathers will be reminded of my superior genes. All cyclists must know they got nothin’, compared to those of our blood.  

And my Primrose, I hope you don’t mind my publishing a few funny faces I caught you pulling, last time we skyped ☺

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