Leo Rodgers is in flight. He’s bouncing and sliding in soft sand along an abandoned railway line that runs north from downtown St. Petersburg. As we zigzag past castaway boxcars plastered with graffiti and the agitated guests at a dog kennel, Rodgers hucks his bike off every huckable curb.
Many people who ride a lot know what it’s like to sit on the wheel of someone like Leo Rodgers—someone you can trust to pick a good line and call out obstacles and do his or her share of the work and probably drop your ass if they wanted to. Someone who emanates delight. Someone who sits on a bike like that’s where they belong, their upper body still and relaxed as the miles click by.