A New Competitor

Where the hell am I? I was sitting in my living room and suddenly I am standing in an empty locker room. I can hear crowds of people somewhere in the distance but the voices are indistinct. A man walks into the room dressed in a tight bicyclist’s outfit that emphasizes his muscular physique. I have no idea who he is but he doesn’t seem surprised to see me here.

“Ah, I see you have finally arrived. Welcome.” His English is accented with German. He comes closer, his hand extended. “I am Andre Greipel. Perhaps you have heard of me?” I can feel his strength as he vigorously shakes my hand.

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t heard of you.”

“No matter.” His dark eyes are scrutinizing my body. “It looks like I have found the perfect competitor.”

Found the perfect competitor for what? What is this Andre guy talking about?

“I can tell you are confused. As you have probably guessed I am a professional bicycle racer. I need a competitor that can motivate me to do better. You are going to be that competitor.”

This guy must be nuts. Why does he think I would be a good opponent? I’m much too old to start riding a bicycle competitively and in no way am I athletic. “Thanks I’m flattered you think I would be a good competitor but I’m not the person you want.”

“That will all change soon. Relax my friend. You are going to enjoy this. When this is all over you will have a new life.”

I begin to protest. “I don’t want a new life. Why don’t…”

He interrupts my protestations. “Do not worry. To you and the rest of the world you will have always been the man you are about to become. Now no more talking and please strip out of your clothes.”

I start to object but no matter how hard I try to speak nothing comes out. Somehow he’s made me mute. I’m fighting with all my will power to stop myself from undoing the buttons on my shirt but it is like my body has a mind of its own and is obeying his requests. Soon I am standing naked trying to cover my junk with my hands. In the meantime he has gotten a bicyclist’s suit and footwear. I hope he doesn’t expect me to put them on because with my short skinny body I would look like a prepubescent kid in that gear. I so badly want to protest but I can’t. He unzips the front of the suit, holding it open before me.

“Put these on.” I find myself pulling the suit on then the shoes. Once the suit is zipped up my reflection in the nearby mirror tells the whole story: the fabric clings tightly to me like a second skin so the suit plainly shows I have absolutely no muscular definition. I notice him holding something. Is that a jar of hair gel? What would he need hair gel for? I don’t have enough hair to style. I back off as he approaches me taking the top off the jar.

“Stand still where you are.” He commands and my body obeys. I cannot move at all. A strange tingling sensation pervades my scalp as he applies the gel to my hair. The tingle spreads to the rest of my body and soon I double over in crippling pain. My insides are burning while my bones are being stretched and reformed. I want to scream out but I still can’t make a sound. Did he say I was going to enjoy this? As the pain subsides I am able to stand once more. What has he done to me? To my utter horror, my reflection shows a very tall, very thin older man with a full head of blonde hair that is long on top and shaved on the sides. Okay, I have to admit the hair is rather nice.

A wave of euphoria washes over me as I inflate with lean hard muscle, years melting away from my frame until the skin is taut against the muscles. Youthful hormones and the power of a well-trained athlete flow throughout my body. What feels like hours is probably mere seconds as my face begins to alter and soon the euphoric feeling fades as the changes begin to wane.

I can’t believe my reflection. A very handsome young man possessing ultra-toned muscles on a very lithe body stares back at me with sexy blue eyes that go so well with my blonde hair. I can only gape at the contours and outlines now made so obvious by the suit.

“Very nice,” Andre looks pleased with the results as his looks me over. “I will see you soon Marcel.” He leaves me alone in the locker room. Who is Marcel?

I strip out of the suit, anxious to see what lies beneath. I run my hands across my sculpted torso as my eyes wander downward to my manhood. I am much better endowed than I ever dreamed possible. My life is rewriting itself as new memories materialize in my brain, completing my transition to the reality of the athlete I have become. Sudden exhaustion overtakes my body as that last grueling stage I just completed in the mountains is finally catching up with me. I’m a sprint racer and I won some of the earlier Tour stages, beating Andre Greipel and some of the best sprinters in the world, but the hills always take a lot from me. Unfortunately I’m not going to wear the yellow jersey this year but I’ll push myself to the limit and do the best I can. I make my way to clean up when I get the strangest thought that I had once been an older man. Where did that come from? I shrug it off and continue to shower, the hot water relaxing my aching muscles. After drying off I get dressed and restyle my hair, getting ready to go to the post-race team meeting and then get some food and rest so I can recover. As I head out into the crowd a young man shouts over to wish me luck. He is sporting the “Kittle cut” as my hairstyle has come to be known. I smile “Vielen Dank.” Looking back it was amusing coming through airport security on my way to the Tour de France. They wouldn’t let my hair gel through and the resulting publicity made my hair a celebrity! Imagine being a 26 year old professional bicyclist known more for my hair rather than my racing accomplishments! Ich
denke, das ist Leben. Auf Wiedersehen.