put me in a San Michel-Auber 93 kit – and matching team bike – right now and drop me on the start line of the Tour de Provence, and I will have the time of my life until I:
a) get dropped
b) crash
c) crash and get dropped
Then, as I am picking myself up off the road, and/or watching the field ease away from me forever, I will feast upon the moment as roadside fans look upon me adoringly, and quote mistakenly, as a pro cyclist. Even when I stop, take off my glasses, and contemplate how I’m going to get back to my hotel and exactly what kind of excuses I will give to my pals about how I got mercilessly spat, I will have the time of my life as a fan’s facial expression turns from compassionate awe to incredulous contempt, as they ask themselves how this 54-year-old mess ever managed to get a continental team bike, kit, and apparently legitimate race number. If said fan is female, of a certain age, and has a keen sense of irony, perhaps I could even parlay such a moment into a date.
In short, much enjoyment could be drawn from the experience.
This really is all a matter of perception.