THE WHEEL WORLD (Cyclist)

I can feel his stare pounding the left side of my helmet. The inaugural World Championship Sports Network USA Criterion Finals (Crits) bicycle race is about to begin and my rival, Orion Fisher, is attempting to intimidate me as we stake our places outside the Mandalay Bay Convention Center.

Orion Fisher is 9 years old. I tried entering the men's race, but was turned down flatter than I was by Marjorie Klinghoffer in the 10th grade.

"We regret to inform you that the event is open only to professional riders that have a ranking within the top 100 of the series points total," the Crits' producer wrote in response to my e-mail. He added: "We would like to invite you to compete in an event more suited to your skill set."

Finalists in the men's race do 60 laps around the 1K racetrack. Women's finalists do 40 laps. The Crits Kids Bike Rodeo is one lap.

Fisher's stare would have intimated me when I was his age. Not now. This may be the only race I ever win in my life. I inquire of a race official about the safety of the other racers in the wake of my imminent sonic boom.

In addition to an ample paunch of fatty energy reserves, I've got a week's worth of professional training under my belt (not to mention three years as a paperboy in a perpetual rush due to waking up late).

"You might want to turn your helmet around the right way first," said Brandon Cunningham, the local racer charged with transforming me into Lance Armstrong.

Cunningham, 35, is one of the 64.3 million spandexed Americans who identify themselves as cyclists (most of whom can be found ahead of you in line for morning coffee at the Starbucks at West Charleston Boulevard and Town Center Drive). But he's one of only five racers in Las Vegas ranked as Category 1, the highest before pro. Cunningham has won 50 races, including the 2007 Las Vegas Mountain Bike Series, the 2005 Dash for Cash Stage Race in Yuma, Ariz., and the 2004 Chequamegon Fat Tire in Cable, Wis.

"Probably eight years ago, I realized I can race with the pros," he told me. "But pros race almost 100 days a year, whereas I can race about 20 because of my family and career."

Cunningham, who lives in Blue Diamond, is a single father of an 8-year-old son and earns his living as a Clark County project manager. He's also the founder of BikeBet, a company that takes wagers on bicycle races and donates the profits to charity.

"Be one with the bike," Cunningham told me.

My bike, borrowed from Las Vegas Cyclery, is a finely tuned, 27-pound Cannondale "Bad Boy" Ultra made of aluminum.

My body is a neglected, 160-pound collection of fat cells made of digested slices of Verrazano Pizza.

Nevertheless, I was able to complete all 13 miles of Loop Drive, the treacherously inclined one-way road circling Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area.

"Go!" shouts the Crits official.

I sprint to a spectacular early lead -- more than two bike lengths ahead of the other kids, the youngest of whom barely seem headed in the right direction. (Their training wheels can't help.)

The soundtrack to the 1979 film "Breaking Away" begins playing in my head, drowning out the noise of the adults -- presumably parents -- who are screaming at me.

"Ride against someone your own size!" insists one man. (This argument neglects to consider the fact that most 9-year-olds are my size.)

I employ all of Cunningham's lessons: how to pedal and turn properly, when to shift, and how to position my head to reduce wind resistance.

About a third of the way around the racecourse, however, I sense that my lead is not so secure. What gives me this sense is the blurry outline of 11-year-old Carter Olsen streaking past me on the right.

Pros will throw punches or elbows as other racers pass them, Cunningham told me earlier. I like to think that decency prevents me from considering this strategy -- not fear of being thrown off balance, sued or beaten silly by screaming parents.

There is no sonic boom in front of me; only a widening gap. I appeal to my legs for more power, like Captain Kirk to Scotty in the engine room. They refuse to listen, however, apparently protesting the humiliation of being shaved for better aerodynamics.

"There's so much pain in this sport, it's really demented," Cunningham warned me. "The guy next to you hurts really bad, so he figures if he hurts more, it'll make you hurt more.

"I used to do triathlons just to give myself a break."

What I neglected to tell you about my completion of the Red Rock Loop is that seven of my 13 miles were downhill, three were walked, and one each were spent grabbing onto the opened right rear window of a 2005 Toyota Matrix and being towed by a nylon strap affixed to the back of Cunningham's bike.

"I don't see any pedals moving in your shadow back there!" Cunningham yelled when not groaning. (This was merely an optical illusion, I informed him, like when hubcap spokes spin so fast that they appear stationary.)

At the two-thirds mark, Olsen is 10 bike lengths ahead and continuing to shrink in my field of vision. He's now also joined by Fisher, who treats me like a senior citizen driving 40 mph on the freeway with his left blinker stuck on.

The pedals feel as though someone has slowly adjusted my Lifecycle to level 200. Perhaps I should have considered doping, the hot-button issue in bike racing since Floyd Landis was stripped of his 2006 Tour de France title for testing positive for excessive testosterone. I'm not sure I will have any male hormone left to detect after all this chafing anyway. Without getting too graphic, I think I know what gives Lance Armstrong at least some of his competitive advantage.

"His 8 liter lung capacity is probably part of it, too," Cunningham said.

I cross the finish line a distant and irrelevant third, like Ross Perot in the 1992 presidential election.

Olsen poses for photos in the winner's circle with his proud dad.

"I knew you couldn't stay ahead forever," he tells me.

When asked how he knew, he looks me condescendingly up and down -- not unlike Marjorie Klinghoffer in the 10th grade.

Watch video of Levitan as a bike racer at www.reviewjournal.com/video/fearandloafing.html. Fear and Loafing runs on Mondays in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures are posted at fearandloafing.com. If you have an idea for a future article, e-mail Levitan at clevitan@reviewjournal.com.