When I was 15 I lived in Visalia, California. On Saturday mornings a bunch of us would ride our bicycles to Rocky Hill, one of the foothills of the Sierras.
One day Bill Munn came with us. He was a patriarch of the Visalia cycling scene at that time, but he wasn’t always a regular at the Saturday morning rides, even though they started in front of his shop.
At that time Bill was about 35, I guess. He was, shall we say, a little bit heavier than the rest of us.
We young bucks got to the top of Rocky Hill way ahead of Bill. While waiting for Bill, some of us rode around idly in circles, while some of us just sat on our bikes and leaned against the bars.
Bill worked pretty hard up that hill. At the top he slowed down and said some words I’ll probably laugh at for the rest of my life: "I can’t breathe, I need a cigarette."
By the time he came to a full stop he had pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and started puffing away.
By the way Bill, while I was writing this (I typically write by hand in my notebook, and then upload to a computer later) the cops stopped to pat me down and check my documents. They looked through my notebook and asked, "Who is Bill Munn?"
So now the cops in southeast Turkey know you, too. 😉