AUG 29, 2008 – 12:00AM

I have a friend. We’ll call him Jim Whittaker, just to make things easy.

For years, Jim tried time and again to get me to race on my bike.

He e-mailed race fliers to me.

He offered me free entry into races.

He badgered, begged, belittled and cajoled.

Now, don’t get the wrong impression.

It’s not that Jim rode with me, saw what a natural talent I was and thought I was a born racer, wasting my considerable talent on long, slow slogs through the country and shorter but still slow slogs commuting to and from work.

No, Jim is a coach – certified by all sorts of governing bodies – and a race promoter, so he has something of a vested interest in getting folks training and, ultimately, racing bikes.

Unless, of course, he simply saw what a natural talent I was and thought I was a born racer, wasting my considerable talent on long, slow slogs through the country and shorter but still slow slogs commuting to and from work.

I turned Jim down time and again, and eventually he left me alone.

But I can’t help but think about him now and then when I turn my daily commute into my own personal proving ground.

Most of my rides to and from work best could be described as dawdling. But something about the sight of someone on wheels ahead of me stirs something inside.

Experienced roadie on a fancy carbon-fiber wonderbike, mountain biker on a fully sprung fat-tired ride, DUI rider on a squeaking clunker, toddler astride a milk-crate scooter, octogenarian wheeling her tennis-balled walker … it matters not.

Once I see my mark ahead, it’s on.

Oh, it’s on.

Keep in mind, I’m not fast. But I’m fast enough I can sneak up behind most unsuspecting riders and breeze past, holding my breath if necessary to make it seem I’m not out of breath as I sail by.

I even think of my marks as “rabbits” or “hares.”

It helps to dehumanize the poor pedallers, lest I start to feel sorry for them.I don’t always give chase.

If I roll up behind a relatively fit adult who seems to know his or her way around on a bike, frequently I find one hamstring or the other calf suddenly becomes balky.

So I won’t put the hammer down, not because I’d lose, mind you, but simply because I don’t want to sustain serious injury.

And if somebody catches me from behind – hey, it happens, like that septuagenarian nun the other day – it’s only because I was caught off guard.

I only saw her coming from two, three miles away, and only because her habit was flapping in the breeze, and I didn’t really try to hold her off.

Not really.

I’m sure I could have.

If I really tried.

Which I didn’t.

After all, I didn’t want to be all sweaty by the time I got to work.

Besides, she was faster than she looked.

Maybe Jim should go to work on her.