Titles are the hardest part

Especially with poems, but that is for another post.
Only one of my readers answered my request, so scenario #2 it is. Maybe she can supply a title so when I pick up the thread in future posts I will know what to call that post.
This is going to be raw, pure writing. No editing other than spelling and a little grammar here and there, so please, allow me the normal mistakes writers make.
Here goes nada:

(Oh, nice title)

Damn it, Ransom thought to him self, another freaking hill...is he trying to kill me? He downshifted and began the climb, at least it's not too long he began to whine in silence, and then stop it, you idiot, if it was all flat and easy there would be no point. With that he glanced down at the gears to make sure he was in the middle ring and got up out of the saddle, both adding speed and resting some of the muscles in his legs while creating that wonderful/painful burn in his thighs. He was concentrating on the white line, concentrating on keeping his knees in, concentrating on not wobbling the front wheel back and forth like he did when he was a kid on a BMX bike (he had learned early on that these street bikes were set up differently and his feet would hit the front tire if he turned it too much while pedaling.
In this manner, while not looking at the top of the hill, the climb was over before he knew it, and the granny gears were successfully avoided. He pushed the front to the big ring, looked up to discern how far Joe had strayed ahead, Joe was a much more accomplished cyclist than Ransom, but, while appealing in his own way, not nearly as drop dead gorgeous as Ransom. Ransom chuckled to himself as that thought flitted through his mind, chuckled because it was so far from reality.
Ransom was in his forties, his almost 6 foot frame was still carrying  some of the beer-gut he had earned before quitting the stuff, and he was just beginning to finish these rides without considering a call to 911. His slightly pudgey face was clear of blemishes, his blue eyes complementing his short cropped brown hair (kept short to hide the grey), and one would normally find him with a week or two of stubble on his face. His black and grey beard grew extremely slow, almost a natural Don Johnson look.
Joe on the other hand was in his thirties, slim, fit, about five foot eight with one of those faces that detective novelists call rugged. Quick to smile, his light brown hair was kept almost non-existent (mostly naturally), which added to the rugged look.
Ransom noted that Joe was only a few hundred yards ahead so he replaced the water bottle he had just taken a few swigs from and began pedaling, while telling himself to remember to pedal while drinking, pedal while drinking. Keeping his eyes on Joe in order to figure out how hard it was going to be to catch him, he didn't notice the two cars pulled into the walking trail parking lot on the other side of the road. Didn't notice them until he heard what had to be automatic weapons fire, that is.