A name is a label. But nicknames? They’re something stranger.
They don’t define you. But they reveal you—just for a second.
And those seconds?
They’re the bits that stick.
People think Dances with Wolves is a Western.
It’s not.
It’s the story of one man’s journey to spiritual enlightenment… by shaving his face.
At the beginning, he’s a bearded war machine. He kills. He survives. He’s a full-face of fuzzy fury.
Then, he goes to the frontier. Meets the Lakota. Trims down to a moustache. He’s not killing anymore—he’s learning.
Finally, he becomes one with them and finds himself. Clean-shaven. Peaceful. Reborn.
His name was John Dunbar.
But that was just a label.
The Lakota gave him a nickname: Dances with Wolves.
Not who he said he was—who he really was.
At least, to them.
Over the years, I’ve been given a lot of nicknames.
Some were weird.
Some were brilliant.
Some stuck around longer than I expected.
Anyway, here’s a quick tour of my name-based evolution:
MAGOO!
Early cycling days. I’d fly up every hill like a maniac, and they’d shout “MAGOO!” at me.
Apparently, like the cartoon, I had one speed: flat out.
I hated it.
Them: “What if we call you ‘MAGOO’?”
Me: “It will be very painful…”
Them: “I’m sure you can handle it.”
Me: “…for you.”
Dave the Camel
Pre-season Mallorca trip. Hot. Hilly. Brutal.
Everyone else was guzzling water. I barely drank a thing.
They started calling me Dave the Camel.
I responded by spraying them with my water bottle and declaring, “Oh? Did you want that?”
I didn’t mind that one.
Turns out I was just super fit that year.
I won fifteen races.
The Wattage Bomb
Different Mallorca trip. Different nickname.
Apparently I had a habit of “going off” explosively at the bottom of climbs and “ripping everyone’s legs off.”
Complimentary? Sure.
Catchy? Not exactly.
Slightly aggressive? Um, yes.
l’Anglais (The Englishman)
I rode with a French club. My French: terrible. Their English: also terrible. We got along great.
They assumed I was English and called me “l’Anglais.” I didn’t know how to correct them.
Then they found out I was Scottish.
Everything changed.
Pro tip: if you goto France, say you’re Scottish.
La Fusée (The Rocket)
Another one from the French. They love giving nicknames.
This one was because I’d fly up hills.
Although I wasn’t sure about the implication… rockets tend to explode.
Teacher
On one ride with the French club, they were struggling on the long descents. I’d been a coach for years, so I offered to help.
We stopped. Practised. I explained cornering—leaning, braking, line choice.
My French was still terrible, so I used an interpreter. But it worked.
Afterwards, they started calling me “Teacher.”
Not in French—in English.
It wasn’t loud. Or silly.
It was a sign of respect.
It was nice.
Davide La Locomotive
Ah, this one.
Final stretch of a ride. Everyone was cooked. 20 miles from home. Headwind.
I rolled to the front, pulled the entire group home like a train engine.
After that, they started calling me La Locomotive.
That one felt like me.
Although I’ve always been clean-shaven, I don’t think it’s that common to collect this many nicknames.
But I have.
And I think it’s a kind of affection.
A strange kind. But real.
Names don’t describe you. They’re just labels.
Nicknames describe what you mean to other people.
They are like mirrors, reflecting how people see you.
Not who you always are.
But who you were, in a moment that mattered to someone else.
They’re not always flattering.
They’re not always accurate.
But the best ones? They stick not because they’re perfect—but because they’re earned.
You can’t name yourself La Locomotive.
It has to be given to you—after you’ve pulled people through the wind and never left them behind.
They’re not labels.
They’re love letters in disguise.
I think “Davide La Locomotive” beats “Dances with Wolves.”
One goes gently into the wilderness.
The other drags twelve French cyclists through a headwind…
…and still gets home in time for pain au chocolat.
So what name would I choose, if I had to?
Easy.
David Rocket-Squirrel.
Davide la Locomotive 
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