It’s not often that editorial comment comes at the very start of this column, but it’s essential that it does so today. For you’re about to read about an incident that occurred on a supercharged bicycle ride pretty long ago, and the odds are low you’re a supercharged cyclist — or just dying to hear stupid-people stories from the mid-1990s.

But the story’s worth five minutes of your time (and another 10 or so to gauge how it applies to you) because the odds are much higher you’re an exerciser and higher even still that you’re a motorist. And though I know AI is now everywhere, I’m also betting on the fact you’re not a bot and could retype a jumbled series of numbers and letters if asked to.

The incident occurred on a nondescript Saturday morning on a Berks County backcountry road somewhere between Lenhartsville and Kempton. Based on the way I remember we were dressed, it had to be late February or early March. Based on the bike I remember riding, it had to be either 1993 or 1994.

And based on the way the story is going, you may be wondering if you can trust the accuracy of anything that follows.

Don’t.

For I exercise my mind just as hard and more frequently than my body. I do so for many reasons, and the main one’s nicely summarized in an observation by Spanish philosopher George Santayana that’s so true it’s become cliché.

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

But now’s not the time for philosophy, just an explanation of why it’s so apropos to call this ride supercharged.

For starters, among the 15 or so ride regulars were arguably the two fastest track sprinters on the planet at that time, German Jens Fielder and American Marty Nothstein. Next, no more than 10 miles into the ride we had what was at first a confusing verbal confrontation with a motorist.

For it began with him telling us “I pay taxes for these roads” — a declaration that to this day still baffles me. The exchange of profanities after that, however, was in no way a mystery.

But what truly supercharged this ride took place about 25 miles later and began with rapid blares from a vehicle far behind us. It led a few of the riders to make what I’ll kindly call “dismissive gestures.”

A hand thrown up the air. A one-fingered salute here and there. One rider sat fully upright and did the good old double deuce.

I know all this for sure, for at this moment I was the single rider at the back of the double paceline and had feathered the brakes when I heard the horn. I was also relatively new to the group, so I kept my mouth shut.

Even though I believe that egging on a motorist is the cycling equivalent to a husband hitting a wife. In other words, under no circumstance should it ever happen.

On this day, though, it did — as did the speed of the vehicle. Then the late-model pickup truck passed us at a bad spot, 50 yards or so from a fairly sharp and somewhat blind left-hand bend.

Once it did, the driver hooked the wheel hard to the right.

Just about everybody needed to lock up their brakes and take what I’ll kindly call “evasive measures,” which meant a tumble onto the lawn for three or four of us. Two who didn’t go down took after the truck.

Though the truck was well in the distance, the driver must’ve seen them in his rearview mirror. He stopped, reversed course, and then he did something that made even less sense than that first angry motorist’s opening statement.

He got out of his truck.

The reason why this made absolutely no sense is the reason why I told you Jens Fielder and Marty Nothstein — both multiple Olympic and World Champion medalists — were on the ride. For the guy I’ll now call the Bike Hater stood no taller than 5-7, possessed very little muscle, and a beer keg of a belly.

Fielder and Nothstein were closer to 6-2, in possession of ample muscle, and much of it also resembled beer kegs. But their beer kegs doubled as quadriceps.

Now I make the beer-keg comparison because I imagine the Bike Hater did, too. Which caused a sudden change in attitude that coincided, surprise, surprise, at just about the time the cyclists in pursuit stopped and dismounted their bicycles.

Fielder and Nothstein.

To say the Bike Hater now expressed contrition for his actions would be correct. He even wished the two a nice day as he quickly backtracked and hopped back in his truck.

Later, a number of riders made light of the Bike Hater’s about-face at the coffee shop stop, but I did not. Once again, the relatively new guy kept his mouth shut.

He will, however, tell you right now what he wishes he would’ve said to everyone as they sipped coffee or latte that day.

That the back-window gun rack of the Bike-Hater’s truck had contained a rifle. That if the Bike Hater had reached for it before the handle of the door, one or two of you could now be lying in a morgue.