As I rolled into the Stewart’s Shop on a milk-and-eggs run, a plume of smoke spiraled out of the cigarette butt station near the door, way off on the left side:
A closer look:
By the time I unhitched myself from the bike and reached the door, two smoke jets squirted from the top and a pall of breathtakingly foul smoke filled the parking lot. I mooched a big cup of water from the folks behind the counter and pulled off the container’s lid, which let in enough oxygen to ignite a full-up fire in the heap of cigarette packs, plastic wrappers, butts, lottery tickets, receipts, and other combustible junk atop the sand bucket in the base of the butt dump. Sprinkling the water over the blaze knocked it back; I replaced the lid and declared victory.
I always take a shower after returning home from a ride, but, this time, we also ran all my bike clothing through the washer right away.
Phew…
Verily, it is written: Kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray.
The Smell of Molten Projects in the Morning 
I used to know a smoker who rode a bike. He said that the health benefits from bike riding cancelled out the damage from smoking. I pointed out that no, exercising made him breathe more deeply, pulling the disgusting poison deeper into his lungs, aside from being a revolting habit. Happily, he eventually quit smoking.
My favorite exercise/smoking example was the guy taking a smoke break at Franklin Pass, in/near Sequoia National Park. You have to hike it, and it was 11,760 feet above sea level. (Nearest trail head is about 7,500
feet up…) I was in good shape then, but that pass was medium-tough.
Haven’t smoked since some time in the early ’80s. Still screwed up my gums…
Nicotine is actually a Olympic Committee banned performance enhancing drug, at least above a certain dose.
There’s a halfway house nearby, with some residents being cyclists by edict. Cigarettes are common, but, every now and again, somebody will pedal past while puffing a huge cigar.
It’s the human version of rollin’ coal, I suppose.