Everyone likes to kick the roadies around. They wear dorky clothes. They're covered in advertisements. They have outrageously fucking beautiful bicycles we can't afford that weigh less than our first born. They're fast. You think you're kicking their ass and then you realize they were adjusting their $70 bicycle socks and they put their hands back on their drop bars and smoke you without breaking a sweat. They have teeny tiny asses but they never moon the cars no matter how hard you wish.
So why love a roady?
Each roady comes with a portable spare bicycle and this is useful.
Try this: don't fuss with a patch kit the next time you get a flat, pull over to the side of the road, lie your bike on it's side and wait. Within three minutes a roadie will arrive with a tiny titanium pump, compressed air, a spare tube, a spare tire, a spare wheel, a spare saddle, a new chain, and new cranks. How can you resist? Swill down some water and watch as they take off your wheel, use their platinum levers to get the tire off, check the tire for glass with their tongue and then replace your tube. Gratis.
Don't worry about taking advantage of them. They have powerful fantasies about this exact scenario every night of the week. You, on the ride with the off-rack aluminum bicycle. Them on their carbon fiber one-off that they privately refer to as "Stormy, Misty's Foal." You by the side of the road and desperate. Them, wise and powerful.
It's a match made in heaven. Throw away your crappy portable pump and go with it.