BWR bad news update

March 6, 2012 § 2 Comments

A second recon ride was held on Saturday. I wanted to attend, but had to go grocery shopping.

Twenty riders participated.

Two finished.

It’s true, the twenty consisted mainly of San Diego riders and Swami’s guys. That’s like saying the orgy consisted mainly of impotent men, but the fact remains: how many rides have you ever done that were so hard that only 5% of the riders finished?

I shouldn’t name names of invited riders who should not bother showing up, but I’m going to. If your name isn’t here, it should be.

Hockeystick…you have a shattered collarbone. You couldn’t finish the ride with three unbroken collarbones. What are you thinking?

Junkyard…you know you can’t. Give up now. You & me. By the beach. Checking out the first thongs of spring. That, or vomiting at the 90-mile mark and crawling home on our hands and knees only to be laughed at and spat upon by the three riders who completed the entire route?

Toronto…your daughter is an amazing athlete. You once were. Taking the elevator to the 21st Floor twice daily doesn’t count as training. Join me and Junkyard for the March thong browse-a-thon. Don’t sully the family name.

DJ…you barely finished Palm Springs. You’re so desperate for fitness that you pedaled up Tuna Canyon. You’re going to get crushed at Solvang. Bow out now, while the embarrassment is simply public and not yet personal.

Wehrlissimo…your family still needs you. There won’t even be enough pieces left to make a presentable corpse. Leave more than an ash-filled urn. Do not enter.

Big Bowles…you are really old and slow. You don’t even race. This isn’t a ride where the grizzledest ol’ duffer who plods the longest gets the strippers and meth at the end. Please quit. I’m already thanking you for it.

DK…you’re a passionate advocate, but do you also want to be a passionate invalid? This ride will crush you up and shit you out. No one will be your friend. Think New Pier Ride for ten hours. You’re slow, unfit, and weak even in the best of times. Please give up on this madness.

Jimbo…you have to do this, but you shouldn’t. Sick days are legal in California. Take one in advance. You’re double-covered; it’s Sunday anyway.

Alain…I love you like a brother, but I hated my brother. You know how you collapsed two weeks ago on our recon ride and were taken home in a hearse because they thought you’d died? Race day will be worse. Fill out your death certificate now. Then live it up with us purplers on the beach.

Steve McWankerston…you’ve got nothing to prove, as you’ve already proved it. This ride is too hard for someone of your vintage and girth. Do not show up. Forget about honoring the Swami’s name. That’s like honoring a multi-generational family of hookers.

G3…I know you’ve begged and weaseled, but be thankful that you’ve been excluded. It’s not that no one likes you, or that you’re too weak, although that’s part of it, rather it’s just that awful blog you started. It’s really terrible. If you take it down and claim it was written by someone else, you might get in for 2014.

Entire Big Orange contingent who wasn’t invited…please don’t take it personally, but no one wanted you around.

G$…ordinarily you’d get a big thumbs up, but with all the cracked ribs, broken collarbones, and general propensity for falling off your bike at random times, there are just too many falling off spots for you to reasonably contemplate finishing this race. Be a quitter.

Victor…you still haven’t finished the entire course. 7 hours of threshold…or thongs? You decide.

Baby Bruce…at first I thought this was a typo. Really? Really? This isn’t 45 minutes of ‘cross with your friends. It’s a death sentence levied by people who want to kill you. Give up.

Natty Hnatiuk…you have an easy out, buddy: the paramedics won’t be able to pronounce your name. Look, I love a good joke, but this is ridiculous. Stay home. Smoke a cigar. You can read about it all in the blotter.

Poppy Popovich…have you confused the pleasantries of a stroll through the vineyard with a leg-crushing beatdown that would humble a man of triple your fortitude? I think you have. De-confuse yourself with some pilates and meditation. Then give up.

Marckx Brother…I don’t know you. That pretty much sums it up. This isn’t a 90-minute 1940’s comedy with Harpo, Groucho, Wanko, and a happy ending. It’s a technicolor, fully digitized dismemberment that will drag on, for you at least, until long after sundown. Go for the happy ending at Ingeborg’s Swedish Massage House. Not here.

Becker Bob…first I heard this was a brutally hard ride. Then I heard you’d been invited. They can’t both be true. Now that I’ve done the course, I know which one is true: it’s a brutally hard ride.

Surfer Dan…what, did someone tell you this was like a big surf day, when all the local rippers and talkers stand on the beach and critique the waves while two guys out of several hundred actually have the balls to paddle out? It’s not going to be like that. Everyone will have to paddle out. Few will make it back in. Stay in Hermosa and support your home break. The North County locals will not be forgiving.

Bull…it’s time we had a talk. But not now. You are tough. You used to play football. This is not football. You are not tough enough for it. Imagine you’re Brett Favre and the hills of North County are the Saints’ defensive line after learning there’s a bounty on taking you down. Bow out gracefully before you get crippled.

Major Bob…yes, it’s going to be a war. Yes, you’re a battle-tested soldier. No, you won’t survive the shrapnel and IED’s. Why? Because you still haven’t learned how to use tiny gears. That 55 x 9 will slowly grind you down into a puddle. Slowly, as in the first 35 miles.

Johnny Boy…this isn’t a 45-minute crit shortened down to 30 minutes by Chris in order to save time and cram in a couple extra races. It’s not a 60-lap points race with Neumann crashing out the rest of the field on the last lap. It’s seven hours. 9,200 feet of climbing. Your cup of tea? Naaaaah.

Elron…WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? Your last long ride was in January, and you barely survived that. You don’t even cycle anymore. You have a beautiful, intelligent girlfriend who we all admire from afar. Go admire her from anear. Don’t come on this ride.

Triple…at least you have the excuse of awful judgment and following whatever dumbass plan DJ and JK come up with, a/k/a going up Tuna Canyon or leaping off your bike at 45 mph on the Everest Challenge. This, however, is too big for your tiny plate. Remember Palm Springs? This is just like that, only 10,000 times harder. Thongs. On the beach. Be there. I’ll even put the pink umbrella in your pina colada.

MMX…you’ve done the full route twice now, and have officially peaked. Each day from Saturday you will be either losing fitness or overtraining. No one will take pity on you as you wither and flail somewhere between Summit and Deathhaven. My proposal? Miss your flight home from NYC. What are they going to do, fire you?

Jurist Imprudence…I got the funny email. It was clever. Witty. Made me laugh. You and me, we’re “word” guys. Lots of talk, no action. So–let’s write about it and let others do the dying. Okay? It will be funnier that way.

Ian McWanksalot…saw you did the second recon. You’re double the man I am. Which makes you 1/4 a man. Note to you, sir: you’ll need to be at least 1.5 man to complete that ride. Of all people, you should now know that. Plus, people will abuse you for riding a steel bike. Third time is not the charm. Gracelessly abandon…deal?

Stephenovich… you did your longest ride ever attempting to do most of the BWR course, but collapsed on Questhaven, which is before the San Elijo climb, which is before the Double Peak of death. Pack it in now, and start training for 2020.

Andisimo…you fear the purple reaper more than anyone, which keeps you on or near the front a lot. It’s endearing. But stupid. Case in point? When you were five yards into Bandy Canyon, you dropped like an anvil. Stay home, Andy. The Purple Police won’t find you if you pull the covers tightly enough over your head.

Aunty Ant…you were shelled on the very first bump of a dirt road with Albert and Mirko. This seems like the perfect wake up call, doesn’t it? Or rather, the bedtime ditty before the raging peloton turns out your lights. Who wants to go to war and ride at the back in the medic truck, hiding from the call of duty? Well, you do, but…don’t.

Mirko…with two purple cards thrown your way before the first climb, you’ve already flown your true color. Singular. Step away from the microphone before the ugly hooded man with the scimitar disguised as a hook removes you. Permanently.

Big Bad Lee…you are fast but you get tired. It’s a gravity thing. Your bigness is good for a lot of things, but not Couser Canyon, Bandy Canyon, Deathhaven, San Elijo, or Double Peak. However, in true Swami’s fashion, since the group ride will get too fast,  you can always create a B ride. This way you can get your fifty miles out of the way, come back to help drink the BWR Ale and review the KOM’s you set on Strava.

BenNiceKnowingYa…you’ve repeatedly stated you are ‘in,’ but what you are ‘in’ for is a beatdown. You joined the group at the 20-mile mark, hid as best you could until a pull was demanded, but then you got shelled on Couser and were never seen again. Sure, you’ll get a commemorative diaper and BWR purple pacifier, but is that what you really want? ‘Course not. Quit now while you’re behind.

Andrew…This event far exceeds the capacity of your family tree. If you are barking on a Monday, imagine what will happen to you on Sunday when the hammer comes down and the waffles come back up. Yuck. Just say “No.”

Casey…You and Andrew can help the girls at the finish line prepare the IV drips, cots, and bed pans. After the men depart, join me and the other 1/8 men down on the beach for some thongwatching.

Shorter…you were the first to quit, which makes you the smartest man of all. So follow up that stroke of genius with an old-fashioned “Gotta take the kids to their soccer game!” Works every time.

Matt… maybe you ought to try a tandem with Wanksalot? I know a guy who has one with a motor. You could follow the peloton and pick up their empty GU wrappers.

Jury Is Out…the jury is still out on you. You may be able to survive the ride, but there is a cut off time of midnight, March 25, 2014. This only gives you, him and he a few years to complete the thing. Which is probably not enough. Why not just throw in the towel? Yes, you CAN.

Douggie…it’s okay to fool yourself, but you’re not fooling anyone else. This is a very tall ride, and this blog post is like the little wooden man you have to measure yourself against at Disneyland in order to ride Splash Mountain. You’re almost tall enough…but not quite.

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