September 3, 2013 § 25 Comments
Lots of people I ride and race with are winners, and they have a winning mindset.
“When I line up, I line up to win!” they say.
“You have to believe in yourself,” they say.
“You’ve gotta have confidence that your training has prepared you to win,” they say.
“Visualize the victory,” they say.
“Plan the work and work the plan,” they say.
“Fuck that,” I say.
The losing mindset
Winners win because they have a winning mindset. Good for them, hats off, and all that shit. But us losers, we have a mindset, too, and since I’m heading off to Bend, Oregon tomorrow in order to race nationals and make snarky comments about Roger Worthington’s beer, I think it’s important to share my “Race to Lose” philosophy with all the losers who will be lining up to take their dose of humiliation and defeat, because let’s face it, all of you are going to lose except for one or two winners.
If you’re going to buy a $10k bike, take a week off work, train for a year, spend thousands on a coach, live a monkish diet lifestyle, and quit having sex in order to take the time to lose, you need to do it the right way. Any fool can lose, but a real loser loses from the inside out.
Racing to lose: The importance of hopelessness
The first step in a losing race campaign at nationals is hopelessness, which I define as “The complete, utter, total absence of even a scintilla of hope.” This is different from despair in the immediate face of getting shelled at Mile 10. It is a long-term hopelessness that begins long before you even show up for the race.
“Even a miracle wouldn’t allow me to win.”
“The probability of victory is the same as the point at which all molecular motion ceases: Absolute Zero.”
“Abandon hope, all ye who enter.”
These are excellent preparatory mindsets that will, over time, erase even the possibility of thinking that you might actually hope to win. However, the mindset of hopelessness must be augmented with detailed analysis of the course.
In the case of Bend’s RR course, a diet of hopelessness should be beefed up with facts like the following:
- I am racing against the guys who beat the guys who always beat me.
- 6,200-feet altitude makes it impossible for me.
- It’s a climber’s race. I can’t climb. At all.
- My race starts early when it’s going to be very cold. I do terribly in the cold.
- My race starts in the afternoon when it’s hot. I do terribly in the heat.
- Bend is too dry. I can’t win when it’s dry.
- The course isn’t selective enough in the beginning; I’ve got to have a hard start to win.
- The course is too selective in the beginning; I’ve got to have an easy start to win.
See? Tailor the facts of the course to fit your losing philosophy. No fact is so irrelevant that you can’t use it as a starting point for total capitulation.
Racing to lose: Psyching yourself out early
Most losers wait until race day to admit that they can’t win ever, no matter what. Don’t wait until you toe the line to be frightened by your competition. USA Cycling’s pre-reg list lets you analyze in detail the overwhelming superiority of those who are destined to defeat you. If you recognize someone like Christian Walker, who’s better at his worst than you at your best, remind yourself that he’s a former elite national champion. If it’s a reigning national champ like Rudy Napolitano or Mike Easter, focus on their results, victories, successes and contrast them with all the races you DNF’d.
If it’s the crit start list and it’s someone like Craig Miller or Charon Smith, people who you couldn’t keep up with if you were in a motorcar, visualize how frightened you are by sprinting, by contact, and by their scary, powerful, veiny legs. Stand in the mirror for at least ten minutes each day and analyze the fat pockets around your chin, knees, elbows, and gums.
Racing to lose: The importance of data
The best way to focus on defeat is to utilize your power meter data from the last six months, or better yet, six years. Carefully analyze watt/kg tables for TdF winners, and think about how that one time when you averaged 260 watts for 60 minutes, your best ride ever, you were in the hospital for the following week.
Look at graphs and spreadsheets that indicate decreasing power over time in order to predict “slumping,” which is a loser’s equivalent of “peaking”; that point where all physical factors have coalesced to make you your slowest the entire year (or perhaps your slowest ever). Pay close attention to heart rate trends, and look for indications that although slow and weak and overweight, you are likely overtrained as well.
If that doesn’t work, perform a reverse analysis to see if you are undertrained. Any recent loss of KOM’s on Strava or “PR’s” that put you in the bottom quartile of a segment should be studied in detail, memorized, or even tattooed on your forearm for quick reference in the race in the unlikely event you’re not dropped by Mile 2.
Racing to lose: No excuses
Unprepared losers reach into their bag of excuses to explain failure. Effective, thoroughly prepare losers, however, never seek excuses. They admit openly, before, during, and after the race that “I wasn’t good enough. I’ve never been good enough. I never will be good enough. I suck.”
Memorizing this mantra can help you lose completely before you even check into your hotel.
Preparation is key: Don’t let victory sneak up on you
Every once in a blue moon, a perfectly prepped loser will find himself in a winning break or in fifth wheel coming through the final corner of the crit. It’s important to defeat yourself at the last moment, since the temporary euphoria of being ahead of everyone else could potentially lead to victory.
Proven losers know how to ride dumb in a break by either pulling too much and dropping themselves, or by not pulling enough and getting dumped by the stronger riders. Either approach is okay, whereas potential sprint wins can be snatched from the jaws of victory simply by drooping your head and sighing heavily. The winners will take care of you from there.
(Next: Proper Diet for Losing on Race Day)
August 13, 2013 § 15 Comments
The previous week we raced the Brentwood GP, set in the heart of glamorous West L.A., smack in the middle of the homes owned by the rich, the famous, the divorced, and those serving life sentences in Nevada. What could be better than a craft beer garden, silicone breasts galore, curbside cafes with froo-froo drinks and menu items that end in -eaux, -aises, and three digits to the left of the decimal?
Ah, Brentwood! Home to Brooke Shields, who swung by to check out the action, home to a fabled bike race intertwined with L.A.’s oldest and most respected cycle club and high-dollar payday for the fastest wheels in the West, all recorded with a Hollywood sound truck and 50-man crew from Time-Warner Cable.
But I digress …
Taking it down to the next level
This Sunday, with only a few races left on the 2013 road calendar, marked the running of the Torrance Crit, a race as different from Brentwood as a $5,000 hooker is from a jar of peanut butter. By the middle of August we were all completely exhausted and even sicker of bike racing than we were in January, which was very.
After seventeen races at which I spent an average of $75.00 per race (for a total of $1,275.00, plus $1,932.83 in equipment, clothing, beer, and lodging), I had already wasted — yes, wasted — $3,207.83 in order to garner an average race finish of 31.6th place. The good news was that after Brentwood I was clearly on an uptick in performance, having crossed the line in an almost impossibly good 19th place. If I could only keep doubling my results like that, I’d be winning in no time!
It would be the challenge of a lifetime to improve on the Brentwood finish here at Torrance, but I was up to it. At season’s end when others were running on fumes, I could feel victory, or at least 18th Place, coursing through my veins.
Killing for crumbs
As I looked around the starting line I realized what a profound mistake it had been not to sign up for the 45+ race in which I had a .000003% chance of winning instead of the 35+, in which my chance was zero. Around me the riders all looked youthful, strong, and fast, with the exception of Bart, who looked older than the rest of us put together but still beat me like a drum.
The only consolation I got was that they, like me, were sick to death of pedaling around ugly office parks with no hope of victory, and, like me, were here out of force of habit, like a heroin addict who inserts the needle with no hope of relief, but prays only for maintenance of low-level misery. Like me, they were desperately hoping and praying that now, at the end of the year, some miracle would occur that might deliver a victory — a moving van running amok on the course that ran over all the other riders, or a giant sinkhole that swallowed everyone but me, or, even more impossibly, a last-minute miscalculation by Charon, Hair, Wike, or the other habitual Alpha males of the SoCal crit scene. But the most hopeful omen of all was the absence of Tinstman and DiMarchi, who had gone off to Vietnam in order to test their intestines against the local cuisine, and their legs against that nation’s top riders.
Where Brentwood was tony and well-heeled, the Torrance crit was the impoverished cousin with the extra toe, a wind-swept, barren hellhole held on the Telo training crit course so infamous in the South Bay. The wind-tossed, pock-marked, rock-strewn frontside of the course was buffeted by the standard 25 mph headwind that blows off of the ocean every afternoon. The field had a meager 31 riders, meaning that the strategy of “hide, then hide some more” wouldn’t work.
The prize, though somewhat smaller than the $13,000 on offer at Brentwood, was still enough to make the racers willing to fight and kill for it. Such is the value of a tank of gas among the hopeless addicts of the Pro Masters Crit community. When our race began there was a collective sigh of relief as we all knew we were just a few minutes closer to the end of an already endless season, and therefore the chance of receiving a serious brain injury this year while riding through potholes at warp speed on skinny tires was ever so slightly reduced.
A recap almost as miserable as the ride
You know how, when you read a race recap, it’s filled with mindlessly boring descriptions of what various riders did throughout the entire fifty minutes, though it could and should best be summed up by William Stone’s immortal race reports, which are all the same? That is, “Someone won. The others did not.”
Well, this race report has two versions.
The Stonish version: Charon Smith won. The others did not.
The Wankmeister version: Grab yourself a beer. Settle into a comfy couch. Get ready for a long, boring, painful read.
Since it was going to be a long, miserable, windy, high-speed beatdown, my teammate Josh Alverson decided to play it conservatively by sitting in, resting, and hoarding his energies until the end of the first one hundred yards, at which point he attacked. Everyone was relieved to see him go, because of all the no-hope moves that anyone could have pulled, this was the no-hopiest.
Five laps later, Josh returned to the fold just in time for John Wike to attack. My game plan since the night before had been to sit in. Rest. Save everything for one hard attack with a couple of laps to go. Follow nothing. Try nothing. Remember that these were all young men and that I was a feeble and infirm elderly fellow with a leaky prostate, terrible vision, and a dislocated pancreas. Seek whatever shelter from the wind I could find. Stay far from the front. Never attack. Say “please” a lot.
So of course I jumped on Wike’s wheel, which is like saying, “I poked the guy in the eye who was wearing the hockey mask and carrying the chainsaw.” Wike’s an unusual fellow in that his ferocity has multiple sources. Most bike racers can only conjure up “the angry” from some early childhood beating, or having lost a thumb while cleaning the chain on a track bike, or getting beaten up and having their stamp collection taken away while walking home from Mrs. Broughton’s 4th Grade class at Braeburn Elementary in Houston.
Wike’s fury, though comes from the usual places plus his junkyard dog loyalty to his team. I overheard the whole team pre-race meeting. Charon and Wike and Special K were sitting under the tent.
Charon: What’s the plan today, boys?
Wike: You will win.
Charon: Okay, but what’s the plan?
Wike: I will chase down everything.
Special K: Dude, you can’t chase everything. We only have three guys. Nobody’s gonna help you.
Wike: Okay. I will chase almost everything. You chase the other one or two moves.
Charon: Sounds like a plan.
Fools rush in where Wike isn’t afraid to tread
Many people say that Wike has no fear, and they cite these two examples:
Example A: Wike set the downhill speed record for the Red Bull Challenge on Tuna Canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains, well in excess of 55 mph on a suicidal, twisting, gravelly, washed-out, off-camber descent of death, and he set it despite crashing, remounting, and hitting it full-gas all the way to the bottom.
Example B: Coming into the final 400 yards of a mass sprint that featured ex-Euro pros like Ivan Dominguez, Wike was glued to the wheel of the Cuban Missile. A young and hormone-crazed Cat 1 tried to bump Wike off the Missile’s wheel, at 35 mph. Wike casually looped his arm under the youngster’s, then hooked their two handlebars together as the speed increased. From six inches away, Wike looked coolly into the eyes of the terrified child. “If you try to take that wheel from me again … ” Wike paused for dramatic effect as the speed increased, the finish line approached, and the roar of crowd became deafening. ” … then we’re both going down.”
The punkster trembled, Wike unlocked arms and bars, and uncorked for the finish, which was so close they had to review it with a team of officials on video replay. The enormous clunk on the concrete when Wike got off his bike was the sound of his 300-lb. testicles, and they left a divot in the cement the size of a wrecking ball.
But he seemed like such a nice axe-murderer, Mommy
The thing about Wike, though, despite his fury and his rail-like cornering skills and his devastating sprint and his fearless approach, is this: As long as you don’t try to douchebag him, he is the fairest, most honest, cleanest rider around, kind of like an ethical Great White Shark with guns and nunchuks.
Now I was on his wheel, and what had started off as a bike race quickly became an advanced lesson in high-speed cornering. Whereas most crit riders set themselves up for a turn, and it’s fairly predictable how they intend to enter the corner, Wike seems to come at each turn straight up-and-down, as tightly inside as possible, with no angle or lean at all. It looks impossible until, at the last second, rather than gracefully swooping through the apex of the turn, he grabs his stupid fucking bike by the scruff of its neck, rubs its nose in the poop, and violently slings it through the corner.
The bike is too afraid to do anything except go, and Wike never misses a pedal stroke. I, on the other hand, am ten feet back and digging like a DitchWitch in a mud trench to get back on his wheel. By the time I’d latch back on, John would be gouging the pedals again, which meant that the “recovery” from “sitting on his wheel” was in theory only.
Josh to the rescue
Soon we had another rider, and our three-man break looked promising, except for the fact that I was barely hanging on and we were a mere ten minutes into the race. Fortunately, my teammate Josh pulled the entire pack up to our break, relieving me of the indignity of getting dropped and making sure there was no way I would get on the podium. A lot of people don’t understand the teamwork in bike racing, which is complicated and hard to explain, and frankly, neither do I.
Now that I had squandered what little reserves I’d begun with (did I mention that I did a “warm-up” 30-mile ride that morning around PV that included 4k of climbing?), I slunk to the rear and swore to hide until the finish. This was the exact same moment that Special K attacked, followed by searing jumps from Wike, Josh, Jolly Green Giant, and most of the CalPools team.
The wounded and bleeding flailers huddled in a small lump, looking at each other and wondering which of the following would happen:
- We’d play “Yugo! Uh-uh, YOU go!” until the pack went off and left us for good. Then we’d be able to go home and give our pals “kudos” on Strava and tote up our weekly mileage.
- Some idiot in our midst would tow us up to the peloton, thereby frying and dropping himself from the race.
- The pack would miraculously slow down.
We got lucky, and it was Door #3. The wind and the accelerations were so fierce that the pack had winded itself, kind of like a dog that mindlessly chases a stick over and over until it collapses in a heap, never really sure why it was chasing the stick in the first place, and resolving never to do it ever again as long as it lives, or at least until someone throws the stick again.
A big lob
Josh attacked again for the 357th time and was up the road with Ollie before the pack brought that stick back, too. As everyone caught their breath, I seized my chance and rolled off the front with six to go. After the race a dude came up to me and said, “Yo, Wanky. New nickname. After that Big Blue Bus on flat tires acceleration, we’re gonna start calling you ‘Dangle.’”
As I dangled, each time I came through Turn 5 a hopelessly besotted clot of drunks screamed my name. At first I thought they were my friends, because it sure looked like Hoof Fixer Dude, New Girl, Frenchy, Tumbleweed, G3, Surfer Dan, Francisco, Toronto, Shannon, and Peyton Place.
Then I realized that they were standing in the driveway of the Strand Brewery, a local beer maker with a 10,000 gallon brewing tank that sells growlers to the public on the weekend. Noting that it was a weekend, and noting that everyone was clenching a growler, I paid closer attention the next time I came through, this time with another rider in tow.
“Get off the front, you fucking idiot!” is what they seemed to be saying. I wondered if they meant me?
With three laps to go, I and CalPools Dude were joined by the Jolly Green Giant, only he was more like the Grumpy Green Giant than the jolly one. I didn’t care, as he pulled like a giant, and now the game plan began to coalesce. None of us could sprint, but I could sprint at least as less badly as the other two. Victory was entirely possible. Best of all, my two teammates, Josh and Eric, would be at the front slowing down the pack, soft pedaling through the turns, and messing up Wike’s inevitable chase of death.
Josh to the rescue, again!
Fortunately, with two laps to go, Josh did such a great job of blocking that he blocked the whole peloton right up to our breakaway, then attacked us. “C’mon!” he said. “Let’s go!”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, since the only place I knew to go to was the finish line, and I’d been trying like hell to get there for the last four laps. Now there was a small gap, and Grumpy looked at me. “Close that gap!” he ordered.
“But that’s my teammate. Why should I?”
“You moron,” Grumpy snarled. “You need to learn how to race your bike.”
“That’s true,” I said. “But I’m still not chasing down my teammate for you.”
Grumpy lumbered up, but by that time the peloton was together again.
Final lap fireworks
With one lap to go, Charon woke up. He went over to the wash basin, brushed his teeth, put in some menthol-flavored mouthwash, and adjusted his helmet. Then he stretched, and with a moderate yawn rolled up towards the front.
“Hey,” he said. “Which one of you babies has the candy?”
“I do!” yowled one baby.
“Me, too!” hollered another.
“Me, me, me! Me got candy!” shouted a chorus of others.
“Okay, then,” said Charon. “Hold your hands up real high so I can take it from you easier.”
With three hundred yards to go he stretched again, checked his mouth in his pocket mirror to make sure there weren’t any pieces of black pepper between his teeth, and put his hands on the drops. Now the others were sprinting at max speed, giving it everything they had.
Charon pulled the morning newspaper out of his jersey pocket to make sure that the 15% Off Sale at Bill’s Bible Store was still going on, carefully refolded it, and put it back in his pocket. With a hundred yards to go he checked his phone. There was a text message from his fan club. “Hey, Charon!” it said. “Now might be a good time to go.”
“All right, then,” he said, and pushed one of his legs down, hard.
The bike shot forward.
Then he pushed down his other leg, harder. The bike shot forward even more.
“Aw man,” he said, seeing Hair and Eric almost at the line. “Am I going to have to push down AGAIN?” He gave the pedal one more mighty push with his leg and passed the two leading riders by thirty feet. Both of them wobbled and almost smacked into the curb as the wall of wind, combined with the sonic boom, knocked them into each other.
Sure, those guys stood on the podium. Eric even clinched third place zero help from his teammates. But me? I finished 18th, one whole placing better than at Brentwood. If I can just squeeze in seventeen more races between now and August 31, well … you do the math.
August 5, 2013 § 15 Comments
Our SPY-Giant-RIDE team had spent a lot of time analyzing the course for the Brentwood Grand Prix in West Los Angeles, scouting the competition, and figuring out the best battle plan for bringing our main man, “Nails” Flores, to a second consecutive win. It was kind of a complicated plan and I drifted in and out of the pre-race discussion, catching only bits and pieces.
“…counterattack…after the prime…”
“Watch out for…”
“…going well right now…make sure to…”
“…breakaway but keep the pack…”
Problem was, I couldn’t focus because I had my mind on much more important things, like the colors of our new summer kit and whether everyone would be matching. I had always wanted to be on my junior high school cheerleading team so that I could wear perfectly coordinated clothing, right down to the shoelaces, but that was back in the day when male cheerleaders were laughed at, teased, called “sissies,” then gruesomely beaten to death. So, as they say, I chose life.
As everyone knows, in order to be a pro masters 45+ prostate-challenged bike racer, you have to have at least two kits. You need a spring-ish one that has dark colors to represent the departed winter and the windy, rainy, muck of March along with a splash of color for the flavor of flowers and greenery in April and May. Summer, however, must be bright and sunny and redolent with the smell of freshly mown lawns and new car purchases that you can’t really afford but that you were suckered into by the Toyota Tent Sale.
Master designer Joe Yule had been commissioned to do our summer kit, and had apparently knocked it out while watching re-runs of “I Dream of Jeannie” or while wearing a dress and heels. I pulled it on, admiring the way it flattered my chest and butt, and thought it looked great until I saw Brett Clare.
“Hey, Wankmeister! You guys all wearing Tink’s old SPY kits now?”
Then the other riders chimed in. “At least you won’t need separate orders for the men’s and women’s team!”
“Powder puff blue will go great with your eye shadow!”
Of course I recognized that they were simply jealous, and continued to focus on what really mattered: Making sure our team was properly coordinated. It wasn’t my fault that their mothers had raised them to think that electric green kits looked good with tongue studs and tattoos of dragons eating the sun while fighting St. George in front of a death’s head on top of a naked woman with angel wings and huge breasts.
At that moment up came Erik the Red. “Dude, you got my kit?”
“Uh, no. Why?”
“I thought it was being shipped up to you from San Diego.”
“Crap! Maybe I left it in the van.”
We only had a few minutes before the race started, so I rushed back to the parking lot. I was driving a borrowed 1975 Chevrolet van that had originally been “customized” with a bed and blue shag carpet and then used for another thirty years as a plumber’s truck. I tore the thing up looking for Erik’s kit.
He came over. “Find it?”
“No. But this may help.” I handed over a dust-covered dildo and a broken monkey wrench.
“Um, thanks, dude,” he said, and wandered off in search of clothing to borrow.
Getting on the same page
As we lined up I noticed that Nails was wearing the wrong color helmet. His was black with blue highlights, whereas the proper matching helmet should have been blue with black highlights. Before I could say anything to him about this horrific fashion faux pas, the gun went off.
The pace was fierce. Of the hundred starters, twenty decided that they had better things to do that Sunday by the end of the third lap. Each time I tried to advance towards the front to tell Nails about his helmet and offer to switch, a sweep would come up the side and put us all back into the gutter.
On the fourth lap a nice fellow wearing a kit that said “Ryan Construction: Building Relationships” chopped the shit out of my wheel in the fourth corner and almost ground me into the curb, into the air, onto a barrier, and into the meatwagon. I looked at him as he chopped me. “Really?” I asked.
He glowered in fury, unapologetic for having tried to kill someone for a bike length’s advantage in the middle of an old fellows’ race. We entered the 180-degree turn after the start finish, and Mr. Relationships was on my wheel. Just before I came out of the turn he reached over, grabbed me by the chest, and threw me backwards in order to pass me and sprint out of the turn for an “attack.”
I hopped on his wheel and watched him lay down a searing, brutal, inhuman, impressive effort for a solid 400 yards, after which his piston threw a rod, the transmission fell out, the wheels came off, and he went spinning wildly off to the side, never to be seen or laughed at again.
Helping my teammate
By now Nails was off the front with nine of the best riders and mix of the biggest teams in the race. Their gap was substantial; they were gone for good, it seemed. I began to panic, thinking that there was no way for me to tell him about his helmet, so I decided to ride up to where he was and let him know.
The ten-man breakaway hammered as hard as it could, but nothing was going to keep me from helping my buddy. I went to the front and, lap after lap, poured on the coal. Stupid teammates of mine who don’t know shit about color coordination screamed incessantly.
“Ease off, dumbass! You’re pulling back the break!”
“Quit hammering, dumbfuck! That’s our guy up the road!”
Teams Amgen, Surf City, and BBI also panicked, as their breakaway riders were imperiled by my efforts. “Quit pulling, you moron!” they screamed.
But I was on to their wily tricks. They wanted Nails to cross the line first in that uncoordinated outfit and make him a laughingstock, and it wasn’t going to happen on my watch.
Fortunately, with one lap to go I was able to cross over to the breakaway and bring the remaining fifty riders with me. As I sprinted for the front to tell Nails about his desperate helmet mismatch, my legs failed and I coasted in. My teamwork had paid off, though. By bringing fifty fresh riders up to the exhausted breakaway, I had ensured that six other riders crossed ahead of Nails so that his awful fashion mistake would be lost in the excitement of celebrating the winner.
Nails didn’t appear too happy when I told him about my efforts. “Dude, are you telling me you pulled the whole fucking race to chase down my break because you didn’t like my helmet?”
“Yeah. That’s what buddies do for buddies.”
“But I wanted to win that race, you dumbass.”
I nodded sympathetically. “You did. The guy who crossed the line first was wearing a terrible red-and-black combination with mismatched socks. Not even close. You owned his outfit by a mile.”
July 23, 2013 § 55 Comments
Does anyone know Lance’s cell phone? ‘Cause we need him bad.
This Wiggins-Froome thing has gotten totally out of hand. One day we were watching a doped up superman who boinked models and actresses and rock stars, who owned ranches and mansions and private jets, who was devilishly good looking, whose ego was bigger than Dallas and twice as gnarly, who ground people up into hamburger meat on and off the bike, who beat cancer, cured cancer, sued enemies into oblivion, had an entourage of global financiers, Italian dope doctors, starlets, drug mules, presidents and scientists and who, with only one nut still had bigger balls than the entire pro peloton, and then, BAM!
We were watching Chris fucking Froome, a human insect who can’t even pedal properly, a craven little wussmeister whose doping program is “marginal gains” instead of “ram the whole 12,000 cc up my ass,” an awkward, unappetizing robot who confirms what every motorist instinctively knows: Cyclists are contemptible arthropods deserving nothing so much as the heel of a boot.
Sure, I used to bag on Dopestrong…until I saw the last two years of Dopeweak. What happened to the drug-crazed cannibals of yore, handsome, muttonchopped, steel-willed manly men who ate raw meat with their fists and swallowed their cocaine-heroin-strychnine cocktails in one-pint tumblers? How could we have banished the lying, cheating, brash and big-balled Texan who rode a chrome Harley, threw massive charity balls, charged 100k to jocksniffing millionaires for a group ride appearance, won triathlons, raced marathons, conquered Leadville, and ruled the entire UCI with the iron grip of a drug kingpin, which he was, and traded him in for the sniveling, milquetoast, dainty British softmen who drink tea, slurp warm beer, and race like simpering weenies or, what’s infinitely worse, like British people?
Where is the wrath, the insane bloodlust fueled by too many drugs in the wrong combination, the tortured beastly exhibitions of athletic porn, the Texas gunslinger who rode over the bones of his challengers and fell as mightily as he rose, in full color on a giant screen surrounded by a frothing media scrum and presided over by the queen of daytime TV? I’ll tell you where: He’s been replaced by “champions” who are no cleaner but a thousand times less entertaining to watch, the insect class, the automaton class, the zombies of the road.
Please, if you have his number, call Lance for me and beg him to either come back or to give these pasty-faced cab drivers a few lessons in how to race like the future of the galaxy depended on it. I’ll take les forcats de la route over the zombies of the road any day.
July 21, 2013 § 27 Comments
Part of the bike racing culture is greed. It’s caused by several things, but these are the main ones.
First, the travel cost to weekly races is high, the cost of equipment is high, and the constant manufacture of improved products means that the expense is never-ending. Racers are either perpetually broke or perpetually fighting with their wives/husbands about bike-related expenses.
Second, bike racers spend a lot of time on the bike “suffering,” which means “self-induced discomfort.” This suffering — not to be confused with actual suffering, which is the condition of excruciating misery that cannot be alleviated of your own accord — makes racers feel superior to mere mortals, and therefore entitled to get everything free or for a ridiculous discount.
Third, athletes of all types are narcissists.
How bad is it in cycling compared to other sports?
I don’t know. But friends who’ve been heavily involved in sports like triathlon, running, surfing, and motor sports say that cycling is by far the worst. I can’t comment on that other than to say that I never cease to be amazed at the cheap-ass, petty, greedy stunts that get pulled by bike racers of all ages.
This behavior is contrasted with the word “pro” which racers throw out so casually. It has occurred to me that many bike racers don’t have a clue what “pro” means. Many seem to think it means having a professional contract, or having professional gear, or performing exploits on the bike that are of a superlative, professional quality.
I’m here to tell you that it’s none of that. Professional grade is something else entirely. So to help figure out if you’re pro, or just another greedy, mooching, narcissistic ingrate, I’ve compiled the following list.
Professional grade is always saying “Thank you,” and saying it face to face.
Professional grade is knowing when not to ask for the “bro deal.”
Professional grade is never hitting, grabbing, or threatening someone after a race, no matter what they did to make you mad.
Professional grade is taking the time to tell your friends how much you like your team issue or club-discounted products.
Professional grade is not bad-mouthing the clothes and equipment you ride for free or that you bought with a club deal.
Professional grade is giving your sponsors useful input on their products to let them know what works, what you like, and what their product did to help you achieve your goals.
Professional grade is giving feedback on how to improve your sponsored products to the right person at the right time and in the right way, bookended by thanks.
Professional grade is understanding and appreciating that every discount and bro deal you’ve been offered has cost someone money.
Professional grade is posting race results and ride write-ups.
Professional grade is getting people excited about bicycle riding by being excited about it yourself.
Professional grade is thanking your teammates after the race.
Professional grade is not confusing amateur with professional.
Professional grade is exchanging names with the new faces, and making a serious effort to remember them.
Professional grade is not being embarrassed to ask someone’s name if you’ve forgotten it. They’ve probably forgotten yours, too.
Professional grade is stopping when someone falls.
Professional grade is helping change a flat.
Professional grade is reaching out and giving a struggling rider a push.
Professional grade is taking leadership when a rider behaves dangerously.
Professional grade is talking with your team and your sponsors in person before you jump ship and move on to another team mid-season, even if it’s your first pro team, and especially if the entire team was built around you to begin with.
Professional grade is thanking people in writing when they’ve made it possible for you to attend some far-flung race or big event.
Professional grade is a Facebook or Twitter shout-out when your sponsor ships you a replacement bike or helmet or kit to allow you to continue racing after a crash.
Professional grade is always being nice to the kids who are just starting out. They will eventually be eating your lunch anyway.
Professional grade is sharing what you know when people ask you.
Professional grade is letting someone into the rotation or giving them a preferred wheel when it’s a group ride.
Professional grade is doing your share of the work.
Professional grade is complimenting people who beat you.
Professional grade is complimenting those whom you beat.
Professional grade is not making excuses.
Professional grade is forgiving, asking forgiveness, and never forgetting to laugh.
July 17, 2013 § 24 Comments
Lost in the press reports of rest day haircuts and predictions for the remaining stages, it took almost twenty-four hours in the news cycle for the World Anti Doping Agency to act on Tour de France leader Chris Froome’s shocking admission during a media interview.
When asked about the credibility of his ride up Mt. Ventoux, Froome said “My team-mates and I, we’ve slept on volcanoes to get ready for this.”
WADA officers immediately charged Froome with a “non-analytical” positive, a scenario in which a rider can be accused of doping based on circumstantial evidence, written or spoken admissions, or convincing evidence other than standard urine or blood analyses.
Jean-Paul Smails, Chief Inquistor for WADA, laid out the charges. “He’s admitted to volcano doping, which is a violation of Rule 2.281(a), Subsection 12, which states that ‘No athlete may sleep on or otherwise utilize volcanoes to enhance performance.’”
Team Sky boss David Brailsford reacted angrily. “You’re kidding me, right? There’s no way he volcano doped. He misspoke. They slept on a mountain, perhaps, but no one knew it was a volcano. We thought it was a large mountain. We checked it out with the Mallorcan authorities and they assured us it was a mountain, not a volcano.”
Froome also rejected the charge. “I’ll wait for the B sample to come back. There’s no way that was a real volcano, and if it was, it’s because someone slipped it into my meat. It was tainted Mallorcan meat.”
When pressed as to why he’d referred to it as a volcano if it really wasn’t one, Froome shot back. “‘Volcano’ is slang for ‘boner’ in the UK, maybe you Yanks don’t know that, eh? I was sleeping on my mate’s boner, which is like a mini-volcano, get it? Stupid Yank reporters, go learn y’self some English.”
The Mallorcan Meat Cooperative, a national meat marketing collective, angrily rejected Froome’s claims that its meat was tainted. “We handle our meat carefully, regularly, religiously almost. When our meat leaves our hands it’s guaranteed to be fresh, firm, and free from additives such as clenbuterol or volcano. Our legal counsel is looking into filing defamation charges against Mr. Froome for claiming that we mishandle our meat.”
WADA investigation gathers steam
Officials for the French AFLD and WADA insisted that they would pursue the investigation, but the UCI remained skeptical. “We don’t believe he volcano doped,” said UCI chief Paddy McQuaid. “Although his team did buy us a new volcano testing machine to catch other lava cheats, that has had no influence on our posture in the matter. We don’t treat the stars any differently from the routiniers.”
Francois Vichy de Foiegras of the AFLD disagreed. “Ee eez vocano doping, n’cest pas? Why else he sleeping on ze volcano? Le Mt. Venoux est un volcano aussi, et we believe zat he gets un avantage avec zees volcano doping.” Later that evening the Team Sky bus was searched by the forensic unit of the French National Anti Doping SWAT Team, but no magma was found, although investigators were seen carrying large plastic bags of rocks off the “Froome Wagon” along with what appeared to be most of the team’s Hello Kitty collection.
Links to Italy?
Froome has worked with notorious volcano doping physician Michele Ferrari, although both deny that the connection involves volcanoes. “I use him for his training plans,” said Froome. “He is a good man. He’s taught me so much about how not to blow, but nothing that involved a volcano, I can assure you.”
Ferrari also denied helping athletes such as Froome volcano dope. “I don’t do such a thing, but if I did, so what? A bit of volcano is no more dangerous than a liter of orange juice. Except for when Pompeii was obliterated by Vesuvius or Krakatoa. But that is completely different.”
At press time, Froome’s team physician, Bugsy Malone, provided Tour de France officials with a prescription for volcano enemas, although it had apparently been backdated to precede Froome’s mountaintop trip to Mallorca. “Chris had terrible saddle sores and a bloody anus. I prescribed the volcano cleanse for him in order to stop the drip and reduce the swelling.”
Team Sky has scheduled a press conference for 6:00 AM tomorrow to explain its official position regarding these allegations.
July 16, 2013 § 19 Comments
After a recent 60+ CBR crit the winning racer got on FB and voiced his contempt for the “cheap SOBs” who organized the race because in his race for fellows aged sixty years and over there were no cash prizes for the giants of the road in excess of age sixty who had vanquished their foes in the forty minute bicycle race around an industrial park even though they were still racing their bicycles past the age of sixty and being, as they were, 60+.
This points out a disturbing trend in local bicycle racing, and I’m sick of it. Here we have people in their sixties, more than sixty years old, dedicating their entire lives to these races. While other people in their sixties, and even some in their seventies (I’m told a handful in their eighties as well) waste their time doing volunteer work, organizing park/beach cleanups, and participating in their church or social group to improve the community, these heroes are selflessly dedicating their every spare moment to themselves as they get fitter, faster, better, and older on their bicycles.
How dare the cheap SOB’s — that’s YOU, Chris Lotts — not reward these philanthropists with the big cash payouts they deserve? This ageism is a slap in the face of these men who comprise The Almost Good Generation, people who helped bring our great nation to the amazing state it is currently in and who are willing to keep sacrificing by racing their bicycles on the weekend for money. Think about it. Without hefty bicycle race paydays, how will these folks pay the taxes on their third home? Yeah.
Be the change you want to see in the world
I’m organizing all masters racers who are fed up with this bullshit system in order to develop a new race league for 60+ masters racers only. It will be the envy of the world. Here’s how we’re gonna do it!
- Exciting venues. We’re going to stage our races in the heart of America’s greatest cities. Every week we’ll have an LA Crit, an NYC Crit, a Chicago Crit, a San Francisco Crit, and crits for all of our regional capitals. The courses will be technical, exciting, and crowd pleasing. Each event will have a minimum of 100,000 spectators, food and beer booths, and major rock bands will perform before and after each race.
- Massive payouts. Gone are the days of “points” and “coffee/wine/pistachio primes.” Each race will guarantee $75,000 in cash, paying 40 deep. Primes will be a minimum of $5,000.
- Stacked fields. Each field will have a minimum of one hundred racers.
- A full day’s worth of categories. Each event will have a 60+, 65+, 70+, 75+, 80+, 85+, 90+, 95+, 100+, and 105+ field. We will bring the cream of America’s athletic crop to the doorstep of our biggest cities so that people can see the beauty, strength, and power of human athleticism at its pinnacle.
- Blowout podium celebrations. After each race the heroic athletes who are vigorous enough to climb atop the podium will be feted, cheered, and will receive blowjobs by the podium women or podium men of their choice. Pre-podium Viagra will be on the house for those who need a little lift in the shorts.
- Traveling cup. Each mighty 60+ hero who wins one of these legendary races will have his name engraved on a traveling “Geritol Cup” made of brass and gold, encrusted with diamonds and custom designed by Tiffany.
- First-class airfare for leaders in the Geritol Cup. The top twenty leaders in the points placing will receive round trip, first class airfare to all race destinations with guaranteed, pre-paid reservations at a Four Seasons-grade hotel.
- Life-size portraits. Every participant will receive a coupon for an 85-hour sitting with renowned portraitist John Howard Sanden, who will memorialize each racer’s radiant visage and powerful physique in a full-size oil painting in the heroic style found in the main gallery of the Louvre. A modern 500,000 square-foot Racing Museum will be designed by John Geary and built (venue TBD) to house these monumental works and to enshrine forever the exploits of these great men.
- Vetting of all race promoters. All race promoters for league events will be required to make a security deposit in the amount of $1.5 million (nonrefundable in the event of bad jokes at the starting line like “I’m starting a new group called Christian Tingles,” etc.).
- TV coverage. Each race will be covered by three major national and international networks, and then packaged in a year-end 25-DVD set, with royalties paid to each racer. Exciting video game with royalties to be developed by Sony, also with royalties.
So are you with me? No more of this exploitation! We have nothing to lose but our (bicycle) chains!
July 10, 2013 § 2 Comments
Aaron “Hair” Wimberley reached down into his shorts and pulled out a big, honking win in the Cat 2 race at the Manhattan Beach Grand Prix. Not bad for a guy who, a couple of years ago, told me that he was “a Cat 3-level rider in terms of threshold power.”
Aaron’s now been booted upstairs to Cat 1, and he won this race with style, speed, caginess, courage, and flat out skills. It’s terrible talking to Aaron after a race (or before one, for that matter) because it’s like listening to a physics professor describe why a ball drops when you let go.
“Great race, Aaron!” I innocently said.
“The other guys in the race were singing your praises.”
“Well, on the last corner you had to know the line and understand that the barriers were going to be on the lateral twice-removed plane of motion that would give you the acceleration at about ninety degrees, and given my weight and the wheels I was running and the rotation of the Earth plus those farts that the Surf City dude was blowing, you could figure that acceleration times mass plus the torque on the lateral angle of spin would put me about eighteen degrees under the first guy’s wheel, and … “
I dozed off, and woke up just at the point where he was explaining how the moon’s tidal pull had moved enough of his voluminous, luxurious hair to the inside of the curve and given him enough kick for the win.
“Wow,” I said, wondering when I could ask for five bucks to buy a beer.
There’s not a lot you need to say when someone pulls out a signature win at one of the biggest races in America, but there’s a shit-ton you need to say when they pull out (another) win at the least-known race in SoCal, the TELO training crit.
Aaron wins this thing almost every week, and he wins it after attacking into the wind, dropping the field, riding breakaways for the entire race and beating his breakaway companions or, if caught, winning the field sprint. He’s amazing.
On Saturdays, the chubby dude who used to come unhitched at Trump is not twenty pounds lighter and wins the Switchbacks, out-climbs the climbers, and pokes a stick in your eye when you’re on the rivet by saying, “Why so serious, Wanker?” On the NPR he smokes the sprint, rolls with breaks, and hits the front at speeds designed to crack your spirit, which it does.
Unlike other SoCal fastmen, Aaron doesn’t have a huge team to help him. His supporting cast usually includes one or two guys, which sounds kind of thin until you learn that his wingman is usually Derek Brauch, a canny, lethal weapon who usually makes the split or who can be counted on to excel in road races and hard, challenging crits.
I’d congratulate the bastard in person, but since he’s already pretty sure he’s awesome, why bother? Saying it here on the Interwebs is enough. You rock, wankstar.
July 9, 2013 § 20 Comments
I went to the Manhattan Beach Grand Prix yesterday to do a bike race. It’s the first time in ages that I’ve gone to a bike race to spectate, and I was shocked to see how many people had no fucking idea whatsoever about how to do a bike race. As a public service, here’s Wankmeister’s Ten or Eleven or Thereabouts Commandments on How to Do a Bike Race.
1. Thou shalt not fucking scurry around. I was amazed to see how many people, especially racers, went to the bike race just to race their bike. That’s crazypants stuff, like going to a rock concert just to listen to music. Yo, wankers! A bike race is a place to go spend the entire day, not get there ten minutes early, race around in circles, then rush back home to mow thy lawn or beat off on thy couch. The race itself, if thou art a racer, is a brief chance to punish thyself for a fee. The rest of the time thou art supposed to chill, mix, rub shoulders with the little people, and drink beer. Wives/husbands/significant others who don’t race: This is thy opportunity to find out who’s fucking thy wife/husband/significant other on the side.
2. Thou shalt fucking bring a tent. Bike races without tents are like sex without condoms. They are risky, messy, and leave thee all red and blistered. The tent protects thee from the hot sun. It also provides the little space under which thou canst sit on the grass and chat, for hours, over beer and bread. A long time ago, before iPhones, people sat around all day and chatted. That’s how they became friends, or at least learned the details about who wast fucking thy husband on the side.
3. Thou shalt not fold up thy tent after thy fucking race. Some people who think they are pro have these elaborate tent get-ups with rollers, trainers, massage tables, and other shit to help them prepare for the race. That’s fine. But after thy race, clear all thy shit out, break out thy lawn chairs, crack open thy cooler, and relax. We only got to see thy sorry ass go by ten times, and each time thou wert a tiny speck in a mob of a hundred other idiots. Now’s the time thou canst regale us with how hard it was, how much bumping there was in the turns, how thou wert fifth wheel going into the last turn except for that dude who drove thee wide and thou hadst to decide to go down or slow down and thou art too old to die for 3rd place in some master’s crit, etc.
4. Thou shalt scream like thy balls wast in a vice. Get thy sorry fucking ass up to the barriers and scream, for dog’s sake. Charon’s pretending he don’t hear thee, but he does. They all do. Scream so fucking hard thy throat starts to bleed. Why? Because the only proven way to stop a throat hemorrhage is with beer.
5. Thou shalt not bring shitty beer unless it’s for thy own cheap ass. The bike race is the perfect place to make friends, except that bike racers are a fucked up, socially awkward bunch of dorks who can’t get through a conversation without saying “carbone” or “power meter” or “Lance.” In order to obtain semi-normal convrsation, thou must have beer, and a lot of it, and it better not be cheap shit because no one ever made friends with cheap beer unless they were from Texas. (I’m from Texas, so I will drink all of thy cheap beer, and appreciatively.) Also, don’t give me that “I’m counting my calories” bullshit. Thy fucking diet sucks, so double down on the Double IPA. It will cost thee a few extra bucks at the checkout stand but thou shalt get drunk twice as quick and people will love thy tent twice as much while they make plans to get into thy boyfriend’s trousers while thou art getting sloppy drunk, after which someone will get into thine.
6. Thou shalt not get pissy when people rub up against thy bitch. Thy old lady is smokin’ hot, we can see that, and it’s not our fault thou hast brought her to the race in hotpants and no bra. So we’re going to want to sit next to her and tell funny stories and hug on her ass when she gets up, sits down, says hello, says goodbye, etc. And thou need not be such a jealous paranoid prick. We’re not fucking her. Yet.
7. Thou shalt tell every wanker they raced great. I don’t give a shit if they wound up with their ass smeared across ten feet of asphalt and their bike is a smoking piece of melted plastic. They got their ass out there, paid their fee, pinned on a fucking number, and raced. If they got hurt, or barely managed to finish, or got kicked out the back, tell ‘em they looked good and give ‘em an extra cold one.
8. Thou shalt watch the finish. Does this need explanation? Watch the fucking finish, for dog’s sake. It’s fifteen feet away and means thou hast to stand in the heat for, like, twelve seconds. Thou canst do this.
9. Thou shalt visit every fucking booth. That sadsack dude with the new invention that’s gonna revolutionize the whole bicycling industry if he can only sell ten million of them at this bike race paid money to be here. Even if he didn’t, he took the time to drive, set up his booth, and liven the place up. What, art thou so fucking busy thou hath not the time to stop by and say hello and learn about what he’s doing? Thou mightest even find something thou must needs buy, and next thing thou knowest, the vendors may increase and pretty soon thou willst be able to buy all thy PED’s at the race itself without having to import from some shady lab in China.
10. Thou shalt cheer like a crazypants equally for everyone. That fat-ass Cat 5 dude dangling off the back? Cheer thy guts out! That spindly chick who’s going through turns with both brakes locked up? Cheer thy guts out! That mid-pack hacker who’s making his one and only appearance on the front? Cheer thy guts out! The race goes to the swiftest, but the memories go to everybody, so help make the memories great.
11. Thou shalt help the broken. When some schmo chews up a yard of pavement, he’s gonna need help. Drag his bike off the course for him; if he gets taken off in the meatwagon make sure someone is with him. Some poor flailers go to these races alone and have no one to look after them if they get hurt. Be the Good Samaritan.
12. Thou shalt cross-pollinate. Just because thou art too drunk to walk straight doesn’t mean thou must needs stay under thy tent the whole fucking day. Go stagger over and collapse under someone else’s tent, and talk to some of the other teams, if for no other reason than to check out their girlfriends/wives/eligible daughters. I was amazed at how people just hung out on their own turf, as if the other teams had cooties or something. Which they probably did.
13. Thou shalt be nice to lonely people. Every race has a few people who are there because they have nothing else to do. Canst thou imagine a life so boring and lonely that the only alternative to staying inside and watching porn is to go watch a bike race? I can’t. Anyway, when thou seest someone aimlessly wandering around or leaning by himself against the fence, call him over to thy tent, offer him a beer, and give him a reason to think that bike races are worth going to. Thou couldst be the person who encourages him to bring his whole crazypants clan with their loaded gun collection to the next race.
14. Thou shalt thank the promoter. Even if it’s Crazypants Lotts, these people deserve a “thank you.” They may also deserve a swift kick in the ass, but thou canst do that later. At the race, take a second to thank them for the thankless job of getting up at 3:00 AM, setting up the race course, and generally providing a place where thou canst go spend an afternoon with thy worthless friends. Same for the officials, even the ones who make up rules as they go along, and the announcers, no matter how clueless they are about the race.
15. Thou shalt bring thy kids. Kids know how to have fun, even if thou dost not. Learn from them.
16. Thou shalt offer tired racers a beer. And asketh them about their race. And pretendeth to be interested when they explain the complexities and difficulties and crucial differences between 16th and 17th in the Cat 4 race.
17. Thou shalt hang out with thy teammates. After thy fucking race is done, and especially if thou livest in Manhattan Beach or nearby the racecourse, thou shalt fucking hang out with thy buddies who drove up from San Diego or down from Santa Barbara or even farther away, like Burbank. At a minimum, thou shalt drop off several cases of good beer and some hearty bread.
18. Thou shalt be really fucking nice to old people.
Got it? Okay.
July 2, 2013 § 4 Comments
With only a handful of minutes to recap this fantastic weekend, I’m going to be succinct because there’s so much to say.
– Thanks to Mike Hecker for putting together an event that will surely grow to be the best bike racing in Southern California.
– Thanks to the City of Buellton. You have a lovely town, friendly people, and an egg-frying dry heat that will separate the wheat from the chaff in one or two laps.
– Thanks to the City of Lompoc. You too have a lovely town, friendly people, and a challenging course that is hard and safe and windy enough to blow a fleet of tall ships all the way to Japan.
– Thanks to Gordie and to Steve Hegg. You guys are a ton of fun and great announcers.
– Thanks to the Firestone Walker Brewery. You make great beer, and the beer garden added a wonderful relaxing touch that just drew people in. The location in the heart of each crit course made it spectacular.
– “Tough guy” / “Tough gal” bike racers who missed this event: You’re not that tough. This was real bike racing on brutally hard but short courses that included wind, heat, slight elevation, and something more complex than four turns around a square. The crowds were enthusiastic, the prize money amazing, the ambiance of the host towns fun beyond belief…this is what bike racing is supposed to be. Show up next year and show us what you’ve got.
– Thanks again to Mike Hecker for putting together two fast, hard, safe courses. There wasn’t a single crash in two full days of racing.
– Thanks to the myriad sponsors who kicked in cash and prizes. Legit prize list for the pros on Saturday? $7,500. Compare that to the nickels and warm spit you’ll win in Ontario’s pro race.
–Props to Alan Flores, my SPY-Giant-RIDE teammate who dismantled the field in the 45+ Old Dudes’ Race. Props to John Hatchitt for playing henchman, and to teammates Taylor Fenstermacher, Andy Schmidt, Bill Lupo, and Jimbo for coming out and busting things up.
–Hats off to Thurlow Rogers and Mark Noble, two hellacious bike racers who proved their mettle over two hard days of racing.
–Kudos to Phil Tinstman and Chris Walker who busted loose on Lap 2 of the 35+ and held it for 70 minutes. Only 20 riders finished their race, so viciously hard was the course and the competition.
–Hats off to Rudy Napolitano, general buttwhomper, winner of the 35+ race on Sunday and 3rd Place finisher on Saturday after attacking 10,000 times and generally shredding the field.
–Props to Surf City Cyclery racer John Slover who made the split and the podium on Saturday, and rode two great races on Sunday as well. Props also to Charon Smith, the man who’s not afraid to go out and compete even when the cards are stacked against him. I wish every bike racer had that guy’s guts, kindness, and good grace. He’s as honorable and friendly in defeat as he is in victory.
–Ben Jacques-Mayne thrashed the field on Saturday and won the pro race on Sunday by lapping the field. Amazing rides by Mr. Forbes from Arizona, Brandon Gritters, and a host of other pros.
–Super performance in the 35+ by Derek Brauch, the dude who does a little bit of everything. He rode off with the split and stayed with the leaders until the very end, when a devastating Rudy Napolitano Tailwind Acceleration peeled the skin off of his face and relegated him to a still-impressive 6th Place.
–Knife fight in the mud between Aaron Wimberley and Mike Easter for ascendancy in the SoCal Cup. Aaron had difficulties reading his gas gauge on the way up Saturday and ran out of fuel, thereby missing the Saturday 35+ race and ceding points to his rival. However, on Sunday he dogged Easter’s every move and wrapped it up with a slim one-point lead. Don’t think Easter is going to let it go as easily as all that…
– Big win on Sunday in the 45+ race by big German Armin Rahm. Armin got away with the elite break that included Thurlow, Brett Clare, Slover, Steve Gregarios, and another rider or two, then smoked the breakaway in the sprint.
– John Abate won the “mismatched kit and bike award,” riding now for SPY-Giant-RIDE but still pedaling the green Masi of his former team. The color clash must have added fuel to the pistons, because he finished the 35+ race on Sunday with an awesome 4th Place. He bridged the gap from hell, leaping out of the charging field to finally hook up with the loaded break that included Rudy et al.
– Chris DeMarchi showed his impeccable form and strength on Saturday and Sunday, finishing solo between the break and the field on Saturday, and riding herd on the pack as he blocked for his teammates in the break on Sunday.
– Suze Sonye…wow! Third in the pro race on Saturday, top step on Sunday. If she’s not the best racer to come out of SoCal, who is?
– Michelle Ignash scored third for Helen’s on Saturday in the women’s 3-4 and won the same event on Sunday.
– The list goes on and on of all the racers who rode hard and did well, and by failing to list them all here I’m sure I’ll offend those who performed valiant deeds of glory only to go ignored or unnoticed in this blog which, on a good day, may have as many as three readers.
– Hats off as well to the flailers and wankers who got shelled, quit, gave up, collapsed from heat stroke, or bailed out early so they could swap the pain for the good, cold beer.
Hope you’ll put this race series on your calendar next year. It’s a winner.