Everybody’s secret non-secret debut

January 19, 2013 § 27 Comments

It’s January 20, almost, which means it’s SoCal’s first “real” crit of the year. All the teams will be there in force to showcase their new kits, their new glasses (some poor sods will still be wearing Lancewear, the cool kids will be wearing SPY), and most of all their secret non-secret training.

Secret non-secret training is what everyone except the Wankmeister does all winter. Diet. Visits to the doctor. Intervals. Gym work. Specific work on sprunting, clumbing, flailing. Building power. Sending outrageous amounts of money to the coach. More visits to the doctor. Lindberg Nutrition. Fancy recovery drinks. In-ride protein drinks. More gym work.

It’s all top secret except for the posed easy days showing the happy masters professionals cruising down PCH on a sunny day with their friends. “See? I don’t train hard in the winter! Not me! No, sir! I pedal easy, quaff coffee with Knoll in Santa Monica, and crack jokes with my buddies. I whip your ass during the race season because I’m just naturally better.”

Why Wankmeister is naturally not better

I have so many things working against me that I can’t even begin pretending. Fat. Unfocused. Unmuscular. Undisciplined. Overly fond of ice cream. No sprunt. No clumbing prowess. No time trailing skills. Lack of perseverance when the going gets moderately hard, and a complete quitter when the hammer of death comes down.

Each winter I completely reinvent myself and acquire a whole new closetful of skills and abilities that are tailored to catapult me to the top of the podium. Then, after the first climb on the first lap of Boulevard, I get sent off the back with a note pinned to my collar saying “Dear Mrs. Wankmeister: He’s not ready this year, either. Please try again next season.”

Of course 2013 is no different. I’ve lost 27 pounds, then regained about 7, and am now hovering at a tininess quotient of about 151, the lightest I’ve been since I was in my twenties. My shorts are baggy and saggy and ride up my legs like a thong, they’re so loose. I’ve interpolated a bit of acceleration with a bit of big ring work, and can now drop the overweight hobby bikers in and around PV at will. Sometimes I can, anyway.

So tomorrow’s CBR crit will be the first step in a triumphant march to the podium. You can take that to the bank, although if past performance truly is the best indicator of future results, the bank will likely be Countrywide.

So what’s your excuse?

Whereas Wankmeister freely admits to big investment, nonexistent return…what’s your story going to be? You’ve done all that I have and a lot more. I’m still riding the same bike I had last year; you’re on a brand new rig. I still only have one wheelset, and it’s 32-hole aluminum; you’ve got a different carbon wheelset for every wind condition and race type. My excuse is that I’m just not very good and never will be; you still tell your significant other that you’re the “real deal.”

And since only one person is going to win your race tomorrow, it’s going to be devastating to find out that after all you’ve done you’re still pack fodder.

But don’t despair! Below are a list of handy-dandy excuses to prop up what’s guaranteed to be a sagging ego come nightfall on Sunday.

  1. “It’s just the first race of the season. I don’t have my race legs yet.”
  2. “That was just a CBR crit training race. My real target for the season is Boulevard.”
  3. “I’m not used to my new ride yet. It’s different in the turns from my last bike.”
  4. “We’re still working on our team strategy.”
  5. “I got 38th, which is almost top third, which is pretty good and even better when you consider all the people who never even bothered to show up because they were too scared.”
  6. “The guys winning now will be tired out no-shows in June.”
  7. “I’m one of the oldest guys in my masters category by almost three years. At my age, one year makes a huge difference.”
  8. “Hell, I’m racing against a bunch of ex-pros.”
  9. “I’ve been sick.”
  10. “Work has been craaaaazy.”
  11. “I’m taking a more relaxed approach this year.”
  12. “I do better in hot weather.”
  13. “I’m sorry, January is just too early to be racing.”
  14. “Nobody would work with me.”
  15. “The racing was just too negative.”
  16. “I wasn’t going to chase that break. I had a teammate who was going to bridge up to it.”
  17. “I never sprint in crits. Too dangerous.”
  18. “The course isn’t selective enough.”
  19. “The course was too technical.”
  20. “I didn’t train all winter.”

So now you really are ready for the first race of the year. Go get ‘em!

The off-season transfer scrum

October 16, 2012 § 16 Comments

My phone rang at 5:30 this morning. “Hello?”

“Hey, WM. Have you heard anything?”

“Who is this?”

“Thunky. Thunky Sneedles.”

“Oh, it’s you again. No, man, I haven’t heard anything since your last call two hours ago. It’s five-fucking-thirty, dude.”

“I just thought you’d maybe, you know, gotten some offers or something.”

“No, man. Crickets.” I’d agreed to act as Thunky’s agent in the off-season, and even though the trades had started in earnest, Thunky was still out in the cold, and he was nervous. “Look, let’s go over it again. I know you’re nervous, but you have to be patient. These things take time. When some of the bigger fish get their contracts, it’ll loosen up the purse strings for the domestiques like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“But what if I don’t get an offer from anybody? What if I have to stay with Team D’oosh next year? My career’s too short for that, man. I’ve only got a couple of good years left, and I need to ride for a winner.”

“I know, I know. Nobody said being a professional masters racer was easy.”

“Fuck, ain’t that the truth.”

“Why are you so down on Team D’oosh? You fit right in.”

“They suck and their bro deal is so lame.”

“Really? Even with that bike and those five free kits and the travel reimbursements? And don’t they cut you in on the winnings even if you’re OTB?”

“Yeah, it sounds great. But it sucked this year. I mean, no one ever fucking wins. They suck. And the frame? It was the Specialized SL4 instead of their top of the line Venge. Charon gets the Venge on his team. How’m I supposed to take that dude on riding an SL4? It’s like bringing a full set of teeth to a dicksucking contest.”

“Are the bikes really that different?”

“Hell yeah. The Venge has this really cool paint option. It’s so fuckin’ rad.”

“Well, at least getting the whole $8,500 rig with Di2 on loan for a whole season and then swapping it out for a new one in ’13 saves you some money.”

“Dude! It’s not about the MONEY. It’s about the wins. You get the wins, the money flows. That’s how the pro scene works.”

“Even in the men’s 35+?”

“Duhhhhhh.”

“Well, what about the kits? That’s a grand right there, easy, free. You gotta be happy about that.”

“Those kits were so last year. The leg elastic band was at least 1/4 inch shorter than the pro stuff Paolinetti was wearing on Monster. Like I’m gonna take that guy on with short elastic bands? And the design was, like, puke.”

“I guess they screwed you pretty bad, huh?”

“I’ll say. The travel reimbursements only kicked in after you’d done five races. I fuckin’ told ‘em that I was gonna do a full schedule, but for me that’s four races, including our Team D’oosh club time trial in January. They have to understand that if you want results, you gotta be rested between races. Real rested. Recovery is just as important as training, prolly more so, even.”

“Look, Thunky. I’m gonna try to get you on Amgen this year. You’ll be a domo for Thurlow, Meeker, Brett, Strickie, Malcolm…the big boys. But you gotta bring something to the table. What do I tell them about you?”

“What do you tell them? Duuuuude! Aren’t you my agent? Fuckin’ tell ‘em about what we did this year! Tell ‘em how the race went down when Clunky Thunky brought the A-game and stuffed the clowns into the hurt locker! Tell ‘em that!”

“Ah, what race are you talking about, Thunks?”

“What race? San Dimas! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten San Dimas?”

“Was that the one where you launched off the road and hit that parked car? At, like three miles in or something?”

“You always gotta bring up the fuckin’ parked car. Fuck the parked car! Dude, I stretched the field like a teenage dick on its first handjob. Ask ‘em, man, any of those dudes’ll tell you about the Thunky Beatdown. Thurlow was there. Meeker was there. Worthingtons were there. Fuckin’ Leibert was beggin’ for mercy I had everybody on the rivet.”

“Okay, maybe I’ll remind them of that later, you know, like when we’re talking signing bonuses and stuff. What else happened in 2012?”

“I did that one 35+ race and laid the fuckin’ wood to Tintsman and Paolinetti.”

“Phil Tintsman? You? Really? That’s pretty awesome, cause those two guys are the real deal. Which race was it?”

“Hellz. It was at Ontario, I think. Maybe CBR. I attacked from the gun like always.”

“Then you got in a break with Phil and Jamie? Sweet!”

“Nah, I didn’t get in no fuckin’ break. I’m a sprinter kind of rouleur. You know, a puncheur climber type time trialist, all ’rounder with an emphasis on track and ‘cross.”

“So what happened?”

“It was like on the second or third lap. I was fuckin’ railin’ it, dude, 54-11, hittin’ the headwind section like a fuckin’ freight train. Field was comin’ apart at the seams, everybody strung out in the fuckin’ gutter, dudes frying off the back like fritters in a fryolator. Tintsman and Paolinetti were in the hurt locker. The pain cave. Beggin’ for fucking mercy, they were my bitches, dude. That’s what I’m talking ’bout.”

“Then what?”

“I finished my solid half lap and then Tintsman and Paolinetti and Charon and a bunch of other dudes, I think Brauch and Wimberley, and you know, five or six other Monster dudes, and a few other guys rolled off in a break. There was like sixty of ‘em. No way we were bringing them back. But you can ask Tintsman, that shit wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t softened ‘em up.”

“Sixty dudes? In one break?”

“Yeah, man. It was fucking righteous. Me and Stimp Twitchers–you know him? Rides for Soft Longies, he’s a badass. Me and Stimp fuckin’ motored with the field on our wheel the rest of the race.”

“How many guys were left in the field?”

“About seven or eight. Coddles McGee, Woodenhead, Dorcas Johnson, Tubbs, you know. The dudes you can count on.”

“Okay, I’ll make the pitch for you. What should I tell them your goals are for 2013?”

“My goals? Do you even have to ask? Tell ‘em this: I’m comin’ for Charon if they can find me a Venge just like his. Black shorts, with the cool elastic thingy like Paolinetti and Tintsman have. And $10k in travel reimbursements. Up front, Jan. 1, like in the pros. And a cut of everything everyone wins, even if I have to miss the race because of my Saturday yoga class. And free massage sessions–and I pick the fuckin’ masseuse. Don’t give me some hairy dude named Jacques. I want a smoking babe who only works nekkid or in a thong. Happy ending for Thunky, you got that? And a 401k and a team car. That’s my starting offer. See what you can do from there.”

“And what can they expect in return?”

“I’m gonna take Charon down next year. I’m gonna ride Tintsman off my fuckin’ wheel. I’m gonna give Meeker a sprint clinic every fuckin’ weekend. You tell ‘em that, Wanky, and you tell ‘em Thunky sent you.”

The phone went dead.

A few minutes later it rang again.

“Hello?”

“Yo, it’s me again. Any offers?”

“Not yet, buddy. But they’re comin’ any minute. Any minute.”

I used to race

September 6, 2012 § 20 Comments

Yesterday night I was dragging ass through the parking garage and this dude said, “Good ride?”

“Yep. I’m pretty whipped, though.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I did the race out at Eldo.”

“Oh, a race? I used to race.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, back when they had the Olympic village, I was a track monster. Raced the old velodrome.”

He didn’t look very monsterish. “Ever try the new one in Carson?”

“No, I just lost interest. I used to be an animal, though.”

I couldn’t help thinking about Paul Ryan and how he, too, had been fast when he was young. Yeah.

The main two reasons people quit racing or never start

Aside from the fact that it’s pretty stupid, the main reason is fear of crashing. All it takes is one good crash to make you realize that the risk-benefit analysis is all whomperjawed over on the side of risk, and not much more than $25 or $30 in race “winnings” on the side of benefit.

Crashing and getting hurt is scary, and it’s a given that if you race, you’re going to crash. So, like, I get that.

The other reason people quit racing is because they are afraid of losing. They’ve built themselves up so much on Strava, or on their solo rides, or on their beatdowns with their fellow wankers, that it’s too intimidating to actually go toe-to-toe with people who don’t give a rat’s ass about your motor-assisted KOM and who will happily pound you into oblivion.

It’s better to stay comfortable as a coulda-been contender than a real-life lump of pack fodder.

There are a whole bunch of other reasons that people don’t race, and they’re all valid, but Fear of Crashing and Fear of Losing are far and away the top two.

My best three races of 2012

On the flip side, there is really only one significant reason that people do race: They’re idiots.

As my road racing season mercifully came to a close yesterday, I’m happy to say that it couldn’t possibly have ended any better. On Sunday I raced the 45+ Elderly Gentlemen’s Tender Prostate Category at Dominguez Hills. The field of 54 riders was greatly reduced from the first crits of the year, which were often at or near the 100-idiot limit. Many of the heaviest hitters were out replenishing the Depends, or getting their dentures refitted, but a healthy contingent including national and state champion Rich Meeker showed up to fight for the day’s honors.

In typical fashion, a few laps into the race the winning break rolled up the road. I was mid-pack, marveling at all the bicycles and how they never seemed to crash even though they were all so close together. I think about this often. All those moving parts! Each bike guided by a separate idiot of highly questionable handling skills! Yet through each turn they swoop and swerve and curve and slow and speed, always within a few inches, and hardly ever bounce along the pavement in a shower of carbon scraps and shredded skin.

It’s generally at these times, when I’m wondering if this kind of mass communication is what happens when flocks of shorebirds fly in tight formation at astounding speeds on moonlit nights, that something significant in the race happens, like a break, which it did. Of course, I had no idea, because what goes on “Up there” has nothing in common with what’s happening “Back here.”

When the lead shorebird squawks

As I was wondering about Western Sandpipers, a dude in a SPY-Blue kit came whizzing up on the left. It was my teammate, Johnny Walsh. “C’mon, Zeth!” he yelled.

“Wonder why he’s yelling at me? And ‘come on’ where? And why?” It was quite cozy back there in mid-shorebirdville, and the nasty pace at which he passed me suggested lots of un-shorebirdy pain.

Then I noted that on his wheel was Alan Flores, our team leader and Dude Who Doesn’t Do Stupid Shit in Races. I’m still unsure why, but I hopped on his wheel. The next time I looked back, we were clear of the field. “Where are we going?” I wondered. Then I looked up. Around the bend was a break. “Wow!” I thought. “I wonder if we’ll bridge?”

Johnny just went harder, and my legs just hurt more. When he sat up, we were on the back of the break. He nodded, legs blown, and drifted back to the field. “Wow!” I thought. “So that’s how you do it! What happens now?”

What’s with all these colorful sleeves?

My temporary joy at being in the break was immediately muted as I took roll. There was a dude with a stars-and-stripes thingy on his sleeve. That meant he was a national champion in something; probably not chess. There was another dude with a stars-and-stripes thingy…another non-chess national champion. There was a dude who looked a hell of a lot like Brett Clare, the dude who passed me in San Marcos like he was a Ferrari and I was a lamppost. Out of us eleven, there was only one complete flailer, and it was me. Everyone else looked pissed off and ready to go even faster.

Despite trying a series of moves that would later be described as “the silliest in the 2012 annals of SoCal crit racing,” I miraculously didn’t get dropped from the break and finished eleventh, my best placing of the year by far. Was it worth the $1,590.33 in entry fees? Yes. The $527.12 in gas? Yes. The risk to life and limb? Yes. The $15,982.12 in equipment/clothing/accessory purchases? Yes. The admission of personal failure every night when I looked in the mirror and said to myself, “Self, you’re almost fifty but are still fascinated by riding a bicycle.” Ummm, well, mostly yes.

Awesome race result #2

The following morning I celebrated Labor Day with two hundred other cyclists, many of whom appeared to be be on what was at least their second or even third full day after having learned how to ride. If this ride didn’t frighten you, you were beyond hope, because it was terrifying.

Usually, in order to steer clear of the fat dude with the dangling buttcrack, or to avoid the yackety chick who thinks that the center of a fast-moving foolfest is the perfect place to turn her head to the side for minutes at a time, or to keep from getting rear-ended by the neo-neo-neo racer pro kid who’s picked today to show off the $10k wheels with lightly glued tubulars, usually, I say, in order to avoid the certain death and injury resulting from riding near these knuckleheads and their next of kin, you have to get up to the top 20 or 30 riders and stay there.

Not on Monday.

No, sir, on Monday, the crazies had all gotten the Wankmeister memo that said, “Go to the Front!” and so, like crazies, they all went to the front. At the same time. Constantly.

The wankoton looked like the beach on a huge surf day, with massive swirls of raging dorkbreak foaming up to the front, followed by another series of churning idiots pushing up behind them, but the bozos in front, unable to drift back, created a fredtide, which ripped backwards through the wankoton, sucking the unwary back with them into the deathly perilous undertow, where victims such as Old George were crashed out and run over by people who didn’t even know the thing they were rolling over was a live person.

Don’t they know they belong in back?

I got to the front, the absolute front, and ran as many lights as I could, hoping that the bait of a speeding leader would draw at least a few of the worst wankers out into the intersection where they would be crushed and mutilated by speeding cross-traffic.

It didn’t work, however, as the number of idiots careening down Mt. Chevron on Vista del Mar was so great that it clogged both lanes and spilled out into opposing traffic as well. Drivers were petrified and simply stopped, and who wouldn’t if your windshield suddenly filled with a bearded, pony-tailed idiot wearing a vomit-spray jersey, gangly hairy legs poking out at right angles from the bike, spit and snot spewing from his face, and a barely-in-control-bike swerving crazily in and out of the lane?

This, of course, is the huge difference between racing and dorking: In a race, we wankers know that we belong in back. Our chance of winning isn’t even mathematical, so the only reason to be in front is to either suffer more (not good), crash out the dudes who can actually ride (worse), or have one of the ride bosses push us into the curb (worst).

On a fredfest, without this natural policing of the weak and feeble, those who don’t belong don’t know that they don’t belong, so they charge pell-mell to the front and create unforgettable mental tableaux such as when Ponytail Boy whipped a 30mph beeline for the curb at the bridge for the Marina bike path with Eddie W. on his wheel, only to decide at the very last second that nah, that ol’ curb is too big to hop, so he veered off to the right, braking hard, and sending Eddie into one of his finest string of oaths, a string so foul that even the wankers fishing off the bridge were taken aback at the new and inventive string of expletives.

They mysteries of the universe

It was at San Vicente that Chaos Theory gave way to Hammer Theory. Somehow, the freaks and freds who laboriously pounded all the way to San Vicente began to thin out as the road, like the pace, tilted up. By the end of the first mile we had lost between fifty and a hundred idiots.

At the turn onto Mandeville, another huge contingent had vanished, and by the end of the climb it was a small group of fifty or so out of the original 200+ horde.

Where did they all go? Did they fall by the wayside, dead? Did they drag themselves, mostly lifeless, to the doors of the angry, cyclist-hating Mandeville residents, and beg for shelter or for a quick gunshot to the head to end their misery? Did they swerve into a bike shop and sell all their gear? Or were they simply vaporized by the pace?

In any event, on the non-race race to the top of Mandeville Canyon, I got fourth going up the climb, which is almost a best ever, and even managed to get it on video. Once this gets published, Jonathan Vaughters will likely be sending me my contract.

The lost city of El Dorado

After this signal accomplishment, on Tuesday I went over to Long Beach for the year’s final running of the El Dorado crit series, which was held in honor of Mark Whitehead, the legendary Olympian, keirin pro, and track coach who died last summer at nationals in Frisco. Anything done in honor of “Meathead” is required to have, whatever else is on offer, the following three items:

  1. Cash prizes (to fight over in the parking lot after the race)
  2. Beer (to quickly stimulate the fighting)
  3. Controversy (to justfy #1 and #2)

A four-man breakaway left early in the race and collected the $100 cash primes on offer, cleverly working a combine to work together and share the loot. It would later turn out that in the chaos of the post-race awards ceremony someone claimed the money who allegedly wasn’t in the break, a perfect controversy that Meathead would have met with both fists and a gang fistfight.

With three laps to go, Rahsaan Bahati took the reins in hand and closed down the 30-second gap in half a lap, bringing the bunch together for the finale.

Throughout the race there was a dude without a number who was constantly pissing me off with his numberlessness. He sure as hell could ride a bike, though, and each time the pack surged he easily kept the pace. The longer the race lasted, and the longer he lasted, the more pissed off I got. “Who does he think he is, crashing our race?”

Each time I thought that, he would put on another display of bike magic, squelching my urge to ride up and say something to him. “Dude can fucking ride a bike, sure enough.”

With half a lap to go, all hell broke loose, with the wheelsuckers charging freshly to the fore, the fried wankers giving it their all to keep from getting dropped, the canny sprinters slotting into position, and the handful of spectators screaming what sounded like “Ugghhgooattlexphlllmzxooooo!” as we shot by at warp speed.

The magical moment when the wheels come off the cart

It’s in these final moments of a bike race that you are living on the razor’s edge of insanity, alone, but separated from the idiots all ’round you by nothing more than chance. It’s shorebirdy, almost, with nothing making sense, yelling, grunting, hands pushing people out of the way, hunched shoulders squeezing wide bars between too-narrow gaps, narrow rubber strips of rubber slinging from side to side, and everyone thinking the same thing: “Don’t fucking crash, but for fuck’s sake hold the wheel, don’t gap out, and go faster!”

The union of opposites, where the fear of catastrophe is perfectly blended with the thirst for meaningless glory, cancels out the risk of death with the benefit of knowing you’ve gone as hard as your spindly legs will carry you.

Then it was over, like sex, and I was shuddering across the line, cruising along as my lungs and legs and brain caught up with my heart, eventually pointing my bike into the parking lot where the banter had already begun: Who did what when to whom and man, that was HARD.

The dude without the number was laughing and backslapping with Steve Hegg and Johnny Walsh and Suze Sonye and Rahsaan, and I felt pretty stupid when I realized it, and felt even happier at having kept my stupid mouth shut: Nelson Vails don’t need no fucking number.

Please support the cranky old vet who sleeps in his car

August 31, 2012 § 2 Comments

Thanks, Chris. Thanks for being dependable. Thanks for always putting on a race that’s timely, that’s safe, that’s fun, and that’s smack dab in the middle of where so many SoCal cyclists live and train.

Thanks for not putting up with any shit, and for calling things like you see them. Thanks for caring enough about local racing to do this over and over and over, even though you sometimes sleep overnight in your car because things get underway so early.

Thanks for helping ensure that the races are properly officiated and, for the most part, drama free. Thanks for running events where the check always clears and where the primes are something a lot nicer than a cheap water bottle with a lousy nipple. Thanks for enduring the politics and for doing your best to make sure your vision prevails.

Thanks for your funny Facebook posts, and for your unflinching willingness to hold views even when it pisses off people who might otherwise scratch your back. That takes guts. Thanks for not bowing down to all the “-isms.” Thanks even more for not holding it against people whose beliefs are different, and for being a big enough man to take it just as much as you dish it out.

Thanks for caring about homeless creatures. The way a person treats animals says as much about their character as the way they treat people.

Thanks for giving us the opportunity to race our bikes. If you weren’t out there putting on these races, our calendar would be a whole lot thinner. If you could come up with a deal so that Charon, Meeker, Rudy, Justin, Jamie, and some of those dudes all had to do an extra couple of laps so that the rest of us would (mathematically) have a chance, that would be cool. Just a thought.

Pay it, don’t say it

This Sunday, September 2, 2012 at the world infamous Dominguez Hills CBR course, Chris puts on the final race of the SoCal Cup. I hope you’ll show up, pay your money, and do a race or two, even if, like me, you’ve got a snowball’s chance.

Most of all, though, I gotta say thanks to Vera, not just for all the work she does…but for putting up with Chris!

A 15-minute video is worth an hour of excusifying

May 28, 2012 § 15 Comments

It’s hard to explain to people what it’s like riding with the leaders up the climb on the Holiday Ride. “Um, it’s hard,” or “Well, you see I was gassed and then Billy Boozles made a sweep up the right-side gutter while Arnie Aspartame swung off and then…”

Thanks to my new GoPro helmet cam, I got the chance to video the thing and let you see for yourself. Click here to watch the Mandeville Canyon climb all the way to the top with the leaders. Don’t tell me that it’s “blurry” or “fuzzy” or “dogshit quality video, dude.”

It seems that I stuck my finger on the lens cover and smudged it. Still, remind me again, how much did you pay for this? Exactly.

My ride commentary, with video documentation, is below.

#1. The video don’t lie

It’s amazing how much people lie about what they did during a ride. By the time they get done, they’ve fabricated a narrative that is so distorted that you wonder if the dude telling you the story was in the same century as you, much less in the same breakaway.

This video quickly punctures some of the biggest whoppers that bubbled up immediately after the climb. G3 complained, after getting caught and dropped, that his teammates had chased him down.

They all denied it. Vehemently. “We wuz riding tempo so you could stay away!” “I’d never chase down a teammate!” “Some dudes from another team reeled you in, dude, I swear!”

No.

G3 was brought back by a well-oiled machine consisting exclusively of his own teammates. I know it won’t make you feel any better, Greg, but this is exactly how I feel when you chase me down on the Wheatgrass Ride, or when you chase me down at TELO, or when you drop me going up to the Domes. The only difference is that we’re not teammates. On the other hand, I know you’d do it to me even if we were.

Plus, there was no way in hell you were going to solo the canyon vee. Unless, of course, your teammates hadn’t chased you down, in which case, well, who knows?

#2. The dude taking the video is a wheelsuck deluxe

Yep. I sat on the whole way. Never took a pull. You’ll see Surfer Dan look back a couple of times and invite me to take a turn. You’ll see me refuse.

“Wow,” you’re thinking. “This is the guy who’s always telling everyone to take a pull? What a douche.”

As I like to say, “If the nozzle fits…”

I was gassed and too afraid of Surfer Dan to do anything other than suck wheel and pray that no one attacked hard enough to drop me, which is what usually happens. That’s how it is when you’re a wanker.

#3 The dude who won the hill is an even bigger wanker

Yeah. Sitting on your teammate for the entire canyon climb and then blasting by him with totally fresh legs after assisting with the earlier chase, catch, and drop of G3, who is also your teammate? What’s up with that?

Answer, and I quote: “That’s MY wall.”

Those who don’t know Tree well will know this much after watching this video: It’s all about Strava. He will sit, chill, and torch anyone, teammates included, if it gets him closer to a Strava record. In this case, he didn’t get the KOM, but he moved up the leaderboard to fourth. And he got the KOM for something called “Westridge to White Picket Fence.” So there’s that.

Attacking and dropping your teammate who tows you all the way to the end and being labeled a wanker is a small price to pay for an incremental gain on Strava.

Those of you who think this is just sour grapes because he blasted by me so fast and hard I couldn’t have hung on with a tow rope…you’re right! Of course, if I have to get my ass handed to me on a plate, Tree’s my first choice as server, because even after I called out his wankage he smiled back and said, “Good effort out there, Wanky!” Some people are nice no matter what. Go figure.

#4. Dave Jaeger is a total badass

The dude is 51 years old. Remembers Armistice Day. Helped Caesar cross the Rubicon. Was one of the first users of the new invention, dirt. Nonetheless, he attacks the breakaway. Gets reeled in by Surfer Dan. Attacks again and dusts off the remaining hangers-on. Gets reeled in.

Still finishes with the break for fifth. Tells me after the ride, “You rode smart for once.”

Me: “I wasn’t riding. I was holding on for dear life.”

#5. The real artillery was either home getting oiled or out doing a real race at CBR

Kalashnikov and G$ started the ride, which was about 150 strong, but parted company in Marina del Rey to go and do a real bike race instead of a kit parade w/15-minute hillclimb effort + frappucino at CotKU. Roadchamp was home, resting after a hard weekend of riding and putting the finishing touches on his afterburners for the state road race next weekend in Bakersfield. King Harold, Launch, Vapor, Critchamp, et al. were racing, placing, or winning.

#6. Tink is amazing

Check out the first part of the video where she winds up the pace and keeps the gas on. You can’t see the wreckage in the rear because I’m too busy sucking wheel to look back and catch it with my helmet cam, but she’s causing mayhem and destruction behind her. She sheared three minutes off her Mandeville PR and finished just after the first chase group. She now holds the QOM for Mandeville and sits 20th on the men’s leaderboard. This girl is simply incredible.

#7. The camera makes your butt look fat

It’s a 170-degree wide angle, and my nose is pretty much stuffed up your rear end, further magnifying the ginormousness of your hindquarters. Trust me, in real life your derriere is svelte, lean, muscled, and the stuff of magazine covers. It’s the fault of the camera that we all look like candidates for a bovine butt porn shoot.

#8. Surfer Dan is a total badass

Yesterday he went up to NorCal and got 8th in the state road race. This morning he turned on the jets going up San Vicente and kicked most of the holidayers out the back. On Mandeville he ramped it up, led the vicious chase to reel in his teammate, chased down Jaeger twice, shrugged his shoulders when Wankmeister cowered in the rear, and drilled it all the way to the top. He was gracious and not in the least bit miffed by Tree’s finish line antics or by my wheelsuckage, proving that the really good guys just go do their ride and never bitch about the result, while we wankers run home to our keyboard, uncork and savor a vintage 1876 whine.

Warming down on the rollers

March 5, 2012 § Leave a comment

I knew it was going to be a great day at the races when JR, after finishing his race, donned his trademark fedora, lit up his trademark cigar, hopped in his pimpmobile and gunned it. He’d forgotten to put away his rollers, though, which got sucked up into the undercarriage by the spinning car wheel. This created a small explosion followed by lots of cracking, grinding, and broken parts flying everywhere.

One of the onlookers pithily observed, “Yo, JR, them things roll smoother when you put the bike on them instead of the car.”

I’d had to hire an investigator to perform “deep Internet” searches to find enough qualifying events for my Cat 3 participation upgrade, but after digging around for six months he found out that I had completed a 45+ crit in 2004 that gave me the magic number of race completions to move out of the certain death category and into the probable suicide one. I was raring to test my Cat 3 skilz in the local CBR crit held in South Compton, but affectionately called “Dominguez Hills” by the promoter so as not to scare people away.

**NOTE TO READERS UNFAMILIAR WITH BICYCLE RACING IN THE U.S.A.**

Excerpted from O’Dooligan’s “Encyclopedia of World Cycling”: The U.S.A.-type “criterium,” or “crit,” is an event held on a flat, ugly, unchallenging course with four turns, of one mile or less in length and never enough port-o-potties. The “race” places an emphasis on being easy enough not to require any particular bike handling skills except for gradual turns and crashing on the last lap (Cat 3/4/5). Slow enough that anyone can finish, even the incredibly fat guy whose buttcrack hangs out of his shorts, but fast enough that no one can get away, the denouement of the race follows a set pattern: high speeds the first three laps, a futile breakaway that is reeled in, lollygagging until the last six laps, another futile breakaway followed by a mad dash on the last lap which is won by the team with the best lead out train. (U.S.A. amateur bicyclists actually have pro-style lead out trains, with a designated sprinter. The point of this is so that the same person can win every time, and the helpers, although losers, can share in the $75 prize list.) Crit racing is especially popular among wankers who fear hills, tactical racing, and being stranded long distances from the burger shoppe, and by promoters who like charging $34/head for 125-man fields, and then chopping 15 minutes off the 40 minutes of racing time promised in the flyer.

Dog is on your side

As I warmed up for my race by lying in the grass eating M&M’s and sipping on an ice cold Hoppy Snockered IPA, Prez shouted over at me from the sign-in table. “Hey, Wankmeister! Wanna switch numbers? You’ve got my number!!”

I looked at my number, 316. “What are you talking about?”

“That number! I want that number!” Then I realized it…Prez is a super devout Christian, and 316 is, you know, that part from the Bible, Tebow 3:16–

For Dog so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but finally bring the fucking Lombardi Trophy back to Denver.

Without thinking, I hollered back. “Sure, you can have it! All you have to do is come over here and lick the sweat off my nuts!”

A few moments later up came Prez’s lovely wife and their three awesome children. “Listen here, Mr. Pottymouth,” she said. “You’ll be cleaning up your oral toilet now. Our youngest overheard that last remark and said, ‘That’s gross!'”

Normally that would not deter me, as I’ve always viewed filthy language to be an integral part of a proper upbringing, but she is so pretty and reputedly has a badass left hook, so I apologized profusely and promised to do better.

Today’s class assignment: compare and contrast

Earlier in the morning I’d completed the 45+ race and had placed an extremely competitive 58th, just behind the elderly lady who used to race professionally, and several bike lengths in front of the chubby short fellow with a ponytail and downtube shifters. I could immediately tell the difference between the 45+ field and the Cat 3 field. Only a fraction of the Cat 3 field appeared to be on drugs, and unlike in 1984, last time I’d lined up for a Cat 3 race, the average equipment expenditure per biker was easily $8,000, except for the enormous guy (290 pounds of sweaty love, easy) in the CVC jersey who probably spent an additional grand on fabric extensions and a steel truss apparatus to keep the worst part of his stomach and ass contained in his skinsuit. (*Note to sneerers: yes, he beat me by several bike lengths).

As you’d expect from a field comprised of young, healthy, well-trained, competitive athletic men in their 20’s and at the height of their physical abilities, the race was much slower than the 45+ event, many of whose 100+ entrants were well into their 50’s. That’s the importance of having a healthy diet!! The other difference was that in the old farts’ race it was virtually impossible to move up without a crowbar. The field was tightly packed and everyone fought like hell for every position, even Ol’ Gizzards, that guy who looks like he came from the Pleistocene and who dropped me so badly at Boulevard.

The Cat 3 field, on the other hand, was much looser, and despite the fact that only a handful of riders were juiced to the gills, the riders were more verbally aggressive. This is because even when you fill a 55 year-old skinbag with the most potent drugs known to man, it still only gets him a ten-minute erection, whereas a 25 year-old on no drugs whatsoever is so filled with testosterone and serotonin and thyroxine and triiodothyronine and norepinephrine and sperm, sweat, boogers, and three-headed satanic skull tattoos that have the wrong kanji for “Merchant of Death” that, when placed in an even mildly competitive situation, he will try to kill you.

So whereas the duffers would say, “On your left, dude,” or “Sorry!” if they pulled a boner, the Cat 3’s, when they got excited, which was pretty much the entire fucking race, except at the end when they really got worked up, tended to scream “YOU STUPID FUCKING IDIOT FUCKING ASSHOLE WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU FUCKING DOING YOU DOUCHEBAG ASSHOLE FUCKBAG FUCKER FUCKETY FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

Counting…it’s not just for children anymore

But the biggest difference of all was the final lap. In the 45+ field, everyone knew the script by heart: fart along, flail a bit, maybe think about taking a pull, and then in the last five laps either drift to the back away from the action or move to the front where the action is. Then, with roughly 50 guys in contention on the final lap, on turn three half of those guys eased up and called it a day. Finally, around the final turn, of the remaining 25 vying for the win, half threw in the towel and you had a nice, clean, safe sprint to see who’s going to get the twelve-pack of energy drink and case of pistachios.

With the 3’s however, only about half the field knew the drill, as most had only just upgraded and it takes hundreds of these cookie-cutter races over a period of years for the pattern to finally take hold in the igneous, reptilian brain of a bike racer. What this means for you and me is that, with five laps to go everybody thought, “FIVE laps to go!”

Then it took them a couple of laps to count down to one, by which time they realized, “It’s now THREE laps to go!” After another lap of down-counting, they all realized at the same time that there was only one lap to go. Whoops,make that two. Or was it one?

Whatever! They all dashed for the front at the same time, and since no one had been riding very hard for the last fifty minutes, and they were all young and dumb and full of cum, the peloton pressurized like firing a water hydrant through a garden hose. Unlike the 45+ field, where the combination of powerful drugs and lots of experience automatically separated the field, each little Cat 3-er suddenly saw himself as a possible winner of the race.

Not yet beaten down by the relentless hammer of reality and decades of defeat, and finally having worked out the math so that it was clear, even to them, that there were only two turns left before the sprint, many of the Cat 3’s celebrated their youth and enthusiasm and vigor and passion for sport by taking the third turn too wide, clipping a wheel, and causing a massive collision which sent half the field of cursing idiots into the curb, carbon frames snapping, 3-lb water bottles flying through the air like oversized bullets, the terrible sound of plastic helmets shattering on pavement, the grinding shriek of metal spokes popping and shearing away from their carbon rims, bodies slamming with the dull thud of a bag of potatoes dropped off a roof, and the surreality of twisting and weaving my way around, through, and over heads, arms, legs, torsos, and the detritus of that $8,000.00 charge on the Specialized credit card that was only just paid off two weeks ago.

I’m b-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-c-k. Or just a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-c-k.

As if any proof were needed that the Cat 3 race is ridiculously easy compared to the 45+, I took a strong 47th, narrowly beaten out by the lummox with the steel undergirdle, but well ahead of the guy with the friction headlamp and panniers. Couple more of these races and those punks’ll know whose boss without having to read about it in a fucking blog.

Miss Lonelypants offers advice on your romantic quandaries

February 28, 2012 § 2 Comments

*Wankmeister has entered into a collaborative agreement with Pritzy Q. Lonelypants, the famed dating and romance advisor. She will be periodically contributing to Cycling in the South Bay with gobs of cotton wadding.

Dear Miss Lonelypants:

No matter how often I do the South Bay group rides, I can’t get a date. I’m fit, I’m fast on the bike, and I look pretty good in lycra. What am I doing wrong?

Prowlingly,
Wanda Willing

Dear Wanda:

Would you shop for a dildo in a place that specializes in refurbished alternators? Of course not. So don’t go man-hunting on the local group rides. First off, no matter how good you look, the sausages will try to drop you. Second off, if you’re really fast you’ll drop the sausages, and they’ll hate you forever. Third off, the only thing you look in lycra is cheap.

Straightly,
Miss Lonelypants

Dear Miss Lonelypants:

I’m on my third South Bay cyclist boyfriend. What a loser. No job. No money. Rides all day. “Date night” means watching a video from last year’s Pro Tour, ending promptly at nine, after which it’s lights out, a smooch, and a river of snores. How do I hook a guy who’s into cycling AND who’s responsible/romantic/solid potential for changing poopy diapers?

Getting fed up,
Gloria Goalong

Dear Gloria:

The same way he gets a super-hot rich girlfriend who puts out whenever he wants. Detailed explanation of the procedure can be found by clicking on this link.

Mathematically not going to happen,
Miss Lonelypants

Dear Miss Lonelypants:

My new BF and I go for long rides together. I really want to talk with him, but he’s so intent on riding and pedaling and watts and heartrates and such that we just don’t get to TALK talk except for “Car up!” and “Hole!” and “How’s your saddle sores?” and stuff like that. But no real TALK. How can I get him to be more communicative?

Loquaciously,
Lilly Laputa

Dear Lilly:

First off, don’t expect the sausages to talk on bike rides. For them, it’s the only time during their hectic workweek that they can focus on Strava. Then, once he’s off the bike, ask him about his daily training plan for 2012-2014. He’ll really open up.

Confidently,
Miss Lonelypants

Yo! Miz LP!

My old lady’s always pissed when I spend all day Saturday on the Donut pre-loop, the Donut proper, and the 2-hour post-Donut coffee cool down, and all day Sunday when I’m giving her paycheck to Chris Lotts and Charon down at the CBR races. I took her to watch me bust up the Cat 4 race but I got confused at the end and started my sprint with two to go instead of one which meant I got LAST. The old lady was not real happy. Ennyhoo, why’s she gotta always be so pissed? I let her watch all my Pro Tour videos if she wants to but fuckit man, she doesn’t WANT to. I let her take out my TT bike any time she wants but fuckit man, she doesn’t WANT to. I would dump her in a minute but I’ve been out of work since the economy crashed in ’92 and she’s got a pretty good job.

Help a buddy out,
Standup Sammy

Yo! Douchebag!

You should understand that it’s not the cycling she hates. It’s you.

Sisterly,
Miss Lonelypants

Dear Miss Lonelypants:

There is a very aggravating jerk on all of the local South Bay rides. He is skinny, obnoxious, unpleasant to look at, has a little pot belly he’s always hiding with a tailored jersey, always cursing at people, a bad racer, a worse rider, and all he ever seems to do is ride his bike and blog about it…you can’t imagine what a complete jerk this guy is! Does he even HAVE a job? Anyway, I think I’m in love. Any tips?

Swooningly,
Petunia Prettyparts

Dear Petunia:

You poor thing. You’ve discovered the Wankmeister. Fortunately, he’s married, so he can only make one woman completely and utterly miserable. The rest of us are just partially miserable from having to be around him when he shows up on the Kettle or Donut. If you’re still hot to trot, though, you can forget about it. He’s all blather and no lather. And don’t worry–like a bowel movement, this too will pass.

Beentheredonethat,
Miss Lonelypants

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