August 10, 2012 § 5 Comments
Looks like King of Wankers, David Anthony, started a trend. Two days ago, the next masters professional cyclist to become ensnared in a pee-pee test is Greg Cavanagh, Canadian Dude You’ve Never Ever Fucking Heard Of. Greg tested positive for “testosterone,” according to this news release, which is probably not exactly right because everyone has testosterone. It’s kind of like saying he tested positive for “blood.”
Since the busted masters professional cyclist will be a part of our landscape for years to come, I’ve taken matters into my own hands with the following public service. Instead of forcing these poor clods to write their own apologies (Cavanagh hilariously said, without apologizing, that he would now “retire” from masters racing), I’ve drafted some form letters that any doper can use to tell the world how he feels about being caught.
Which kind of doper are you?
First, you’ll need to decide what kind of doper you are before selecting the proper form. Pick your form, circle the words that best express how you feel, and send off to your national anti-doping agency, post on your WordPress.com blog, or send to your mom.
1. Repentant doper letter of apology and deepest most profound expression of sorrow, humiliation, and regret
I am profoundly sorry for [doping/cheating/lying/stealing/spending my wife’s boobjob money on EPO]. I realize that I have [deceived/betrayed/offended/embarrassed] everyone [in my life/at my office/on my Cat 4 dev team]. The decision to dope was [mine alone/spurred on by foolish delusions/similar to my decision to be an accountant], in that it was [wrong/unjustifiable/worse than that time I got drunk at the old folks home]. I hope to use this as a way to teach young people about the evils of [doping/cycling/leg shaving].
Your Name Here
2. Innocent doper letter of pseudo apology that doesn’t admit to anything, really.
Dear [UCI/USADA/Bitch who was responsible for maintaining the doping analyzer]:
It is [unfortunate/shocking/a miscarriage of justice] that my [blood/urine/semen] tested positive for [a prohibited substance/tainted natural food substances/something unknowingly ingested through a herbal remedy/vanishing twin blood profiles]. This [witch hunt/terrible waste of public tax dollars/conspiracy at the highest levels of government] has caused me to [lose my livelihood/lose my constitutional rats/never give up in my quest to find who murdered OJ’s wife]. The quantity of [clenbuterol/testosterone/horse urine] found in my blood is equivalent to dropping a thimbleful of spit into [the Pacific Ocean/a trillion billion gallons of urine/the Crab Nebulae]. I have retained [a top lawyer/a scabby ambulance chaser/ Douchebag Bill] to vindicate my good name, and I look forward to having my [innocence proven/guilt doubted/prison stay be at that place they put Martha Stewart].
[Defensively/Will be Vindicated at Some Point in the Futuredly/Nobly]
Your Name Here
3. Defiant doper letter of contempt
Sure I got busted for [84% hematocrit/driving a bus nicknamed “Pharm-on-Wheels”/selling PED’s to Little Leaguers]. So the fuck what? You hypocrites couldn’t get out of bed in the morning without [Xanax/vodka/an amphetamine enema]. You create a race that is harder than [crossing Australia on a pogo stick/hang gliding to the moon/chess] and ask me to do it without [drugs/lots of drugs/more fucking drugs than all the crack houses in Detroit]? You want me to play by the rules when your own UCI and USA Cycling are crookeder than [a dog’s hind leg/the mortgage-backed securities industry/a Cat 5 bunch sprint]? Yeah, right. I’ll do my two year suspension, and then I’ll [never race again/ride for RadioShack or Team Sky/become a personal trainer]. So FOAD.
Your Name Here
August 1, 2012 § 41 Comments
It’s simple. If you’re a grown man, and you’re shaving your legs, and you’re not a professional athlete or in the porn business, then you have a problem. The only question is “How bad is it?”
By now you MUST have heard about David Anthony, star of the New York Times, feature stud on VeloNews, zeitgeist at BikedoucheNYC, the 42 y/o Cat 2 full-on HGH and EPO doper who got popped at a fucking gran fondo in New York. If you haven’t, you should take the time to read these stories. They get the facts pretty much right, but they all miss the point completely.
David Anthony is a hero. Actually, he’s a king. The King of Wankers. The greatest wanker of our time, if not of all time.
Tawdry tales of a twit’s terrible trajectory
It’s incredible what Anthony achieved in the space of little more than three brief years. He went from middle aged Cat 5 neo-wanker to all-in Cat 2 wanker. Injecting EPO into his belly fat. Shearing 20 pounds off his 160-lb frame. Sleeping and whacking off in an oxygen tent. Pouring money into the pockets of private coaches who would analyze his power files, send him e-pats on the back, and stoke the raging fire of his drug-crazed frenzy. He left his starter dork club and moved up to racing with a big team, aptly named “Comedy Central.”
We can assume he got the bro deal on his frame as he blew a grand a month on drugs, spent his spare time in a wind tunnel, and notched some huge results, culminating in a 16th place after upgrading to Cat 2. Sixteenth place. And before you snicker and howl, how many 16th places have you ever gotten in a Cat 2 race?
Then it all unraveled. Busted at a lame-ass gran fondo, surrounded by hairy-legged freds and nice ladies who wanted to “do their first century,” he got booted from his team (losing the bro deal, no doubt), was banned by USA Cycling for two years, and worst of all became the object of ridicule in the lowest and filthiest and most depraved circle of hell, otherwise known as the online bicycle forum where anonymous people with handles like “Big Hammer” and “Wattmaster” pass judgment on real people they’d be afraid to say “Hello” to in real life.
After confessing, apologizing, revealing the drug trail’s intricacies to USADA, and displaying the kind of remorse that is never, ever, ever, ever seen by pro athletes, politicians, or people who shoot up movie theaters for fun, karma revealed the true cunty nature of her awful self and subjected him to a bike crash in which he broke his leg in three places and may never cycle again. He now walks with a fucking cane.
This boy went all in, and he went all down. The only thing that could have made his undoing more complete might have been an arrest for public masturbation or the discovery of unpaid child support bills. It’s not stated in any of the interviews, but he sounds single, so in addition to all the misery and public opprobrium, he also gets to be alone.
Put yourself in his shoes for a couple of minutes. Done? Now that’s some heavy shit.
I like my sinners covered in sin
Although you’ve become pariah non grata in the BikedoucheNYC scene, dude, you’re way fucking welcome on any of my rides. You are badass. You took what we all do and maxed out the mental credit card. You went to a place that lots of other idiots go, but few return from in such a shattered, broken heap. You don’t have battle scars, you have been mortally wounded and somehow survived.
And to top it off, you have a conscience. It is warped, fucked up, and was clearly out of commission for a period of years, but you still have one, and it’s come to the fore. You’ve not only confessed, you’ve repented. You are the reason we believe in justice, in the hope that people can do stupid things, be punished, and then be better people.
See, David, buddy, you’re not that bad. You got involved in cycling from the asshole end rather than from the sweet end. It could happen to anyone, and it does. The asshole end is the one that looks down on people for being slow, or fat, or clumsy. It’s the end that sneers at freds and wankettes because their lives have other trajectories, other priorities, other limitations, or other blessings that supersede racing a $10k bike around an office park on Sunday.
Once you climbed into the warty anus, where there are winners and everyone else is shit, you did the logical thing: you played to win. Unfortunately, you had enough early success to make the craziness seem real. If a 5 then a 4, if a 3 then a 2, so maybe one day a 1? Then, perhaps…
Yep, you should have kept counting, because the next number in that progression is “0.”
The crazies are all around us
Dave, your mistake happens to lots of pudgy, middle-aged bike racers. You’re hardly unique. You’ve been unathletic all your life, you’ve got the first stench of mortality firmly wedged in your nostrils (and it’s a smell that only gets stronger with each passing year), and you got involved in something that seemed to reverse the clock. Your body and mind are capable of so much, and it’s an incredible feeling, especially when you’re putting the wood to some snot-nosed punk twenty years your junior. Robin Williams fell into the Kook-Aid vat, so you’re in smart and good company.
The sweet end of cycling is not there, though. The sweet end is the end where the fun is the turning of the pedals and the admixture of people you meet on the bike. The sweet end is the one that whispers “We’re still dying, but what a happy journey it will be to the grave.”
The sweet end never lies to you, either. If you’re religious, it heightens your appreciation of life as you prepare for eternity with hot coals up your ass or eternity listening to bad gospel music. If you believe that this is all we get, cycling intensifies these few microseconds before we’re blasted back into nothingness for a zillion trillion eternities.
Come back to us, buddy
Go ahead and heal up your leg. Get some good PT. Make your physical recovery the keystone to your mental recovery. Hang onto one machine and sell all your extra bikes and TT shit on Ebay (if you’ve got Di2, I’m actually in the market for some if you can cut me a bro deal).
Then throw a leg back over and you’ll see that cunty karma has a sweet side as well. The bike will always welcome you back. If the BikedouchesNYC insist on giving you the stinkeye, fuck them. Find a group who doesn’t care and who rides for fun…fun, of course, meaning weekly beatdowns without having to pay an entry fee.
Get into the groove of riding not for a purpose, but because you can. And give me a shout the next time you’re in California. We’ll go for a pedal and laugh at the wankers, over whom, by the way, you will forever be king.