Trump bikes

February 17, 2017 § 13 Comments

I used to own a mountain bike. I bought it in 1988, from Freewheeling Bicycles in Austin. It was red and I think it was called a StumpJumper, although in my case they should have named it the StumpHitter, or the StumpNotQuiteJumper, or just the plain old StumpThumper.

Mountain biking seemed like fun until I started doing it. Unlike road riding, where you can pedal stupidly along until you get run over by a car, on a mountain bike you have to ride with all 12 senses going full Spidey alert which means you’ll never get run over by a car and will only splat into a tree or fall off a cliff instead.

Austin’s Green Belt didn’t have any 1,000-foot cliff drop-offs, but it had rocks and trees and no matter how carefully I rode they always seemed to reach up, slap my front tire, and knock me onto the cactus. At first it was fun coming home dirty and covered and blood, but at second it really wasn’t, and at third I realized that this wasn’t my fake sport.

Even though mountain biking and I parted company early on, I occasionally took note of it and its practitioners,  warily, kind of like you take note of the crazy downstairs neighbor who screams and beats the dog late at night when you cross paths taking out the trash. And I noticed that even without me, mountain biking did just fine. It became a big industry and got a lot of people involved in enjoying the outdoors and running over hikers.

Compared to road cyclists, mountain bikers always seemed to give a shit. I don’t know if it’s because they have to make their own trails, or because they have to fight grizzlies for the right to ride, or because by being surrounded by plants and water and rocks and natural beauty they feel more connected to the earth, but they seem to rally a lot better than road cyclists when the chips are down.

And you know, the chips are down, especially in Utah. The state has taken the lead in the latest Trumpian wave of dystopic, kleptocratic public theft as it is now trying to wrest back federal lands so the state can sell them off to private entities. Representative Dingbat Chaffetz is front-and-center in this public rape, proposing legislation that would rob generations of the right to use public lands.

In an amazing twist, the mountain biking crowd is having none of it. Being part of the giant Outdoor Retailers trade show every year that brings in $45 million annually to the Mormon economy, and being part of the Interbike trade show that recently left Las Vega$$$ for Salt Lake City, hitters in the outdoor retail business have told Chaffetz and Utah that, starting in 2018, they won’t be doing business there. They’re taking their money to Denver and will likely enjoy a bit of mile-high clean air and maybe even some of Floyd’s Rocky Mountain high.

Hats off, you stinky, scabby, dirt-covered mountain bike people. Thanks for putting your money where your tires are. I’d ride in solidarity with you but it wouldn’t be past the first rut.



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Shouting match

February 16, 2017 § 25 Comments

I know I’m old because I misremember everything. But I’m pretty sure that people didn’t used to scream at each other as much as they do now. In fact I’m pretty sure that the people I rode with didn’t scream at each other at all, except for that time in the Cat 4 road race at the Tour de Louisiana in 1984 when some guy screamed at everyone for two hours straight before the screaming tired him out and he got dropped.

Part of the reason we didn’t scream is because we all knew each other pretty well, and part of it is because back in those days screaming, by definition, was going to lead to punching, and there were a whole bunch of guys you pretty much didn’t really ever want to get cross wise with. Jerry Markee was one of them, Kevin Callaway the Good was another, but probably the biggest reason you kept your opinions to yourself was Fields.

Fields never screamed at anyone, and you sure never screamed at him. You thought four or five times about even raising your voice, and it was that fifth time that always led you to the right place, which was to hold your fucking tongue until after the ride when you could go complain behind his back.

Nowadays people scream all the time. They scream in races, which is weird but a little understandable, and they scream on group rides, which is incomprehensible to me. We had a race a couple of months ago when an 18-year-old kid who weighs about 130 pounds started cursing a dude who weighs 220 and is a former football player and a father and who could pretty much punch his fist through a concrete wall.

Back in the day that kid wouldn’t have gotten to the “ck” in “fuck” before his teeth were making an emergency exit out the back of his head. After the race the big guy came over and said, “Wanky, you need to get your rider to calm down a bit with the f-bombs.” It was kind of incredible to me that I had to explain to someone who weighs 130 that it’s bad policy to get aggressive with a dude who weighs 220.

When I was a kid the first thing I always noticed first about someone was his size, and then his temperament. That’s because where I grew up if you were little, which I was, and someone else was big, which a lot of people were, and if you had a smart mouth, which I did, you would end up getting a lot of ass beatings if you didn’t size people up properly. It also helped that I could run real fast.

Nowadays you can’t pull someone aside and beat his ass. I never could, but guys like Rick Kent didn’t take any shit from anyone. I never heard Rick raise his voice but he was legendary for getting off his bike and beating the shit out of motorists. If you wanted to go home to your wife with your ass beat and a handful of loose teeth, the best way was to pull up to Rick while you were driving to the store for a jug of milk and cuss him out, or better yet, swerve at him, call him a homo, then pull over and challenge him to a fight.

And then there were powder kegs like Dan Gammill, a guy who simply looked insane and whose body type was “giant coiled muscle” so that you either tried to get on his good side or you left him alone. I’m pretty sure that no one ever yelled at him his entire life, or if they did, it was a one-off deal followed by a tasteful graveside service.

But screaming and yelling and shouting is pretty common now. Today on the NPR two good friends got into it. One of them pretty deliberately chopped the other one’s wheel, and the choppee went after the chopper with more fuck-you’s than a NYC bike messenger.

It was embarrassing to watch these two guys on YouTube, one of them chopping and the other one cussing. Retaliatory bike handling has always been a part of this fake sport, but seeing it between friends made me wonder when and where we made that particular left turn. I’m a pretty crappy bike handler but I’ve never whacked a wheel intentionally in my life, and that time I chopped the shit out of Robb Mesecher at the 805 crit in Lompoc three years ago, he said “Whoa, Wanky, you chopped me and put me in the gutter!” and I apologized on the spot about eighteen times and still feel bad about it. It’s pretty demeaning to think I almost knocked down another rider just because I wasn’t paying attention.

And  watching the choppee on the NPR let loose with a bunker-buster’s worth of f-bombs made me wonder when it became okay to completely lose your shit like that. The mark of a good bike racer used to be someone who was always in control. If someone chopped your wheel and you didn’t like it, you either chopped them back or put them into the curb or rode them off your wheel or beat them in the sprint or dropped them on the climb or after the ride you beat their ass. If you couldn’t do any of those things you did what I always do, which is slink to the back and be thankful I didn’t fall off my bicycle and hit my head.

What would be cool is if both those dudes apologized to each other because they’re both super good bike handlers and solid people in pretty much every way, and after all the feathers get smoothed over, we’re really just overwrinkled kids on bikes in our underwear, and how serious can that really be?



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Super depressing news about Tour of Turkey

February 15, 2017 § 16 Comments

I have been unable to sleep at night lately, that’s how upset I am at the postponement of the Tour of Turkey. In its first year as a ProTour event, this incredible bike race is incredibly having incredible difficulty attracting top teams. Only one ProTour team has agreed to race the event, the little-known Norwegian outfit Rumpe Ansikt, with the rest of the teams as follows, none of which is on the ProTour:

  1. Pullea Pyöräilijä (Finland)
  2. Team Ultimul Loc (Rumania)
  3. Equipe Csalók (Hungary)
  4. команда хакеров (Russia)
  5. 암살자 (North Korea)
  6. Team Narcotrafico (Venezuela)
  7. Team Elektromotor (Belgium, DS Ryder Hesjedal)

Anyway, it’s really a shame that the heavy hitters on the ProTour haven’t signed up for this race, just because its April date conflicts with Liège-Bastogne-Liège. What legitimate pro would rather win a race called “The Queen of the Classics” than, say, the stage from Aksaray to Konya?

But what really kills me is that this is another attempt by foreign influences seeking to destroy the country (read: Fethullah Gülen) and ruin the good name of Turkish president Tayyip Recep Erdogan (pronounced “bloodthirsty dictator” in English). Just because Erdogan has imprisoned and tortured thousands, murdered Kurdish politicians, arrested journalists, perverted the judiciary, and declared opposition parties “terrorist organizations,” just because he has brought on a horrific terrorist attack at the airport in Istanbul, just because he sued a German comedian for calling him a goat sodomizer, and just because a rolling peloton of foreigners would be a perfect target for a terrorist attack doesn’t mean that cyclists shouldn’t support this great race.

Especially if you’re Armenian.



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Lance’s date with destiny

February 13, 2017 § 44 Comments

Enough time has passed so that we have a generation of cyclists who know nothing about Lance Armstrong and the U.S. Postal Service. Enough time has passed that even the bitter among us have turned their ire elsewhere. Betsy seems occupied with something more meaningful than Lance’s ill treatment of her, and although Greg is still searching for Lance’s lost watts, he finally seems at peace having reclaimed his role of Only American to Win the Tour de France Without an Asterisk.

And of course it’s at the moment that people stop watching that the saga begins its climax.

With six years of procedural wrangling over, endless motions denied,and discovery dogfights put to rest, the Jarndyce v. Jarndyce juggernaut of Landis v. Tailwind Sports et al. is finally going to trial. And the stakes aren’t simply high, they are, for Armstrong, beyond catastrophic. With a maximum judgment in the neighborhood of $100 million, and no hope of escaping it in bankruptcy due to the underlying allegations of fraud, it’s all or nothing for Team Dopestrong.

Funny thing is, it always was.

What’s not funny is that time has given Lance’s case a good dose of perspective. But first, the legal monster that’s about to eat his lunch:

Armstrong’s defense was always simple. The USPS got way more than the $32 million it paid for. How? Simple, Armstrong said. Look at the media coverage for those five USPS Tour de France wins, assign a dollar value to it, and you’ll easily eclipse the $32 million that USPS paid Tailwind Sports.

When the lawsuit began, this looked like a pretty strong defense, and you see it all the time in litigation. Sure I was bad, but you know what? You weren’t hurt by my bad actions, so I don’t owe you squat. The numbers were squarely in Armstrong’s corner, too. His media coverage over the 5-year period that he was sponsored by USPS was astounding.


Unfortunately, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, because over the course of the litigation the government’s lawyers applied the same metrics to the bad publicity generated by Armstrong’s sporting fraud. Initially perhaps the bad coverage was outweighed by his five years of smashing the Tour (who can forget the Austin billboard that read, “Who’s your daddy, France?”).

But as the years dragged on, the government’s lawyers kept toting up all the bad press and terrible media coverage that USPS received, and continued to receive, as a result of Armstrong’s fraud. The number of “negative media impressions” in the first four years after Floyd Landis sued Armstrong under the False Claims Act sits at a staggering 1.5 billion. Even at fifty cents an impression, that number overwhelms any positive media generated in the glory days.

What’s worse, Armstrong can’t now be heard to criticize media coverage as a measure of damages because his whole case rests on it. Now a jury is going to get to decide, in essence, whether USPS got more good media coverage from Lance or more bad media coverage. The answer is so obvious that Armstrong’s lawyers have done everything in their power to prevent the case from going to trial … and failed.

You can read the court’s memorandum opinion on both sides’ motions for summary judgment here. The language is blunt, and doubtlessly terrifying, however legalistic it may sound at first pass:

The Court generally adopts Armstrong’s proposed “benefit-of-the-bargain” approach to calculating damages in FCA cases, like this one, where the market value of goods or services supplied under a government contract are difficult to determine. It also agrees that the record evidence—including internal Postal Service correspondence and contemporaneous thirdparty valuation studies—supports a finding that USPS received substantial benefits as a direct result of the sponsorship. Ultimately, however, the Court concludes that the monetary amount of the benefits USPS received is not sufficiently quantifiable to keep any reasonable juror from finding that the agency suffered a net loss on the sponsorship, especially if one considers the adverse effect on the Postal Service’s revenues and brand value that may have resulted from the negative publicity surrounding the subsequent investigations of Armstrong’s doping and his widely publicized confession. Determination of damages must therefore be left to a jury.

But all is not lost. The nebulous nature of valuing media coverage could mean that, after subtracting Armstrong’s unquestioned good publicity, a jury concludes that the damages aren’t all that substantial. What if Armstrong brought USPS $100 million in the good years, and cost them $101 million in the bad? The government gets a million times three, which is a lot less than $32 million times four. And of course a jury might conclude that the whole thing was a wash. After all, there are still plenty of people out there who think that whatever Lance did on the bike, he helped a lot of people by curing their cancer.

So on the battlefield, things are coming to a head, and a jury may find Lance and his sporting fraud and lengths to which he went to mistreat others and lie about his cheating repugnant enough to hang the entire bill around his neck. On the other hand Lance has a pretty formidable legal team, and he might ultimately prevail, or at least not get bankrupted. This would be a big bummer for ex-doper Floyd Landis who filed the suit, and who really isn’t an ex-doper anymore but is rather a doping entrepreneur peddling legal pot in Colorado. We’d call that ironic but it’s mostly sad, a doping cheat claiming he was harmed by other doping cheats and asking for compensation so that he can peddle dope instead of pedaling doped.

But back to perspective …

Here we are, almost eighteen years from Armstrong’s first Tour victory, spending truckloads of government money to prove that a bunch of bad media coverage outweighed a bunch of good media coverage. If the government wins, some dude will have to pay a few bucks, or maybe even go bankrupt. If the government wins big, a drug cheat who was stripped of his Tour win will be set for life by plundering the assets of another drug cheat who was also stripped of his Tour wins. That’s a morality play we can all get behind, right?

Yet during the time that this Battle of the Ex-Dopers has raged, our national landscape has radically changed. A scorched-earth, neo-Nazi thief sits in the Orange House, commemorating the Holocaust without mentioning the word “Jew,” as Imperial storm troopers rip poor Mexicans out of their homes and send them back “home” … to a country they’ve never known.

The Constitution itself hangs in the balance while the executive branch attacks the judiciary and while a prostrate and prostituted Congress rubber stamps a plethora of laws designed to turn us into the greatest kleptocracy the world has ever known, while the Great Orange Leader gives and sells secrets to the Russians and his minions openly promote America First in its purest sense.

It’s this backdrop that should make any right-thinking person look at the petty pothead ex-doper lawsuit filed against a petty ex-doping jerk and say, “Enough. Enough. Enough.”



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The Atheist Training Bible for Old Bicycle Racers, Chapter 24: Recovery tips

February 12, 2017 § 4 Comments

Well, the accolades have been pouring in after yesterday’s tour de force at the UCLA Road Race, like this one:

“Great job out there Wanky, your 12th place out of 22 riders makes it an almost-top ten, and a solid top 5% of all participants (Trump math). As your fan out here in Ittoqqortoormiit, I was wondering if you could share some Wanky Post-Race Recovery Tips for those of us who are wondering what the Complete Wanky Racing Package looks like?”

Thanks for the subtle inquiry, but there’s only one person who gets to gaze admiringly at the Wanky package, and it isn’t anyone in Ittoqqortoormiit, sir. Or any sir, for that matter.

With regard to recovery, however, I’m super glad to give you some tips, tips that, if assiduously followed, will one day allow you to get some great Top Five Percent Trump Math results in your local bicycle race and underwear contest.

  1. Facebag stretches. First step to restoring health and vascular vitality after a hard race is checking out all the people who might have posted pictures of you struggling off the back or other glory shots. Solid 3-4 hours of Facebagging, minimum.
  2. Jaw limbering. Call up a friend who didn’t do the race and gently exercise out all the kinks in your jaw by telling them every detail about the race. Bonus points if they’re engaged in a family activity or standing in line at Disneyland with a screaming kid in one hand and a diaper bomb in the other. Gold stars if you can use the words “super hard,” “incredibly hard,” “so fuggin’ hard,” and “dude, unbelievably hard” in every sentence.
  3. Bounceback calories. You probably burned 1,00o to 1,500 hundred calories in the race, so here’s the replenishment math: book1
  4. Carbon massage. If you didn’t win, you clearly need more equipment. If you won, you clearly need to reward yourself with more equipment. Post-race you must dedicate a couple of hours to shopping for new full carbon doodads that are 100% carbon and made exclusively of carbon and also contain 100% aero.
  5. Hasthtag push-ups. Since you’re a profamateur it is crucial that you say nice things about the products and services you don’t deserve and may not even actually use. This will relax your wallet and allow much new swag to enter your garage/man cave/bedroom.
  6. Calendar pilates. Now that you’ve done one race you can brag for the rest of the season that you are a bike racer. No recovery is complete without a search of all 2017 upcoming races and finding excuses not to go to any of them.
  7. Obligatory lunch out. In order for your muscles to recuperate from the stress of racing, it is imperative to take your S/O out for lunch so that she/he will let you go do the same thing next week. [Practice notes: Refrain from any race recaps or mention of anything pertaining to bikes. Refrain from complaining about how you can’t “lose that last five pounds” even though the waitress keeps asking if you’d like an extra basket of bread. DO ask her how her day was. DO pretend to listen. DON’T suggest she take it easy on the extra bread. DO try to lock her into permission for the next race when the check comes, but do it nonchalantly: “Wow, that’s an expensive lunch. McDonalds has gone through the roof!! But you are worth it times a million, honey! By the way, I’m doing the Fifteen Days of Meat Strings starting next Friday and will be gone for a month at the altitude training camp in Italy. Is that okay, honey-buns?”



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Saturday, bloody Saturday

February 11, 2017 § 20 Comments

I love racing against Jeff Konsmo, and have raced against him countless times. Jeff has never raced against me. Whatever Jeff does in a race affects me profoundly. Whatever I do in a race doesn’t affect him at all, except for that moment when he looks over his shoulder and sees a tiny dot in the distance.

That’s me, Jeff!

My favorite race to race against Jeff where he isn’t racing against me is the UCLA Road Race. I love this race because it is very predictable and at my advanced age I do not like surprises.

Here’s what always happens. I ride my bicycle very earnestly in November, December, and January. During that time I gain lots of confidence because, group ride.

Then I show up for the UCLA Road Race, which is the hardest race on the calendar and the hardest race in the galaxy of leaky prostate races. I warm up, chit-chat with friends who are going to tear my legs off, preen a bit, and do a book signing or two. (This really happened. An awesome dude named George came up to me on the start line and asked me to autograph my world-famous book, “Cycling in the South Bay.” I blushed, and it’s that slight diversion of crucial blood flow that partially explains what happened next.)

Then the race starts and Jeff Konsmo goes to the front. Jeff is beautiful. He has no spare anything. Every part of his body is perfectly joined together to do one thing: Ride bicycle uphill fast.

When Jeff gets to the front, which he does after the first 100 yards, he coasts because the first 300 yards are downhill. Then the road begins to go up and Jeff begins to pedal. The more the road goes uphill, which it does for the next five miles, the more he pedals. Suddenly the happy old oysters are not happy anymore.

There’s no more conversation.

The clump becomes a bit streamlined.

Then it becomes single file.

Then holes begin to appear as if mortars had fallen into the ranks and scored a direct hit.

Then the universe becomes a black pinhole of the rubber in front of you, washed over by the roar of your own gasps.

This is when I look up and see that Jeff is still on the front and I am what is affectionately known as “off the back” followed by “way off the back” followed by “time to re-analyze my winter preparation, especially the part where I insert the delusion of not getting dropped into my race plans.”

This year, however, was gonna be different. I had trimmed my riding schedule down to four days a week. I had reduced my tummy rolls from four to two. I had won the NPR last Tuesday when no one else showed up.


Then the race started and Jeff went to the front and it was Wanky redux all over again. Less than ten minutes into the race my heart rate had been jacked up to 220 and I’d been mercilessly smashed out the back. So much for reducing my training to improve my fitness. But this year something different happened. After getting shelled by Jeff’s torrid pace, a group of other shellees came by. I latched on and they dragged me over the climb and then flew down the descent at speeds so insane that the post-ride ritual of checking one’s skidmarks revealed some impressive stripes.

And hallelujah! We made the right turn and reattached to the small band of leaders. Unlike years past, where reattachment was simply a preamble to permanent disjunction, I hung on and hung on and hung on.

Through the start/finish climb I hung on.

Up the climb the second time I hung on.

Through the start/finish climb I hung on.

Up the climb the third time I hung on.

Through the start/finish climb I hung on.

Then as we began the final climb on the final lap it became real. I was going to finish the race with the lead group for the first time ever. All the DNFs, the 38th place from last year, the litany of bitter defeats were going to be made up for on this glorious day. All I had to do was make it up one last time.

The course goes up for a couple of miles and then makes a right turn, where there’s an endless stairstep ascent to the top. That right turn is crucial because if you make it there, it’s followed by a brief downhill where you can catch your breath and get ready for the final five minutes of being completely pinned.

I saw the right turn, put my head down, and flailed for what seemed like a minute or two, hanging on like one of those tiny little meat strings that attach a baby tooth to the gum right before the tooth is ripped mercilessly out by a piece of twine that your brother has tied to the door. As the meat string stretched I looked up and saw in horror that after pedaling for so long we had only moved a few yards, which either meant that I was in so much pain my brain had begun distorting time and distance, or that we were moving at .00000002 miles per hour.

I put my head down again and pedaled for an hour, the meat string twisting and twisting as it yanked on the shrieking nerve. I looked up and saw we had moved ahead another ten feet.

After a couple of days I reached the right turn. The stairstep loomed. But Jeff, who had sat on the front for two solid hours, pounding the field into shredded meat strings until only a handful of mauled riders remained, was out of accelerations. There was zero chance that he would put in one of the vicious little kicks at the end designed to snap the meat strings and further cull the herd.

As we approached the top I finally knew what it felt like to be in the running, theoretically at least, for a podium spot at the hardest race I’d ever done. After years of trying, years of failure, years of gnashed teeth, and years of broken meat strings I was going to crest the climb, bomb the descent, pedal along the rollers sucking wheel at every opportunity, and then unleash my tremendous 165 watts of seated sprinting power on the unsuspecting suckers who had dragged me along for the entire day.

Two hundred yards was far but the top was right there and nothing was going to dislodge me, especially because I knew that if I got gapped out here I’d never reconnect with the pack once the crested the climb.

Then I noticed something troubling. That something was named Thurlow, and Thurlow had looked back and surveyed the situation.

If you don’t know Thurlow, don’t worry. He doesn’t know you either. I’m sure that in his normal life he is a kind fellow, a gray-haired, avuncular old chap who says “thank you” and “please” and offers his seat to pregnant women on the bus.

But on a bicycle he doesn’t do any of those things. On a bicycle he is simply the greatest road racer in this country’s history. Olympics, check. La Vie Claire, check. Won every major U.S. race ever, check. Kept winning at the local pro level, check. Kept winning at the masters level, check. Still wins more races than he actually participates in, check. Terrifies other riders by looking at them. Speaks only when necessary, and it’s never necessary.

And the sad news is that Thurlow is a moving, living lesson in how to race a bike and you are the blackboard on which the lessons are going to be written. With a knife. Expressionless, taking in all of the peloton’s motions with the lifeless eyes of a shark, Thurlow sees all, knows all, understands all. And when the eye of Thurlow alights on the cockroach hiding at the back of the group, the cockroach who has never done a thing all day except gasp while waiting to sneak into the kitchen and steal some crumbs in the darkness, Thurlow only has one reaction. Stomp the roach until its yellow guts are forced from its very eyes. And stomp it now.

As Thurlow stomped, the remaining riders avoided getting shelled as they struggled to match his acceleration, which was vicious, and after a few seconds of disarray each rider found a wheel, gasping, and they labored together over the top of the climb in a ragged file of grim desperation, after which they all raced together to the finish.

All but one, of course.



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Why people go away

February 10, 2017 § 22 Comments

Over the years a lot of people have come and gone from the bike scene. Maybe it’s the same with tennis, jogging, or being a terrible surfer on mom’s couch, I don’t know.

What I do know is that one day they’re there, never miss a ride, and the next day they aren’t. Here are the main reasons people leave.

  1. They got the monkey off their back. Some people get into cycling because they’ve got demons. Drugs, alcohol, a terrible relationship, triathlons, etc. After a lot of bike therapy they sober up, dump the abusive partner, shred their USTA card, and there’s no will left to live (on the bike). Bye.
  2. Racing!!! Pity the person who gets into cycling because of racing. Either they win and realize that “there’s no there there” or they never win and realize they’re never going to win, like a Lunada Bay Boy on Mom’s Couch who finally realizes what everyone else knew all along, i.e. he’s a kook.
  3. Gizmos. Gear and equipment and stuff abound in this faux sport and it attracts a certain kind of weird person who thinks TT bikes and a locker at the velodrome that includes a compressed tank of helium are awesome. Eventually they buy all the gear. So bored now. Bye …
  4. Exercise freaks. Mongo ge bike and realize that Mongo can ride forever. And Mongo do. Until Mongo get tired. But Mongo keep riding. And Mongo get tireder. BUT MONGO MUST RIDE MORE. And then Mongo go away.
  5. Lonely people. Lonely person starts riding, meets people, gets invited to join club, is totally flattered, makes shit-ton new friends, discovers that bikers are just as repellent as the general populace only they wear Lycra underwear, returns to Hermit Kingdom.
  6. My Big Crash. Rider loves riding, rides hella fast, alla time. Rider falls and hits head, breaks nutsack, etc. Rider’s family throws bike in trash, hides shoes. Rider goes back to Arthur Murray dance studio because, safer.
  7. Job insecurity. Rider is all in and one day learns from boss that he’s one pay period away from being all out. Of a job. Rider knuckles back down to 15-hour days and mortgage payments.
  8. Bundle ‘o joy. Rider is on all the rides, does all the races, logs six days a week, 12k a year. Rider’s S/O gets a bellyful of baby. Rider becomes popular on Craigslist until all of garage bike shwag is replaced with portable baby poopers, car seats, and baby bassinets.
  9. Boredom. What is more boring than riding a bicycle? Aside from not riding a bicycle, NOTHING.
  10. Faster than I never was. Rider starts young and fast. Over time rider becomes old and slow. Rider’s mind eventually catches up with decrepitude of rider’s body, and that’s that.

But what is it that makes people continue, whether it’s racing or touring or commuting or rando-ing or MTB-ing? Easy.

They keep doing it because slow or fast, long or short, dangerous or safe, it’s flat fuggin’ FUN. You know who you are.



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