March 9, 2012 § 5 Comments
Yesterday’s New Pier Ride:
“Yo, Wankmeister…could you just once post something with less than 10,000 words?”
Bull Seivert, raging nonstop at the front.
NPR by the numbers: 70% never get within 50 yards of the front; 80% never take a pull; 90% of the work is done by five people…or less.
Chicks galore. WM loves bootylicious bike rides filled with women out trading punches with the guys. Girls: no ride is so fast that you can’t park behind some fat dude and draft like the Selective Service. Join us!
Major Bob OUT OF THE BIG RING the whole way down the bike path!!
StageOne takes a series of hard pulls, blows out left knee, right elbow, and chin joint. Splattered blood and joint tissue stimulate idea for new kit design.
G3 calls Wankmeister a pandering douchebag on his new blog (http://flailingandhopeless.wordpress.com), and calls out Wankmeister for calling out G3. Thanks for the props! (Gussy notes that two lame bloggers are now blogging about each others’ lame blogs).
Chief sighting!!! Former master of all he surveyed, now confined to the Saturday kiddy soccer reservation, the legend nonetheless lives on.
You shoulda been here Tuesday. It was so much faster than today.
When I get a flat I just go down to Helen’s and we fix it together.
I’m not making your NPR wanker list, am I?
Am I going to need this? (Holds up tire tool).
I really don’t know how this works. (Holds up CO2 canister).
Is BWR as hard as you’re making it out to be on the blog?
BWR isn’t really 9,200 feet of vertical…is it?
Will anybody really finish BWR?
I was going to do BWR, but it just doesn’t look like much fun.
Okay. Under 10,000 words. Done!
March 7, 2012 § Leave a comment
Dear Miss Lonelypants:
I read this article on the internets and am really worried. It says for example “the more a person rides, the greater the risk of impotence or loss of libido,” and “A college student who had competed in rough cycling sports was unable to achieve an erection until microvascular surgery restored penile blood flow.” There was lots of other scary stuff to. It was medical and stuff. Anyways, I like my bicycle but I also like “Mr. Happy” (that’s what I call him–my GF call’s him “Mr. Shrimpers,” but won’t tell me why!!). What do you think about this?
I think she calls it Mr. Shrimpers because it’s…oh, never mind. It is true that the more a person rides, the greater the risk of impotence. Studies show that despite their top physical conditioning, after a 15-hour mountainous stage in the Tour, less than 1% of the finishers are capable of achieving an erection.
Dear Miss Lonelypants:
I like to ride my bike, and am faster than most of the other women, but of course there are lots of guys who are much faster than me. I hate it when I’m grinding on a long grade and some nasty ol’ pervert puts his hand on my butt, paws me a little, then gives me a “push” like he’s helping me. Is there a polite way to tell creeps like that to keep their hands to themselves?
Suzie B. Anthony
When you get to be Miss Lonelypants’ age, and your pants are really lonely, you’ll treasure those moments when some sweaty, hairy, muscular, lascivious ol’ dog runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and gently “nudges” you up the hill…for thirty or forty minutes. Some of the best
orga hill climbs in my life have occurred that way.
Dear Miss Lonelypants:
I’m thinking about joining a cyclists singles’ group. It seems like a great way to meet a woman who shares my interests. Thoughts?
Please check out CyclingSingles.com, and look carefully at the photos on the home page. What do you notice? Yes. The man looks like a starving Arnold Schwarzenegger. And he is wearing a Camelbak. Now then. Look at the woman. She is totally p*wning him on the downhill, and splashing the shit out of him as they rocket through the creek. Finally, they’re straddling their top tubes as the sun sets. Do you know what she’s saying? I do, because I was once that woman. She’s saying, “You are slow and weak and I don’t want to fuck you or even let you look at my ass from behind anymore. Please delete me from your account.” Still sound like a great way to meet women? Yes? You’re weird.
Dear Miss Lonelypants:
Okay, so next Saturday’s my gal’s birthday, and my gal’s not into the bike, and I’ve got a big race in Bakersfield so I’m, like, going to be back in LA late and tired and the gal’s gonna want me to celebrate her birthday and all that shit. So I’m trying to get her to go with me to the race and then we can hit the In-N-Out on the way back and maybe catch a early chick flick so I can be in bed to be rested for CBR on Sunday. If I do all that do I still need to get her a present I was thinking like maybe some bag refills for the vacuum cleaner.
Here are some ways to make her feel really special:
- Don’t race that weekend.
- Take the money you were going to spend on entry fees, gas, food, and equipment and buy her a nice gift–something she’ll treasure.
- Surprise her with an overnight trip to Catalina Island, a romantic dinner, and Sunday breakfast in bed.
- After breakfast, cuddle with her and use these words: “You’re the most important thing in the world to me.”
Just kidding! Sure, burgers and a movie will be fine, and don’t bother with a present, because IT’S THE LAST FUCKING BIRTHDAY SHE’LL EVER SPEND WITH YOU.
March 6, 2012 § 2 Comments
A second recon ride was held on Saturday. I wanted to attend, but had to go grocery shopping.
Twenty riders participated.
It’s true, the twenty consisted mainly of San Diego riders and Swami’s guys. That’s like saying the orgy consisted mainly of impotent men, but the fact remains: how many rides have you ever done that were so hard that only 5% of the riders finished?
I shouldn’t name names of invited riders who should not bother showing up, but I’m going to. If your name isn’t here, it should be.
Hockeystick…you have a shattered collarbone. You couldn’t finish the ride with three unbroken collarbones. What are you thinking?
Junkyard…you know you can’t. Give up now. You & me. By the beach. Checking out the first thongs of spring. That, or vomiting at the 90-mile mark and crawling home on our hands and knees only to be laughed at and spat upon by the three riders who completed the entire route?
Toronto…your daughter is an amazing athlete. You once were. Taking the elevator to the 21st Floor twice daily doesn’t count as training. Join me and Junkyard for the March thong browse-a-thon. Don’t sully the family name.
DJ…you barely finished Palm Springs. You’re so desperate for fitness that you pedaled up Tuna Canyon. You’re going to get crushed at Solvang. Bow out now, while the embarrassment is simply public and not yet personal.
Wehrlissimo…your family still needs you. There won’t even be enough pieces left to make a presentable corpse. Leave more than an ash-filled urn. Do not enter.
Big Bowles…you are really old and slow. You don’t even race. This isn’t a ride where the grizzledest ol’ duffer who plods the longest gets the strippers and meth at the end. Please quit. I’m already thanking you for it.
DK…you’re a passionate advocate, but do you also want to be a passionate invalid? This ride will crush you up and shit you out. No one will be your friend. Think New Pier Ride for ten hours. You’re slow, unfit, and weak even in the best of times. Please give up on this madness.
Jimbo…you have to do this, but you shouldn’t. Sick days are legal in California. Take one in advance. You’re double-covered; it’s Sunday anyway.
Alain…I love you like a brother, but I hated my brother. You know how you collapsed two weeks ago on our recon ride and were taken home in a hearse because they thought you’d died? Race day will be worse. Fill out your death certificate now. Then live it up with us purplers on the beach.
Steve McWankerston…you’ve got nothing to prove, as you’ve already proved it. This ride is too hard for someone of your vintage and girth. Do not show up. Forget about honoring the Swami’s name. That’s like honoring a multi-generational family of hookers.
G3…I know you’ve begged and weaseled, but be thankful that you’ve been excluded. It’s not that no one likes you, or that you’re too weak, although that’s part of it, rather it’s just that awful blog you started. It’s really terrible. If you take it down and claim it was written by someone else, you might get in for 2014.
Entire Big Orange contingent who wasn’t invited…please don’t take it personally, but no one wanted you around.
G$…ordinarily you’d get a big thumbs up, but with all the cracked ribs, broken collarbones, and general propensity for falling off your bike at random times, there are just too many falling off spots for you to reasonably contemplate finishing this race. Be a quitter.
Victor…you still haven’t finished the entire course. 7 hours of threshold…or thongs? You decide.
Baby Bruce…at first I thought this was a typo. Really? Really? This isn’t 45 minutes of ‘cross with your friends. It’s a death sentence levied by people who want to kill you. Give up.
Natty Hnatiuk…you have an easy out, buddy: the paramedics won’t be able to pronounce your name. Look, I love a good joke, but this is ridiculous. Stay home. Smoke a cigar. You can read about it all in the blotter.
Poppy Popovich…have you confused the pleasantries of a stroll through the vineyard with a leg-crushing beatdown that would humble a man of triple your fortitude? I think you have. De-confuse yourself with some pilates and meditation. Then give up.
Marckx Brother…I don’t know you. That pretty much sums it up. This isn’t a 90-minute 1940’s comedy with Harpo, Groucho, Wanko, and a happy ending. It’s a technicolor, fully digitized dismemberment that will drag on, for you at least, until long after sundown. Go for the happy ending at Ingeborg’s Swedish Massage House. Not here.
Becker Bob…first I heard this was a brutally hard ride. Then I heard you’d been invited. They can’t both be true. Now that I’ve done the course, I know which one is true: it’s a brutally hard ride.
Surfer Dan…what, did someone tell you this was like a big surf day, when all the local rippers and talkers stand on the beach and critique the waves while two guys out of several hundred actually have the balls to paddle out? It’s not going to be like that. Everyone will have to paddle out. Few will make it back in. Stay in Hermosa and support your home break. The North County locals will not be forgiving.
Bull…it’s time we had a talk. But not now. You are tough. You used to play football. This is not football. You are not tough enough for it. Imagine you’re Brett Favre and the hills of North County are the Saints’ defensive line after learning there’s a bounty on taking you down. Bow out gracefully before you get crippled.
Major Bob…yes, it’s going to be a war. Yes, you’re a battle-tested soldier. No, you won’t survive the shrapnel and IED’s. Why? Because you still haven’t learned how to use tiny gears. That 55 x 9 will slowly grind you down into a puddle. Slowly, as in the first 35 miles.
Johnny Boy…this isn’t a 45-minute crit shortened down to 30 minutes by Chris in order to save time and cram in a couple extra races. It’s not a 60-lap points race with Neumann crashing out the rest of the field on the last lap. It’s seven hours. 9,200 feet of climbing. Your cup of tea? Naaaaah.
Elron…WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? Your last long ride was in January, and you barely survived that. You don’t even cycle anymore. You have a beautiful, intelligent girlfriend who we all admire from afar. Go admire her from anear. Don’t come on this ride.
Triple…at least you have the excuse of awful judgment and following whatever dumbass plan DJ and JK come up with, a/k/a going up Tuna Canyon or leaping off your bike at 45 mph on the Everest Challenge. This, however, is too big for your tiny plate. Remember Palm Springs? This is just like that, only 10,000 times harder. Thongs. On the beach. Be there. I’ll even put the pink umbrella in your pina colada.
MMX…you’ve done the full route twice now, and have officially peaked. Each day from Saturday you will be either losing fitness or overtraining. No one will take pity on you as you wither and flail somewhere between Summit and Deathhaven. My proposal? Miss your flight home from NYC. What are they going to do, fire you?
Jurist Imprudence…I got the funny email. It was clever. Witty. Made me laugh. You and me, we’re “word” guys. Lots of talk, no action. So–let’s write about it and let others do the dying. Okay? It will be funnier that way.
Ian McWanksalot…saw you did the second recon. You’re double the man I am. Which makes you 1/4 a man. Note to you, sir: you’ll need to be at least 1.5 man to complete that ride. Of all people, you should now know that. Plus, people will abuse you for riding a steel bike. Third time is not the charm. Gracelessly abandon…deal?
Stephenovich… you did your longest ride ever attempting to do most of the BWR course, but collapsed on Questhaven, which is before the San Elijo climb, which is before the Double Peak of death. Pack it in now, and start training for 2020.
Andisimo…you fear the purple reaper more than anyone, which keeps you on or near the front a lot. It’s endearing. But stupid. Case in point? When you were five yards into Bandy Canyon, you dropped like an anvil. Stay home, Andy. The Purple Police won’t find you if you pull the covers tightly enough over your head.
Aunty Ant…you were shelled on the very first bump of a dirt road with Albert and Mirko. This seems like the perfect wake up call, doesn’t it? Or rather, the bedtime ditty before the raging peloton turns out your lights. Who wants to go to war and ride at the back in the medic truck, hiding from the call of duty? Well, you do, but…don’t.
Mirko…with two purple cards thrown your way before the first climb, you’ve already flown your true color. Singular. Step away from the microphone before the ugly hooded man with the scimitar disguised as a hook removes you. Permanently.
Big Bad Lee…you are fast but you get tired. It’s a gravity thing. Your bigness is good for a lot of things, but not Couser Canyon, Bandy Canyon, Deathhaven, San Elijo, or Double Peak. However, in true Swami’s fashion, since the group ride will get too fast, you can always create a B ride. This way you can get your fifty miles out of the way, come back to help drink the BWR Ale and review the KOM’s you set on Strava.
BenNiceKnowingYa…you’ve repeatedly stated you are ‘in,’ but what you are ‘in’ for is a beatdown. You joined the group at the 20-mile mark, hid as best you could until a pull was demanded, but then you got shelled on Couser and were never seen again. Sure, you’ll get a commemorative diaper and BWR purple pacifier, but is that what you really want? ‘Course not. Quit now while you’re behind.
Andrew…This event far exceeds the capacity of your family tree. If you are barking on a Monday, imagine what will happen to you on Sunday when the hammer comes down and the waffles come back up. Yuck. Just say “No.”
Casey…You and Andrew can help the girls at the finish line prepare the IV drips, cots, and bed pans. After the men depart, join me and the other 1/8 men down on the beach for some thongwatching.
Shorter…you were the first to quit, which makes you the smartest man of all. So follow up that stroke of genius with an old-fashioned “Gotta take the kids to their soccer game!” Works every time.
Matt… maybe you ought to try a tandem with Wanksalot? I know a guy who has one with a motor. You could follow the peloton and pick up their empty GU wrappers.
Jury Is Out…the jury is still out on you. You may be able to survive the ride, but there is a cut off time of midnight, March 25, 2014. This only gives you, him and he a few years to complete the thing. Which is probably not enough. Why not just throw in the towel? Yes, you CAN.
Douggie…it’s okay to fool yourself, but you’re not fooling anyone else. This is a very tall ride, and this blog post is like the little wooden man you have to measure yourself against at Disneyland in order to ride Splash Mountain. You’re almost tall enough…but not quite.
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.
March 3, 2012 § Leave a comment
Imagine my surprise when I heard a knock on the door last Friday night at 11:00 PM. “Who the fuck could that be?” I asked Mrs. WM, but she kept snoring.
I squinched my eye and looked through the peephole. There was this schlumpfy chick in a white lab coat and some sausage stroker carrying a pail. “Who the fuck are you?” I politely asked, cracking the door enough to speak, but keeping the security chain on.
“USADA. Out of competition drug test. Are you Wank J. Meister?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“USA Cycling racing license number 43903D-FL?”
“Yeah. But I’m a 45+ masters hacker. You got the wrong guy. Lance ain’t here. We broke up years ago.”
“Please open the door and let us in. A refusal to be tested will be recorded as a positive, and you will face disciplinary action, up to and including a two-year suspension.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
They just stood there eyefucking me, so I opened the door. The chick glanced around the apartment. “Vat are zose?”
“Ja. Zose.” She pointed to several syringes on the dining table.
“Vitamins. Those are my subcutaneous vitamin injections. For my liver. And to add collagen to my hair. It’s how I keep it so shiny and soft.”
“Fine. Ve’re taking zem for analysis.” With a practiced sweep, she pushed the syringes along with the needles into a little plastic baggie that had a pre-printed number and my name on it. I wondered if she was also going to test the pistachio shells, bread crumbs, and old shrimp heads that fell in as well.
The guy then set the pail on the floor and faced me. “We’re going to need a urine sample, a blood sample, a spit sample, an earwax sample, a lock of hair from your armpit, a snip of fingernail, a swab of toejam, a skin sample from the inside of your cheek, a booger, whatever tartar we can get from the back of one of your molars, and a scraping from the seat of your jockey shorts.”
“Are you drug testers, or product development from Clif Bar? And how do you plan on scraping my underwear? I don’t see no fuckin jackhammer.”
“Very funny. Please urinate into the milkpail.”
Cry me a river, but piss me just a bucket
As I was standing there filling up the bucket, the chick says, “Vat is zis?” She had gone into the kitchen and was nosing around in the pantry. Now she was holding up a can.
“That? That’s nothing.”
“I mean, it’s just BlueVeiner Rage D3 Andriosoxylathion Dicarbolmethylalanene.”
“Vas is it for?”
“For? It’s just an anti-oxidant. It’s all natural. It keeps my veins blue and healthy.”
“Fine. I’m confiscating a sample of it. Vas is zis?” She held up another bottle.
“That bottle there? That’s nothing.”
“Does the nussing have a name?”
“Yeah, right there on the side. That’s Bulkmaster Duo-Build Tetrafluoroboratepermanganate with XXXSatans Pitchfork Sodium Monoaluminumditelluride. It’s for my saddle sores. I can show you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Nein, danke. And zis?”
“That’s Jacknutz Swellnodes Bi-urethane with Conpromium Agnate of Zinchromium. It’s a water softener I put in my water bottles before a race. Hard water makes me cramp and it makes my hemorrhoids swell up like grapefruit. All the guys use it. They sell it by the case at Lindbag Nutrition, for Dog’s sake.”
Aw, heck, it’s just a centrifuge
Pretty soon the Grand Inquisitress came out of the bathroom holding an armful of pill bottles. She had her “You Are In Serious Shit Now, Son” face on. “Do you haf a TUE for any of zese items?”
“TUE. Therapeutic use exemption. Permission from a doctor to use zese medications to treat a known condition, and approved by USA Cycling and ze UCI.”
“Well, uh, sure. Doctor Jose Luis Alvarado de Castandeda-Sinaloa y Michoacan de Sinsemilla prescribed me a whole suitcase load of that stuff when I went down to Mexico last summer. Who can fucking afford health care in California anymore? Those are all for valid illnesses.”
“Super Recovery Testosterone Gel?”
“I’m a recovering alcoholic. That stuff helps me recover quicker after I drink so I can drink again quicker.”
“InstaGrow Chorionic Gonadotropin?”
“I had a cornea transplant. That shit is helping my corneas grow back so I can see better.”
“Third Lung Triple Potency Albuterol?”
“Hey, I’m an asthmatic already. I can hardly breathe without that stuff.” Just then I had a sudden coughing attack.
“Zat is the fakest cough I’ve ever heard,” she said, just being rude. “Okay. Vat about zis? Vat possible use do you haf for a tousand tablets of ‘Ultra Big’ Androstenediol?”
“I got burned and it’s helping with my skin graft.”
“Show me,” she commanded. I held out my pinky where I’d blistered it on the frying pan last week. “Pfffffft,” she said. And it was a rather contemptuous “pffffft,” I might add.
While all this was going on her cohort was digging around in my closet. “Aha!” he yelled. “Found it! Please explain yourself, Mr. Meister!”
“Yes! This!” He was really worked up.
“It’s just a centrifuge. For blood fractionation. Everybody has one of those. I bleed out a couple pints every few months and then zap it with ultraviolet radiation to treat and prevent colds and flu. It is NOT for performance-enhancing purposes or for re-injecting highly oxygenated red blood cells immediately prior to the Cat 4 45+ CBR at Dominguez Hills on Sundays.”
Whatever you do, don’t waken Mrs. WM
Then disaster struck. The two-gallon pail overflowed and began sloshing onto our lime green shag carpet. “Gott in Himmel!” shouted the schlumpfy Überstormführerin.
The shout awoke Mrs. WM, and if there’s one thing she doesn’t like more than being awoken out of a deep, bone-rattling, foundation cracking midnight snore, it’s awakening to find a giant bucket sloshing warm piss onto the carpet.
Of course since she’s Japanese, she was pretty polite about it. “Why have you urinated into a bucket and poured it on the floor?” she asked me.
I pointed at Schlumpfy and Dumpfy. “They made me.”
“We’re very sorry, Ma’am,” said Dumpfy. “It’s part of the USADA out of competition drug testing protocol that we enforce to ensure a level playing field among arthritic old people who do 45-minute crits three or four times a year in hopes of winning $75 dollars or some free GU or, after three years, getting an upgrade based on participation.”
“Ah,” she answered. “Are these the same elderly people who spend $20,000 on their racing equipment, massages, and clothing in order to perhaps win that $75?”
“Well, uh, yes,” said Schlumpfy.
“So what happens if the playing field isn’t ‘level’ as you put it?”
“It will destroy the grass roots of the sport!” they yelled in unison.
“Ah, I see. You mean once they realize that the game is rigged, the non-doping old people will choose not to spend most of their disposable income on expensive toys they can crash on the weekend, and instead take up healthier, family-compatible pursuits?”
“Well, yes.” They were now doodling their toes in the warm piss.
“And the down side to that is…?” More silence. “Surely you two nice young people have something better to do with your Friday nights?”
Schlumpfy was now holding the bucket, and the overflow was drizzling down onto her shoes. Dumpfy was looking glumly at the four-inch concrete chip he’d chiseled out of my Haynes He-Thong Superbriefs. You could tell the thought of analyzing it wasn’t exactly fun.
“Let me make you a nice hot cup of green tea to go with your warm bucket of piss and that small slab of…of…” she trailed off. “Then you can go back to the lab and analyze your, ah, samples. Not that there’s anything wrong…” she stared in disgust at the underwear and the bucket “…with that.”
The next morning I left to meet up with the Donut Ride and when I passed the dumpster I saw the bucket of urine and the centrifuge. Never heard from USADA again. But I’m going to send them a link to the Home Depot ad I saw for four-gallon buckets.
March 2, 2012 § 4 Comments
It was a fast and vicious NPR. Records broken, strong men reduced to tears, badass biker chicks flipping they elbows in the face of the sausage strokers, Wankmeister riding with the strategy of Custer’s Last Stand, and Pillsbury stomping the dicks off of all comers. A few whiners longed for the good ol’ days of Admiralty, where every twenty yards the pack would stop and let the wankers catch back on, but the sick, the twisted, the depraved, and the downright addled loved every minute of it.
So…here’s who did what!
Bucks–after the turn on the last lap he came up to me with his front wheel just behind mine and said, “See, I’m at the front.” “Like fuck you are, dude, you need another five inches. Your girlfriends used to say that, too.” He jumped out of the saddle, put it in drive, and took a monster pull, cranking all the way up the rise after the turnaround. Nice!
PShon–took a way legit pull westbound on lap one. Big ol’ sprinter boy can pull it and bull it. You listening, Big Steve?
Wehrlissimo–flailed and flogged like a madman, as usual. Multiple minions of the SBW persuasion followed Wehrlissimo’s lead, but a couple were downright wankers. Talk to your troops, general!
Prez–flawlessly attired in black and white Castelli tights with little brown spots near his, um…and a lovely white and black Assos jersey with matching white Assos shoe covers, an integrated white LAS helmet, a pretty white iPod earbud cord stylishly draped into his back pocket, all perfectly coordinated with a matching black and white bicycle frame. Major style point deductions for the blue brakeset (yuck!) and the yellow stripe on the water bottle (gauche!). Additional deductions for taking one solitary pull the entire fucking time and still only pulling 3rd place out of his ass in the sprunt.
John Tomlinson–couple of good rages, pulled away but reeled in. No problem, just went again. And again. Bastard. Ouch!
SBW dude–little SBW Hispanic dude laid down some serious smackdown westbound. Ouch! And eastbound. Ouch!
Kristabel–totally shamed all the sausage strokers. On lap 3 after the turn there was a big lump of sausages and a thin hard line of about seven dudes driving at the front. Kristabel was in eighth wheel, jamming it while most of the mansplainers with all that good advice about gears and training and wattage were cowering on her fucking wheel. Then she held wheel towards the front westbound on the rise where it was fierce and nasty and snot-filled and groaning under the sweat and agony of a hundred flailing limbs. Mansplainers in the rear whimpered and sucked their thumbs, imagining all the technical mansplanations they’d compose for her and post on her Strava file, which would be 4mph faster than theirs. Yo, sausages! She NEVER CAME OFF. And she, like, only weighs 30 pounds. Time for another mansplanation? I don’t think so.
Davy Dawg–lit it up on lap one when I told him about the hookers and blow at the turnaround, then big hoss’d it at the end, but rumor has it he settled for second in the sprunt. **NEWSFLASH** This just in!! Davy Dawg actually took the sprunt for first. FedEx tracking #111111111hookers&blow for overnight victory package.
Beammeup Scotty–this Ironfly dog can pull the fucking sled! Lap three up the hill westbound he crushed it, kept it at maximum effort the entire way, nothing left to come around him after he swung over but a bunch of limp, dirty dishrags. Fuck that hurt.
Pratfall–least fit guy in North America, rides his fucking bike twice a year, was not afraid to feel the pain by taking multiple hurtful hits at the front. Why can’t you other wankers take a page out of his playbook? It’s only pain, wanksters!! No shame in flaming, just don’t cower and quiver like a CPOS.
Pillsbury Raging Red Bull Doughboy–Wike slapped out some good stuff on the bike path, exploded with a huge attack on lap one up the hill, and followed with a rocket launch after the turnaround on lap 2. Took 400 people working together and a bus to reel him in. Ouchies! Coiled like a venomous snake, the Doughboy popped Davy Dawg in the sprunt. Like a gentleman stud, he denied winning. **NEWSFLASH** This just in! Eyewitness accounts confirm that Doughboy did NOT, repeat NOT, win the sprunt. Untrustworthy, unreliable, news source will no longer be paid under the table for last-minute finish result information.
Terrible Teddy–Going with the Green Rock Racing look today, he attacked just before the turn on lap one by swinging way out into the right lane, maybe trying to replicate that move of two weeks ago when he did a u-ey in front of a fast moving, pissed off bitch who almost t-boned him. But you know what? AT LEAST HE SAW THE FRONT.
Hockeystick–last lap on the rise after the light at the turnaround made a major suicidal move by following me and Somo in our trademarked “Flail & Blow” getaway gambit. Note to all wankers: He who follows a Wanky attack is doomed to fail! Hockeystick pulled like a champ, blew like a bad light bulb, but gave it his all, and watched as we got caught, compacted, and incinerated by the group. (Note: Them red shoe covers is ’bout plumb wore out, pardner. For $6.95 you might could get a new pair.)
Backpack Eric–usually, ah, the, um, big backpack thing isn’t an indicator of, uh, cycling seriosity. Unless you’re Backpack Eric, who flails and flogs with his 46-pound rock collection and three-piece suit stuffed into a backpack. Very nice attack up the rise on one of the laps.
*Notes from underground
Gooseman down! Manny G. got picked off by a douchebag in an SUV on the way to NPR, and he’s now strapped down at UCLA with a busted elbow, snorting morphine and getting ready to go under the knife on Friday morning. Major suckage, as the boy was going well and bringing the pain the last few editions of NPR. Heal up, buddy! Email Boneyard Yule for tips on how to rehab an elbow (or spine, shoulder, back, leg, jaw, wrist…contact Prez for rehabbing multiple bruisings of the brain…chat up Stern-O for toof replacements).
Dave L. busted up on the Switchbacks! Possible tire failure on the Switchbacks downhill into the fast turn sent Dave off his bike at speed and into the ditch and then into the hospital with a broken hip, broken collarbone, broken ribs, and broken shoulder. You can’t use the word “fortunately” in a case like this, but fortunately he didn’t go into the opposite lane, didn’t have a head injury, and none of his buddies went down with him. Heal up!
G3 in jet coolant phase! In response to my inquiry re: G3’s attendance at Thursday’s NPR, I was advised that this is a “rest week,” hence his absence from the flailfest. The use of this phrase can only mean one thing…he’s training with Elron!! Which means, a la Roadchamp, G$, and others who have enrolled in Elron’s School of Pud Knocks, that G3 will soon be translating his tremendous ability and little orange fuzzy thing into huge RR wins.
Roadchamp post-REMR sighting!! Spied our hero returning from the REMR at 7:59 sharp, looking lean and dapper and fierce and fast, as usual. Oh, Little Town of Painlehem a/k/a San Dimas SR, coming up.
March 1, 2012 § 14 Comments
Well, it has been a fun 114 posts in the blogosphere, but apparently success has caught up with me. I applied for the job as managing editor at VeloNews.com in Boulder, Colorado, and was hired as of this morning. One condition of my new gig is that I can’t blog any more independently. This blog has received over sixteen million hits since it began little more than a year ago. What a tribute from the handful of slackers who check over and over to see if they’ve been mentioned, and whose places of employment don’t yet have SonicFirewall.
I thought it might be interesting for my half-dozen or so readers to see my job application and how I completed it as a sort of future reference, as the job will likely be vacant again soon.
- The requirement: Velo Magazine is seeking a managing editor. This is a full-time, salaried position with benefits, available immediately, based in Boulder, Colorado. My response: Sign me up but I gotta stay here in SoCal, dood. Can you move your offices and stuff out here? Boulder’s a shithole. Who wants to live in a place named after a rock? I mean Im sure its nice and all.
- The requirement: Candidates must have well-established experience in writing, editing, formatting and timely project management, as well as a firm understanding of all aspects of the sport of professional cycling — road, mountain, cyclocross and track. My response: I’m a gud ritter and spelchekker and got the biking shit down, bro. And here’s what I know, yo: Road is for MEN, mountain is for PUSSIES, ‘cross (not “cyclocross,” ya dooshheads) is for HARDMEN, track aint a sport unless you mean NASCAR and Im all over that shit.
- The requirement: Working closely with the editor-in-chief, the managing editor is responsible for the coordination, organization, control and completion of all aspects of editorial production, from raw material to finished publication, by maintaining effective communication among the editorial, design, production and ad sales departments. My response: Nobody fukkin tells me what to do.
- The requirement: Minimum skills required include a B.A. or advanced degree in journalism or related field, or equivalent work experience and working knowledge of Word, Excel and InCopy. My response: “Journalism” aint no fukkin “field” its a job description for dooshheads who want free swag in exchange for bullshit stories. I’m all in, dood. I am very nollegible about Words. Plus I Excel to. I can do everything In Copies if you show me how to work the fukkin machine but dont I get a couple hot secretaries for that shit?
- The requirement: Essential skills include project management, attention to detail, communication, creativity, people skills, multitasking and decision making, all within a deadline-driven environment. My response: Yah, detail shit, that’s me, cross every fukkin i and dot ever fukkin t you ever saw. Communication? Fuckin-a I will tell it like it is. Creativity, check. I can make shit up like nobodys busness. People skilz: chicks dig me, for sure. Multiasking? I can ask for all kinds of shit–“gimme another fuckin beer now”–cool huh? Decision making–fuckin’ a I am The Decider type guy. Beer or wine? Fukkin-a beer every time, DECIDED. Deadlines, check. They dont call me Ol’ Giterdone for nothin.
- The requirement: In addition, the ideal candidate is intimately familiar with major cycling acronyms/abbreviations. My response: What is this fukkin spel test or a mans job? UCI (United Cigarettes International), USAC (Underwater Society of Ass Kikkers), ASO (You need an ‘l’ in there, dooshheads, its a word, ‘also,’ duh), WADA (thats what you blow, dude, gross, this better not be some porn gig), NCCA (National Cigarette Checkers Assn), IMBA (In My Badass Apinion), HRM (Hot Rod Magazine), LBS (Lance & Betsy Showdown), TT (Tough Titty), KPH (I dont know this one, happy with your little bitch ‘gotcha’ crap now?), OTB (Oklahoma Turd Blossom), JRA (Jerks, Rags & Assholes), and, of course, DFL (Dont Forget the Lube).
- The requirement: The ideal candidate will be able to spell names like Frischknecht, Maaskant and Vinokourov from memory. My response: Why the fukk I gotta remembeer it if you just speled it for me?
- The requirement: The ideal candidate can list off every winner of the last 20 Tours de France. My response: What in the fukk are you talking about?
- The requirement: The ideal candidate is able to fix a flat tire in under 10 minutes, using only tire levers and a mini-pump. My response: The ideal chick is a 10 stripper who owns a liquor store and turns into a pizza at midnight, but good luck with that shit, too.
- The requirement: One last thing — a sense of humor always helps. My response: If I wnated to work with a bunch of fukkin clowns Id join the fukkin zoo.