Itty bitty pity party
November 22, 2015 § 70 Comments
From the tires:
We had been in the box for like a year. Are we ever getting out of this stupid closet? Then the light comes on and woooosh–uncoiled! So rad! And he stretches us out and pops us on the rim, oh baby that felt sooooo gooood! So we were like, “Hey rims!” and they were like, “Oh, you’re the new guys, huh? Hope you last longer than the last ones.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” we asked because we were nervous. “You’ll see, just don’t fuck it up.” We were stoked to be on these rims they were 100% carbon and made of full carbon, FastForward F4R’s, bitchin’! He aired us up and stuck in new tubes, so rad!
Then a couple of hours later we’re on the road! Contact patch! Felt soooo gooood! Then the full carbon frame was like, “Easy on the hairpin, you idiots go flat you’ll get aired up again, but I snap,” and we were like “We got this!” Sooo awesome! Whoooosh! We are the rubber that meets the road then we hit the hairpin and oh shit holy shit no way not our first day aw fuck and now we’re in the air which by the way is NOT where tires do their best work and he’s on the ground spewing blood and the rims are screaming and the frame is hollering and the derailleur is ground off and next thing you know we’re stuffed into the back of a car and he’s hauled off in an ambulance and we’re unloaded into the living room and everyone is PISSED. The rims are like, “You had one job, assholes,” and the frame won’t even talk to us. Then the rims are like, “Hope you like the dumpster and the junkheap, assholes, because he’s never going to ride 23’s again. At least the German guys never slid out.”
Now nobody will even talk to us. Will he really ditch us after one ride? We’re really scared. What if we wind up on that guy Cobley’s rims?
From the rims:
I knew it was gonna be bad. First off he puts a 23mm French dude on the back. He never uses 23’s. Then he puts a fuggin’ 25mm on the front. Who does that? I’ll tell you who, someone scrounging around in the closet for leftover tires who isn’t paying attention, that’s who. Match the tires for dogsake. And if you’re not gonna match ’em, put the skinny one up front and the fat one behind. Any idiot knows that, even him. We tried to tell him but he’s so busy not prying his thumbnails off with the tire lever he doesn’t listen.
Then we talk to the new guys, who are French. I got no problem with French people but they were so fuggin’ cocky and my French isn’t that good. I told ’em that there was $10k of real equipment riding on a hundred bucks of rubber, so be careful, especially your first day out. I told ’em not to try anything trick until the silicone coating from the factory has had a chance to wear off but they wouldn’t listen. No one ever listens to the rims, even though we see everything.
Plus I told them he’s very aggressive on the first hairpin so be ready. Just be fuggin’ ready. But nope. They sailed into it full bore. We all knew what was coming it was just a matter of how bad was it gonna hurt and would we all wind up at Predator Carbon Repair. But we really felt sorry for the rear derailleur because it was a right hander. Him and the right bar end and the right shifter were gonna get shredded. And they did. And who gets off scot-free? The tires, of course. The stupid cocky French tires.
From the groin:
I don’t pay any attention to the whole bike thing. I’m a muscle/ligament devoted to standing and ambulation and the whole bike thing is frankly stupid. Now if I were a collarbone I’d be a nervous wreck. I don’t know how those guys stand the stress. Every single day they are on the front line, and all it takes is a stick or a crack in the road or Joe Yule and bam you are in surgery with pins and bolts and knives and a catheter.
Or a hip. They have it worse. No flesh covering, they’re the first ones to hit the ground and when they break it’s nasty, not to mention elbows. Have you ever seen his elbows or his skin? Yeccccch. But me? Dude, I’ve got it pretty good. If you’re a groin and you get hurt on a bicycle you are doing it wrong.
So we’re sailing down VdM like we always do and the collarbones are whining “Back it off” like they always do and the hips are saying, “Brake a bit, dummy,” like they always do, and everyone’s all nervous while he acts like he’s the Master of the Universe zooming into that hairpin so leaned he could practically drag a knee but we’ve got these new French dudes down below and they don’t give a single fuck until they start sliding then we’re all airborne, but I frankly am not worried. Sucks to be them, maybe now he’ll think about golf. Then “Wham!” we hit and whoa! Right leg is latched in the pedal and left leg drags behind the bike and oh my dog I start to stretch and I’m like, “Hey, what the hell is THIS?” then I keep stretching and then tearing as he does the splits and suddenly I’m unconscious.
The next thing I remember this cute doctor is looking at his nuts and poking me. Are they going to splint the banana? What the hell do they even do for me? A groin sling? It hurts like hell. They stick a needle in his ass “This will relieve the pain” they say and it still hurts like hell. I’m like “Why is the ass getting the shot? It doesn’t even hurt.”
Everyone’s all happy, of course, “Glad nothing’s broken!” and shit like that and all I can think is, “Wait until you try to stand up and walk, you bastard. I may hang out around the sweaty nuts and the bruised banana and I may not pedal a bike but when it comes to walking, you’re gonna find out who’s boss.”
And he does, the big baby. He starts moaning and whining like a little girl and they have to put him in a fuggin’ wheelchair and then back home he hobbles around on crutches, every step I jab him so hard he breaks out in a sweat and pants. You ought to see him hobbling around like he’s got a four foot stick up his butt. So lame. I don’t even glance over at the stupid bike and tires, sitting in the corner all dejected. Serves them right.
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