Laboring day

September 5, 2016 § 25 Comments

My off season started in earnest on Tuesday, so I didn’t ride on Wednesday, Thursday, or even Friday. On Saturday I went down with some L.A. riders to San Diego, where they got a taste of what they call “fun” in North County.

I rode my bike to a few coffee shops but that was it, and in preparation for the San Diego trip I took off my cameras and lights and removed my tool box thingy that fits in the rear water bottle cage. I set it on the top of the cheap Ikea storage thing next to the bed, where I keep my bicycle tool.

On Sunday night, the last day of my off season, I began reassembling my bike for the Holiday Ride 18-minute beatdown. After bolting on all the cameras and strapping on the lights and filling up the water bottle I went to put the tool kit thingy in the bottle cage, but it was gone.

My apartment is pretty small and I don’t own much stuff so it was easy to search it from top to bottom. Nothing. We couldn’t even blame it on the grandbaby because it was too high for him to reach and too big to hold. We tried anyway. Nothing.

I did the Holiday Ride certain that I would have a flat because even though it’s been a year since my last puncture, we all know that the one time a flat is guaranteed is the time you don’t have a spare. Luckily, I didn’t flat, but Special Ops did. He blew out his entire tire. He’s a good friend and we had ridden out together, so I abandoned him immediately.

I felt a little guilty about it until EA Sports, Inc. helped me out. “Do the math, Wanky. Former Special Ops. Flats bicycle in city of 10 million people. Bike shop five minutes away. Has phone. Has money. Knows the natives and even speaks their dialect. I think he’s gonna survive.”

After the ride I tore up the apartment some more but no toolkit thingy. So I made an inventory of the important stuff and started thinking about replacing it.

  1. Tube with a stem that is too short for the rim.
  2. Multi-tool which I don’t know how to use but maybe someone in need someday will.
  3. Old CO2 inflation head that doesn’t work.
  4. Empty CO2 cartridge.
  5. Flimsy plastic tire lever.
  6. Boot.
  7. 10% discount coffee card at Peet’s.

Obviously the only thing that mattered was the coffee card.

The first bike shop I went to was closed. Then I went to Sprocket Cycles on PCH, which is owned by Paul Che. Paul has built a thriving business out of nothing in what has to be the world’s toughest market, the local bike shop.

They were open and fully staffed with three people. In a matter of minutes they had loaded me up with everything I needed, including a fancy pair of screw-in handlebar plugs to replace the ones that kept falling out.

Was it more expensive than if I’d bought it all on the Internet? I don’t know and don’t care. What I know is that they were there with great service and good products at a time when they were needed. Keep that in mind the next time you buy online. You may (or may not) save a couple of bucks, but Mr. Internet won’t be there on Labor Day to make sure you’re back on the road by Tuesday.




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10 ways to get worse on a bike

August 31, 2016 § 22 Comments

There is a whole industry devoted to making you a better cyclist. Whether it’s coaching, tips from Bicycling Magazine, or tech web sites that tell you which component has how many extra milligrams of weight, everyone knows how to make you better.

Yet, you aren’t.

This is mostly because although there a billion ways to improve, the marginal gains for any one item are minuscule and the mental effort to do any one of them consistently is harder than doing five push-ups every morning. Sure, everyone knows that five push-ups only take a few seconds. So? The day I start my morning off with a push-up is the day I start my morning with a bullet in the forehead. My day begins with coffee, period, so GTF out of my way.

Unlike improvement tips, deprovement tips number only ten, and each one of them has a catastrophic effect on riding, and chances are you do most of them. If you never did a single improvement tip and cut out a mere one or two deprovement items, you’d probably win the Tour.

Here they are:

  1. Diets. Please stop dieting now. It doesn’t work. If you’re really overweight, dropping a few pounds might make you go faster, but you’ll be so weak and cranky and angry and hair-trigger-ready-to-kill (otherwise known as “hungry”) that you won’t be on your bike. You’ll be roaming the sample aisles at Costco with lust in your heart and there’s no fitness to be found there.
  2. Equipment. With the exception of carbon, the more bike stuff you have, the worse you ride. Take Shirtless Keith. He owns one old, rusted-out hybrid bike with fat tires. He has one chain ring (a 55). He rides in work boots. HE STILL STOMPS THE SHIT OUT OF 84.2% OF THE PEOPLE ON THE DONUT RIDE.
  3. Race clothing. Race clothing is aero but it shows your multiple tummy rolls and pinches tender places, which makes you not want to ride. You are never going to get better not riding.
  4. Riding. If you have to choose between riding and not riding, always choose the latter. Riding a lot will initially make you a better cyclist, then it will make you broke, then it will give you a weird physique, and finally you will only know people who talk about bicycle topics = LIFE FAIL. One day you’ll wake up and go, “This is dumb,” and quit riding completely, which will in turn really make you a bad rider. So mostly don’t ride if you want to ride better. Knoll rides to the guitar shop to pick up new strings once every six weeks and he does just fine, thank you.
  5. Coaches.
  6. Cyclocross. Do you know why they wear face masks and stuff when sparring? It’s to prevent getting beaten to shit so badly in practice that you can’t do the actual fight. Cyclocross is like sparring with brass knuckles and no protective gear. It will first make you tough, then unconscious, then a tube-feeder.
  7. Group rides. These are fun. So is heroin. Neither is banned by USADA because neither one makes you any good.
  8. Anything that comes in a big plastic tub. Magical elixirs that replace crucial fill-in-the-blanks operate on the proven scientific principle that there’s one born every minute.
  9. Crossfit, running, weights, stairs, anything that requires a membership or is trademarked. If you want to improve, get out there and ride your bike a little, then treat yourself to a Twinkie. Ignore everything else.
  10. Bed. That place you lie in? It’s killing your performance gains.
  11. Internet cycling blogs. If any of those clowns knew anything worth knowing, they wouldn’t be giving it away for free.



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Lighten up, dummy

August 28, 2016 § 48 Comments

Dear Wife of Cyclist:

Your husband is a dummy. Not a bleeding idiot or a complete maroon, but a dummy. That’s actually a good thing because dummy is repairable. Dummy can be taught. To be sure, he can’t be taught much, but a few simple tricks are within his feeble mental range.

And this trick will keep him alive.

Wife, I’m writing you because he has read this lecture a bunch of times but it hasn’t sunk in because after scanning the first couple of paragraphs and seeing that he’s not mentioned, he goes back to This inability to focus is related to that thick layer of concrete surrounding the somewhat smooth cerebral cortex which in turn covers his pea-sized brain.

Wife, here’s what happened yesterday, and it’s the same thing that happens every day. I showed up for a bike ride and I was the only one with headlights and taillights. That probably doesn’t mean a lot to you because it was, you know, daytime, and we know that no one ever gets hit during the day.

But consider this: Among the countless cyclists I’ve represented for being hit by cars, only two were ever hit while Christmas treed. That’s right. Except for two people, all the others were hit while riding without lights.

That’s an ersatz stat, I know. Personal experience. Anecdotal. But it is common knowledge that most bikers get hit because the cager doesn’t see them. And you know what? It’s a lot easier to be seen when you’re riding a Christmas tree. Please don’t send me links to lit-up riders who’ve been hit and killed. This is a question of probability. Just like you’re more likely to smash into something when drunk, you’re more likely to get creamed when the cager doesn’t see you until the last second, i.e. the moment your head is coming through the windshield.

If your hubby drank a fifth of bourbon and then asked for his car keys, would you let him drive? If he loaded his 2nd Amendment Accident Device and suggested that the family sit down for a fun game of Russian roulette, would you agree?

But that’s what happens on practically every ride I’m on. Your husband shows up without lights. What’s worse, he gives me shit for having them.

What’s worsty-worst, when pressed he admits he actually owns lights!

“I use them when I ride to work,” he proudly but stupidly says.

“I use them when it’s dark,” he explains, even though he only rides during the day and even though he ignores the fact that dusk and dawn are notoriously dangerous times to be cycling.

Why is your husband such a dummy? It’s simple. He doesn’t ride with lights at all times for these reasons:

  1. He is cheap. He’d rather buy $2,000 wheels for the races he’s never going to do than spend $500 on something that will keep him unmaimed, alive, and able to waste the day watching football.
  2. He is lazy. Lights require charging. He can barely keep gas in the car. How’s a dummy like that supposed to keep a front AND back light powered for bike rides? He’s almost always late to the ride anyway, scurrying around like a crazy person trying to find the other matching armwarmer and skidmark-free chamois.
  3. He is a sheep. The people he admires and fears don’t ride Christmas trees. Why should he?
  4. He is an aero nut. Lights aren’t aero.
  5. He is a weight weenie. Lights add precious grams and he’s already pouring out his water bottles at the base of all the climbs.
  6. He is vain and lights look goofy. (Remind him that feeding tubes and wheelchairs are even less fashionable.)
  7. He is a dummy. Dummies would always rather pay a lot more later than a little bit now.

Wife, can you help me in this endeavor? Before Dummy leaves the house can you please say, “Hey, Dummy, where are your lights?”

When he retorts with “It’s daytime,” tell him to either lighten up or he’s not going.

Better yet, the night before can you please say, “Hey, Dummy, are your lights charged?”

Best, can you please put your foot down and refuse to let him out the door unlit? He may be smelly, talk too much about bikes, be inconsiderate, drink a bit too much, be occasionally impecunious, etc., but he’s your dummy and he deserves to live. More importantly, you deserve to not have to spend the next year rehabbing him out of a fucking wheelchair and teaching him how to walk again and not having to carry his turds out of the bedroom on a tray.

In the event that he really doesn’t own any lights, make the next birthday the equivalent of receiving socks and a tie. Buy for him:

  1. The Diablo headlight, made by Exposure.
  2. The Serfas Orion taillight, made by Serfas.

Lights work, honey. So help a brother out, willya?



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Performance enhancing equipment

August 3, 2016 § 25 Comments

Or “PEE” as I like to call it.

A couple of months ago I ordered the new SRAM electric wireless shifter thingies from my ace mechanic, Boozy P. One day he called. “Yo, Wanky, you still want that stuff?”

“Bring it,” I said. “It’s about time for me to crack the top 10 out at Telo, and what’s a couple grand if it guarantees me a placing or two?”

A week later there was a family car crisis which led to the purchase of a Chevy Volt. It was the most awesome car in the world for seven days, but after one full week of flawlessness it quit working and it’s been in the shop ever since. “Part’s on back order,” Service Dude said.

That was July 18.

So I called Boozy P. “Dude,” I said, “I bought a new broken Chevy Volt and we have some financial issues and I have to choose between the SRAM electrothingies or food.”

He waited, wondering what the problem was. “Yeah?”

“So I’m going to have to pass on that stuff I ordered unless it puts you in a bind, in which case I’ll take it and lose that last 35 pounds.”

“Nah,” he said, “I can return it; actually I got a great deal and several people have been asking about it. No worries.”

Shortly thereafter I got 2nd or 3rd in the Great Disputed Telo Training Crit Finish Controversy of 2016, which is the best I’ve ever done there in eight years but who’s counting? About that time Boozy P. stopped answering my phone calls and texts which was disturbing because he’s super responsive. Unbeknownst to me he had taken a five-day trip to the Sierras, going up to 12,000 feet with nothing but beer to sustain him.

I had no idea he’d gone Jeremiah Johnson on me. I thought he was mad because I’d crawfished on the PEE or perhaps somehow because of the Great Disputed Telo Training Crit Finish Controversy of 2016 in which I got 2nd or 3rd, the best I’ve ever done in eight years but who’s counting?

I interrupted Manslaughter’s vacation in Hawai’i to see if he could intervene. “Boozy P. isn’t mad,” Manslaughter assured me. “He’s never mad. Take a Xanax.”

Then I called EA Sports, Inc., who was excited to hear from me but not that excited. “Dude, it’s 2:00 AM and you woke up the whole family. What’s up?” I told him the sad story about how I’d crawfished on the PEE and Boozy was not taking my calls or texts because of the Great Disputed Telo Training Crit Finish Controversy of 2016 in which I got 2nd or 3rd, the best I’ve ever done in eight years but who’s counting?

EA Sports, Inc. advised me to get some sleep. “Boozy probably dropped his phone in the toilet. He’ll get back to you once he gets a new one.”

Finally I called Dawg. “Don’t ever call me at 3:00 AM again,” he said. “Even if you’re in jail. Especially if you’re in jail.” He hung up and I didn’t even get a chance to tell him about how I’d crawfished on the PEE and how maybe Boozy wasn’t taking my calls or texts because of the Great Disputed Telo Training Crit Finish Controversy of 2016 in which I got 2nd or 3rd, the best I’ve ever done in eight years but who’s counting?

After I’d given up all hope, Boozy P. returned from the Sierras. “Yo, Wanky,” he said. “I saw you called me 473 times and left a thousand text messages. What’s up?”

I went over to the shop and apologized for crawfishing and for the 2nd or 3rd Place Controversy (my best Telo finish ever, btw). “No worries,” he said. “You still want the SRAM wireless? I was going to take it back today.”

I thought about the Chevy Volt which was still in the shop at Martin Chevrolet and how the part was on back order indefinitely although they’d promised to speak with the subcontractor factory in Vietnam to find out when the part might be manufactured and how Mrs. WM was going to kill me when she found out I’d bought something that I couldn’t even explain what it was or what it did. That’s when I looked at the SRAM electrothingy box.


“You know,” I said, “my PEE has been grossly exceeding my dedication since I swapped a SunTour derailleur, Sugino cranks, and Dia-Compe brakes for Campy Super Record back in 1984. And I can’t possibly afford it but that box is so sweet so yeah, put that shit on.”

For all you tech heads out there, the first key performance difference between SRAM electrothingy and Dura-Ace mechanical is overwhelming, dominating, extraordinary beyond words: The second you post a picture of the cool boxes on Facegag, it breaks your fuggin’ timeline.

If you’ve always been in the running for awesome Facebag posts but have never been able to crack the podium, SRAM electro is the real deal. You gain, on average, 150 extra likes, 50-ish smiley faces, and envious posts from Ol’ Grizzles that don’t even mention guns or how our great nation was built on easy access to suicide and firearm accidents in the home.

The SRAM electro interfaces incredibly well with FB and is easily uploaded to your timeline, where it simply outperforms any other PEE, even wheelsets that are full carbon with extra carbon and photos of Charon. I’ll admit that it’s a costly Facebag upgrade but it’s worth it for the hour or two that you eclipse all of the stories about Trump until he beats up another squalling infant, calls the mother of a dead soldier a fat cow, or urinates on a TV interviewer.

When I actually got to ride the new electrothingy stuff, it was better than watching the ads in my timeline that said “Batshit Crazy Republicans So Fucking Terrified of Trump That We’re Voting for Hillary.”

Less importantly, I also got to use the electrothingies while actually riding, and got to test the PEE out at Telo last night, which kind of broke the rule of “Never try new stuff out for the first time on race day.” After 50 minutes of an amazingly brutal race, Headdown James attacked for the 25th time into the wind after Dawg had brought the break to within view. Everyone was screaming friendly advice to me.

“Pull through, you bastard!”

“You fucker!”

“You wheelsucking piece of shit!”

“Damn you, Wanky, you asshole, pull through!”

However, in addition to being really tired I am a really bad person, so I hunkered down until Headdown James launched. He is really tiny and accelerates like a gnat but I managed to latch on. He glanced back and saw that it was Sir Deadweight. He knew better than to flick his elbow, and not just because Heavy D., who was up the road in the break, had admonished me the week before.

“What is wrong with you, you nut?” he had asked.

“What do you mean?” I fake answered.

“You chased me down ten times during the race!”

“I did?” I fake said.

“Hell yes, you did. Every time I looked back you were driving the front with ten guys on your wheel!”

“Really?” I fake said. “I thought I was bridging,” I fake excusified.

“You were, with everyone else. Please don’t do that next week. It’s bad racing and bad etiquette. I’m your teammate, dude.”

“I won’t,” I fake promised. Heavy D. didn’t know that I love nothing more than chasing teammates. It’s not out of hostility, it’s because I like them and want to BE with them and if they’re up the road the only way I can be with them is to chase.

However, with my new PEE I had sworn not to chase and I didn’t. Headdown James rode like a demon and got us to the break. I was so tired and happy to see my friends that I cried. Heavy D. had been monitoring the situation and knew that I hadn’t dragged up the field. “Good work, Wanky,” he said. “For once.”

Out of the six-man break I put in an amazing effort and convincingly beat everyone in the chase group for an impressive 6th, which was three or four placings less than the 2nd or 3rd I’d gotten the week before in the Great Controversy when I was using the D/A mechanical.

“How’d you like it?” asked Boozy P. after the race, who had gotten second and scorched me on a bike and components that had, frankly, zero Facegag performance edge.

“Its Facebag game is strong,” I said. “But its on-the-road performance hasn’t translated into a Wanky training crit victory yet.” I watched as Emily pulled on the winner’s tunic, an awesome StageOne production given to the women’s weekly winner at Telo.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe you need some new wheels?”

My stomach rumbled as I thought about facing the next couple of weeks eating nothing but water washed down with H20. “You’re right.”



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The Atheist Training Bible for Old Bicycle Racers, Chapter 18: Let’s all learn Chinese!

June 27, 2016 § 20 Comments

Old bicycle racers focus a lot on their physical fitness but don’t pay as much attention to their mental faculties, which decline even faster with consequences even more dire than losing the 55-50 KOM for 225-lb-and-over on the Garbage Can Alley .01 Mile Segment.

Here is a quick test to see if your mind is rotting due to senility:

  1. You often forget things you’ve just read. T/F
  2. You often forget things you’ve just read. T/F

If you answered true, you have memory loss.

Rather than going out and doing a bunch of hill repeats, the best thing to beef up your soggy neurons are brain intervals. What is a brain interval? It is something devilishly, fiendishly difficult that will leave you gasping for air after a mere 2-4 minutes of effort.

The important thing is that you select something you used to be good at rather than something that you always wanted to try but never did. For example, when you are an old dude and you take up math, even though you were always horrible at math, you will quickly give up. So even though the fierce brain interval caused by trying to, say, add up five numbers in a column, will cause a great increase in brain sharpness, you’ll quickly give up by day three and be back to the same old, same old.

If you were one of those people who liked to study foreign languages when you were young back in the 1920’s, my advice is that you study Chinese. Now, a couple of qualifiers: If you’re already Chinese, this won’t help. Also, if you’re not already Chinese and you try to learn Chinese, you’ll sound like a complete fool no matter how many years you study it.

This is because Chinese has tones that completely change a word’s meaning. Problem is, you can’t hear the tones. Only Chinese people can. And while you’re sitting there smiling into your video cam while you do your online lesson with a cute teacher in Shanghai, and you think you’re saying, “I ate a hamburger last night,” because you got the tones all garfed up you’re actually saying, “I licked the dog’s butt last night.”

You’ll never know that, of course, because your teacher is very polite and she doesn’t give two hoots whether you ever learn Chinese or not as long as you keep paying the monthly lesson fee.

Still, even though you will never learn Chinese, it is so terribly hard that you will spend the rest of your life struggling with it and making practically zero progress, so it’s a lot like bike racing. Plus, each time you memorize a kanji (even though you forget it the next day), it will build approximate 200 new synapses. Example: Memorizing the characters 互聯網圖片is the neurological equivalent of growing three new brains.

Perhaps you don’t want to learn Chinese and figure that instead of three new brains you’d be happy learning Spanish, or Russian, or Igbo, and only getting the equivalent of one new brain’s worth of synapses. Regardless, you should visit, a language learning web site that offers instruction for pretty much any language in the world by native speakers at incredibly cheap rates. Its tag line is “Become fluent in any language!” which is of course a complete lie. You can also use the web site to do a free language exchange (these never work, by the way), where you swap a half-hour of conversation with an English learner who already speaks English better than you do, for a half-hour of murdering your target language with the fluency of a cat.

Check it out. You’ll soon be chattering away, and even though no one will understand you, you’ll be synapse-rich and doing crossword puzzles backwards while your bike racing compadres are drooling in the Alzheimer’s ward. If they aren’t already.



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Who’s the flaccidest of them all?

June 12, 2016 § 23 Comments

Tomorrow there is a championship bicycle race for old flaccid fellows with leaky prostates and I intend to win it.

Please advise the promoter that I wear a size small champion’s jersey.

Before you roll your eyes so far up into your head that the optic nerve shows, consider that this is a detailed victory plan built upon the three B’s: Wax, Wheels, and Bread.

Prior to assembling the perfect game plan I carefully analyzed my results on the CBR Flaccid Fellows race course over the last few years:

2016: 2nd
2015: 4th, 3rd
2014: 4th
2013: 3rd

We will ignore for a moment that those are the cherry-picked results from the ten thousand times I’ve done this race. What we will not ignore is that of all the racing I’ve done, this is the only one with even the faintest, remotest tint of possibility with regard to a win. In other words, it may be completely hopeless, but it’s infinitely less hopeless than winning UCLA Punchbowl for example, where my results have been 38th, 24th, 29th, DNF, 15th, DNF, and 32nd.

Having run the statistical analysis and concluded that tomorrow is unquestionably my day to win, a number of problems presented themselves, in order of importance:

  1. Why are you such a delusional old fool?
  2. How are going to beat Bart Clifford?
  3. How are you going to beat Craig Miller?
  4. How are you going to beat Ted Rupp?
  5. How are you going to beat James Wiznura?
  6. How are you going to beat Marvin Hall?
  7. How are you going to beat Kenny Rogers?
  8. How are you going to beat Steve Gregorios?
  9. You are going to beat Anthony Reguero.
  10. How are you going to beat Josh Gruenberg?
  11. How are you going to beat all the other people you’ve never beaten before who will be in the race and who will be primed and ready for the kill?

Fortunately, my battle plan effectively resolves each of the above problems with scientific efficiency by applying the three B’s: Wax, Wheels, and Bread.

The first B, of course, is Wend Wax. By proper application of this space age technology which dates back to the  Qin Dynasty, 221–206 BC, which was actually several years before carbon frames and wireless shifting, I am able to ensure that my bike gains an estimated 2,305 gigawatts in power at the decisive moment in the race.

Unfortunately for No. 1-11 above, it’s too late for them to get a Brazilian chain wax job before tomorrow as I ordered three containers of all existing Wend product and they won’t have more until Monday. Sucks to be you, suckahs.


Note the ultra-boss podium hat I will be wearing on the top step of the podium as I look down in pity on Bart, Brett, Craig, and the other unhappy wankers who will be gnawing their livers in angry defeat while spouses and small children cry in disappointment.

The first step in plan B is of course to properly prep the surgical field, a trick I learned from Dr. Sherri Foxworthy, an expert in prepped fields. With the Qin Dynasty Wend chain cleaner-upper I carefully remove all unsightly hairs along the bikini line as follows:


Old bikini hair removal with Wend Wax-Off is critical to maximal smoothness of chain penetrating into hot maw of spinning gear teeth.

Next I sealed the victory deal with careful application of the roll-on waxy stick which ensures crisp shifting, minimal friction between the chain and the toothy thingies, and also smells good and you should slap on a roll or two under your arms when you’re teeing up for that special first date with Ms. Swipe Left.


Comes in three refreshing scents: Hunky Surfer, Studly Tall Man in 3-Piece Suit Who Opens Doors for Ladies, and Mouth Foaming Aged Bike Racer.

Now that I’m all waxed up and feeling smooth and sexy and happily well-scented in prepration for being on the top step, even though I WON’T be raising my arms like some clown on a trampoline, it’s time for the second B: Wheels.

Nothing is more critical to my race plan than the lethal acceleration of the FastForward F2R Wheelset Unpaid Advertorial Except for Those Two Pairs of Free Bib Shorts ($500 retail value, thanks JD). The FFWD F2R wheel is simply the finest 100% carbon full carbon wheel that accelerates very fast in a forward kind of way. It is highly superior to the Mercury/Zipp/Enve/Mavic Fast Backward models, which are made of only 99.999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999% not-quite-full carbon and have been laboratory and wind tunnel tested to deliver more speed when going in reverse but less speed than FFWD when traveling forward. So ask yourself: “Would I rather go fast backward or fast forward?” Duh.


Sexy FastForward Wheelbag which doubles as a Cat 2 apartment bag. Baby swimmy pool thing and potted dwarf stone pine we use every Christmas because I’m too cheap to buy a tree not included.

While Problem Numbers 1-11 will all be using a deeper profile 99.999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999% not-quite-full carbon wheelset, the F2R will prove decisive in my victory bid because although slightly less aero than the deeper dish wheelsets, the unbearable lightness of being compared to heavier wheels allows for much quicker acceleration out of the turns, and more importantly, when I make my winning move which is designed to break the others with my tremendous power.

FFWD F2R, in addition to lots of capital letters, comes with an ass-kicking thing that lets you put air in and let air out to your desired specifications. And no, don’t bother asking my ace mechanic Boozy P. to glue on your fuggin’ tubulars. He’s busy today if you’re in my race.


These things are sick light; racers start your hidden seat tube engines ’cause your gonna fuggin’ need ’em when these F2R’s start to roll.

The final part of my victory Plan B trifecta is of course bread, and that means none other than Mrs. WM’s homemade staff of life, hot out of the oven, finished on a cooling board, and slathered in heaps of soft butter the mere sight of which will cause Surfer Dan and MMX to break out into a cold sweat.

By carbo and fat and yeast loading on a full loaf of Mrs. WM’s wonder bread and a full stick of butter my muscles and tummy will be supercharged with the power needed to unleash my tremendous power just as everyone else gets flabby, flaccid, and weak at the knees, while at the same time the extra bread power will go straight to my brain and unlock amazing powers of on-the-fly race analysis and canny strategic placement that guarantees victory.


No, you can’t have any. Yes, I’ll have two buttered slices in my water bottle.

The fourth and final prong of my Three B’s plan is of course “Speedsuit.” Each race, people get more and more envious of my StageOne speedsuit with its speedy dimples and its cool product placement of sponsor names like Beachbody Performance, which supplies me with excellent recovery chocolate milk that I can drink after races to recover from the bread and butter. With its speedy look, form fitting clingy-ness and slinky girlish fit just above my hairy and bony knees this outfit adds a dozen watts to any effort and doubles as gorgeous evening attire for any kinky party with leather-clad people who have names like Chester, Malvolio, Sir Pain, and Prissy Bitchyface.


When you click on the Beachbody link, ignore the hairy ape in the Borat uni-thong. No matter how much recovery drink you consume, you won’t turn into him.



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Five products

June 8, 2016 § 16 Comments

The Dr. Wanky product recommendation committee recommends you purchase the following products immediately, except for the one you shouldn’t buy just yet.

  1. Wend Wax: Rating: 12 stars out of 3. Source: Given to me for free at no cost gratuitously by the company. Possibility of biased review: 100%. Reason for rating: If you love nasty, filthy, sticky, greasy lumps of shit on your chain, hands, face, calves (Scott Dickson called them “turkey marks”), and if you like big black swathes of nasty, unremovable smears throughout your tiny apartment and on your underwear and under your nails and all over your brand new white brake hoods, you don’t need Wend Wax and should stick with lubricants that make your life a living hell and that make everyone think you live in a tar pit. However, after many months of racing, training, and blogging, nothing can compare to the easy-on, easy-off, super lubicity of Wend Wax. You put it on just like armpit de-stink; comes in a roll-up container and goes right on your chain and never on your calf. Your chain will shift in silence, drawing attention to your painful, labored breathing. Super-bonus: The person in charge of your laundry and hair and nostrils and ear-holes will love you.
  2. FFWD wheels: Rating: 12 stars out of 3. Source: I paid for these bastards; got a discount because of extended begging, but they still cost me real cash. Possibility of biased review: 100%. Reason for rating: How much do I like these wheels? So much that I bought two more (sets, not individual wheels. Even I don’t ride around with three bike wheels). We can simply start out with the only thing that matters. These carbon wheels are full carbon and made of 100% carbon, plus they are made by Dutch people in Holland, where carbon is fully 100% at all times. These carbon wheels come in two varieties, and I have both: Full carbon and all carbon. There is a third 100% carbon model I’m thinking about. I have the F4R clinchers which sound like a fighter jet but in reality are bulletproof training and racing wheels. Okay, they aren’t bulletproof, that’s a coffee shop but they’re almost as strong as super strong coffee. I have abused the hell out of these wheels (not to be reprinted when sold on eBay a few years hence as “pristine, hardly used”) and they have always delivered. With good tires they are awesome race wheels as well. The other wheels I have are the Tiny Joe All Carbon Skinny Dude Carbon Climbers. These tubular sex pistols weigh 1 gram each. They are lighter than mosquito hair and they accelerate quicker than Chris Lotts cashing your race entry check, in other words, light speed. They remain true no matter how often you cheat on them, are comfortable, quick, well-built, and best of all have super awesome decals that make you look even more super pro. Plus they come with giant luxury carry bags that you can sleep in when in between girlfriends.
  3. Cycliq Fly12 Onboard Videocam: Rating: -109 stars out of 30,900,234.1234. Source: Paid full retail. Possibility of biased review: 100%. Reason for rating: The camera works for everyone except me. It’s supposed to orient naturally whether you have it right-side-up on your bars or whether it’s hung underneath the bars. That’s supposed to as in “This was supposed to be fun” when spoken after a bike race. My camera orients upside down when upside down, which means that you can take lots of upside down video, which makes your head hurt. My camera shuts off every fifteen minutes, which makes its 10-hour run time a death-defying 40 efforts to find the little clitoris of a button while sailing down a deadly incline and trying to please it without falling down. My camera refuses to connect to the app that supposedly lets you fix all of this and edit and more. After a dozen help tickets that resulted in no help at all, I’m ready to open a help ticket with Cannondale to find out if there’s a way to fix the problem by riding my bike upside down.
  4. StageOne speedsuit: Rating: 12 stars out of 3. Source: Paid full retail. Possibility of biased review: 100%. Reason for rating: Joe Yule and Jon Davy are my friends. You think I’d trash them in my blog? Dream on. Even if my StageOne speedsuit was a miserable, ill-fitting, badly made gunny sack with a pad made out of burlap I’d still tell you to buy a dozen and one for your granny. Happily, this speedsuit, like all their bicycle clown outfits, is incredibly comfy and fast. I sleep in it. It has dimples. The pad is soft but firm, gently coddling your droopies and cozily wrapping your stick up against your lower tummy so that it’s properly set for maximal outline in podium pics, not twisted into a pretzel so that when you’re on the top step everyone’s staring at your junk and wondering if it’s only two inches long or just naturally born with a double half-hitch in it. Bottom line: Best junk-positioning speedsuit ever, and its speediness got me an astounding fifth place last weekend, along with the Wend Wax and FFWD Tiny Shrimp Climber Wheels.
  5. Camelbak squeeze only Podium bottle: Rating: 12 stars out of 3. Source: Gift (Thank you Michael and Creative Disruption). Possibility of biased review: 100%. Reason for rating: Camelbak has found the Holy Water Bottle Grail with this gem, as it solves the conundrum of every cyclist: How can I be lazier and get better at the same time? As every rider knows, it’s a huge chore to reach down, get your bottle, fiddle with the nipple with your tongue or lips, squirt some carcinogenic doping product down your gullet, then re-close the hole and replace the bottle. The whole thing can take a second or two, BUMMER, time you could have spent looking at your Garmin. And if you’ve ever tried the Open Hole Method, where you don’t bother closing the top, within days your front derailleur freezes from the sugary doping glop that spurts out, drizzles down the seat tube and onto the derailleur. The Camelbak operates like a woman’s breast: It ejects sugary doping products when sucked, but automatically stops ejecting when you stop sucking. No need to turn off mom’s milk-laden breasts, and no need to turn off the Camelbak, either. It just stops. Unlike mom’s breasts, it doesn’t need a bra pad and never leaks. This device will save you microseconds in every race or ride which can be tacked onto your three-man tandem state championship time trial event where you’re the only team aside from Brad House and therefore the champion. Winning!END


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