You can’t say that, No. 5

December 9, 2015 § 8 Comments

Only problem is they don’t, and they’re not.

“If they [had] an equivalent [to EPO] tomorrow that is undetectable, everyone would be on it.” Lance Armstrong, on the current state of doping in the peloton. Cycling News, December 8, 2015.


Imagine what he would have done to beat a field of, say, twenty.

Hickman, 49, won the 66-mile championship race out of a field of 10 riders in the 40+ age group. He has accepted a four-year ban for the doping offense. VeloNews, December 4, 2015.


You mean they don’t just do it because they’re cheating douchebags?

“Simply looking away and not testing the athletes is the worst decision that a race director can make because it forces everyone to take drugs to try to level the playing field.” GFNY CEO Uli Fluhme, on why it’s important to drug test at gran fondos, Cycling Weekly, October 29, 2015.



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When baby seals rebel

December 6, 2015 § 19 Comments

Dear Baby Seal and Surfer Dan:

I’m still in a state of shock to hear that you, Baby Seal, have swum off to join a different pack of pinnipeds. And I’m still in shock that you, Surfer Dan, have caught the La Grunge wave and taken the innocent, young, and as-yet-unwise-to-the-ways-of-the-world Baby Seal with you.

How could you?

I thought we were a team, and there is no “I” in team, although if you rearrange the letters there’s a “meat,” “mate,” “tame,” “eat,” “met,” and “meta,” to name a few. But you guys can be frank with me. What was it that made you leave Team Big Orange Lizard Club for Velo Club La Grunge?

Don’t tell me it was their dirty little bribe of free tires and race reimbursements. You got that from us, not to mention our sweet bike deals and the new Crash Fund Replacement Program, which will add up to big savings for you two bicycle falling off veterans. That turn on the bike path isn’t called Cobley Corner for nothing.

And don’t tell me it was our ugly bicycle outfits. Sure, word on the street has it that we are the ugliest. Period. No one even close. But it’s always been that way. Just because 2016 is ushering in a new combo of Calvin Wearing Hobbes, not to mention the ‘cross kit Vomit Specials, that can’t be the motivation.

The Big O Lizard Club has always prided itself on having the ugliest kits in America, outside of the ones designed for the 1008 Poot’n Parkway Century, where the promoter had his 13-year-old kid design the jerseys in Photoshop. And lest we forget, La Grunge used to have those green Herbalife kits, and the red slashed/polka dotted ones, yeah, we haven’t forgotten, not to mention a host of other ugly outfits that were cringeworthy even after a case of good beer.

So what’s changed?

Don’t tell me you got your panties askew because of team sponsor Brad House and Back on Track Productions. Sure, he’s been vocal on Facegag about gun rights and one of his race co-sponsors last year was a crazy gun organization. But you’ve known that about him for years.

I don’t know why you’re trying to spare my feelings. But Baby Seal, you’re a SUBSCRIBER. $2.99 a month. How could you? Don’t you remember the time that I was taking off my jacket on NPR at the light at the alley and it was raining like crazy and everyone rode away and YOU stayed back for me?

Then you towed me at 29 mph into a cross wind all the way down Vista del Mar and up Pershing to where we were 300 yards from the group, and I sprinted around you, bridged, dropped you, and left you to ride the rest of the way by yourself in the rain? Have you forgotten that?

Or the time that we were in a 2-man NPR breakaway and I gave you the win? I, who don’t even give money to Bernie Sanders or Planned Parenthood? I, who wouldn’t push a struggling teammate six inches to help him stay on? I, who would gladly slit my grandmother’s throat for the chance to have an option at possibly being in the mix for a water bottle prime?

Oh, and that is THE ONLY TIME YOU’VE WON THE NPR. And now you’re leaving Team Lizard Collectors and going over to the smooth and supple and well-kitted arch enemy? Why, Baby Seal, why? Are their Cannondales really that much better?

But you, Surfer Dan, who aren’t even a subscriber for $2.99 a month, you! How could you?

If there was one rider who personified Team Lizard Collectors, it was you. Always ready to help. Always ready to put together a five-year training plan for a new Cat 5. Always the first one to clear the last bits of rubble off the chafing trays at the club’s year-end party. Always the first one to show up and eat all the food in my fridge.

But that’s meaningless. Have you forgotten who made you who you are? Others may have forgotten the creaky Look bike, the goofy pedal stroke, and the goofier smile that first appeared in the South Bay bike scene six years ago, but I haven’t.

Remember our first ride, when I dropped you on the Switchbacks? Remember our first three Donuts together, when I dropped you every single time? Remember how after a few rides I started to let you drop me, and then I started to let you finish a few minutes ahead of me, and then I let you start winning a bunch of races I wasn’t in?

Who was it who taught you to attack at the start of the ride and don’t look back until everyone had given up, quit, died, or gone back to pet their lizards?

Who was the ONLY OTHER IDIOT who would join you in Riviera Village breakaways?

And now, because Sausage is buying a new Mercedes Sprunter van (you can’t even sprunt!), you’ve not only refused to sign up for $2.99 per month as severance penalty pay, but you’ve taken the young, innocent, wide-eyed Baby Seal with you.

All of which I could live with. Team Lizard Eaters is strong and we will endure. We still have Dr. Whaaaat? to analyze our power data and post kudos on Facegag and Strive. We still have G3 to organize 300-mile noodle rides for mid-season fitness. We still have G$ to drop everyone else on the team. And this year we have Wike to tell us what to do and then sob hysterically when he sees how incapable we are of doing it.

But how will you ever live with yourself, after all the work I did to get Smasher on the team, not to mention his associates? Smasher doesn’t belong with Team Lizard Lickers, you know that. He’s too good, too smart, too pointlessly strong, and too darned contrarian to ever sit down with his fellow lizard aficionados and discuss the finer points of lizard mating.

He joined Team Lizard Copulators for one reason: You. I told him that since you’re 35 he’d now have a real teammate, and not just that, but the best teammate. Now look at him. He’s so sad that he came over last night and ate all my Shoo Fly Pie, which is essentially a baked tin of flour, shortening, and molasses. That’s some sad shit and he gained five pounds in one sitting.

Well, I hope you guys are pleased with yourself. I hope that you find love and meaning over there at Velo Club La Grunge. I hope you enjoy the fancy Beverly Hills restaurants (pro tip: you’ll both need to bathe once a month now whether you need it or not), the overpriced burger shops, and the sinking feeling of stepping into Sausage’s house and realizing that his foyer is bigger and cost more than your apartment complex.

I hope you’re happy, and please don’t send me one of those “Let’s still be friends” bullshit text messages. You’ve treated me like a wingless fly at the annual Team Lizard  Collectors Annual Lizard Feeding Contest.

I may be crippled. I may be slow. I may be old. I may not be any good. But I never, ever, ever forget, and I certainly don’t forgive, unless of course your subscriptions are current. And yours, Surfer Dan, is not.



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The (bad) Dream Team

December 5, 2015 § 18 Comments

My friend Michael once described me as someone who followed the “method acting” method of writing. “You live it, then you write about it,” he explained.

He’s kind of right: It’s all true except for the parts I make up.

In that vein I’m hoping to assist those who have suffered a bad groin injury while cycling. After getting hurt, getting x-rayed (“Nothing broken!”), getting diagnosed (“Groin pull; will heal in two weeks”), doing vulvular stretches, and failing to get even the least bit better, I decided I’d better get some professional help.

As cyclists we think we can self-diagnose, or figure it out with the help of Dr. Google, or make a phone call to a pal who knows someone whose buddy is an orthopedist. But that’s foolish.

In the end, our bodies are delicate mechanisms, and it takes a trained expert to figure out what’s wrong, how to fix it, and most importantly, to lay out the course of care that is unique for you–because no matter how many generic Taiwanese bikes you own, you really are unique.

It was Friday morning when I met with the Super Medical Dream Team. They were finishing up their coffee cruise and had swung by my apartment to drop off coffee medication and some sugar-encrusted prescription apple fritters.

I stumped down the five flights of stairs, each step a hammer blow to my ballsack, to meet them where they convened at the pool. Fortunately, cyclists are a diverse group and there are quite a few who have expertise in medicine. Here was the team I assembled:

Junkyard: Occupation, graphic artist. Medical specialty, broken shit. Recent publications, “How I Ran into a Crack on the Sidewalk on Skinny Tires where I Shouldn’t Have Been in the First Place and Broke Three Vertebrae,” “Compound Elbow Fractures,” “Broken Wrists and the Velodrome,” “Post-care for Compound Femur Fractures,” and “Metal Detector Avoidance at Airports and Other Security Entrances.”

Major Bob: Occupation, retired military. Medical specialty, visiting injured friends in the hospital, listening to their organ recital. Recent publications, “STFU Already,” “It’s Your Front Wheel, not Mine,” “Cry Me a River,” and “If it Hurts, Stop Doing It.”

Hockeystick: Occupation, real estate development. Medical specialty, blood sugar levels. Recent publications, “Collarbone Fractures on the Velodrome,” “Socio-Medical Effects of Closing Down Local Farmer’s Markets,” “Beer: Does it Solve Everything?” and “Your Stupid NRA Shit Makes Me Sick.”

Punkin: Occupation, fitness trainer. Medical specialty, ballsacks. Recent publications, “Quit Whining,” “It’s Supposed to Hurt,” “I Can Fix That,” and “How Does THIS Feel?”

After an apple fritter apiece, the dream team went over my symptoms.

Hockeystick: Can you still get a boner?

Me: Yep.

Hockeystick: Then it can’t be your groin. And even if it is, who cares?

Punkin: Let me press it with my thumbs.

Major Bob: Is there any more coffee?

Junkyard: Is there any swelling in the pelvic area?

Me: Only when there’s a boner.

Junkyard: I mean the muscle and the area around the inner thigh.

Punkin: If you have a torn muscle you will feel a lump where the muscle has torn away. Here, let me press on it for you.

Me: Get your fuggin’ thumbs away from me!

Junkyard: Hurt when you walk?

Me: Eye-watering.

Junkyard: Hurt when you lie on your side?

Me: Eye-watering.

Junkyard: Hurt when you sit?

Me: Eye-watering.

Major Bob: At least you don’t need eyedrops.

Junkyard: Dude, you have a cracked pelvis.

Then the Dream Team took a vote and concluded that that was the proper diagnosis.

Me: Do I still need to go to the other doctor for the MRI?

Dream Team: Naaaaaaah.

Hockeystick: Just give us each fifty bucks and we’ll call it good. Hella cheaper than an MRI.

Me: Done.

[To be continued … ]



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Meanwhile, back in the real world …

December 4, 2015 § 26 Comments

I am amazed at the passionate anger and ugliness on the Internet, especially on antisocial media platforms like Facegag, where people who are nominally “friends,” and who supposedly congregate to behave like friends, rip each other to pieces.

One reason I’m amazed is that two years ago you couldn’t have found an angrier, more rabid thread-war fomenting sumbitch than me. But like lots of awful addictions, once I got off the hate train all I can do now is shake my head.

Do people really think they’re a force for good or a force for change because they have strong opinions?

Do people really enjoy going to bed at night with their head throbbing from all the crazy talk unleashed by people they actually know in person, not to mention complete strangers?

My suspicion is that with a few exceptions, people don’t enjoy it at all, but they respond because somehow they think they’ve been attacked, and whereas in real life the attack would be muted or indirect or would occur in the context of a discussion, on the ‘Bag it’s all blunt force trauma.

“You think guns are good? Oh yeah? Well, I belong to the Brady Campaign, so fuck you!”


But beyond the head-splitting inanity of people who want to talk about terrorism and can’t locate Syria on a map, beyond the discussion of constitutional rights by people who’ve never read the Constitution, and beyond the fog of nastiness that trails antisocial media like a hot, wet fart that refuses to leave the room, there’s some good and very happy, very social media news to report.

My bicycle falling off incident has revealed a lot of things, many of which are thanks to social media.

  1. I know people who are suffering from Stage 4 cancer, who’ve lost limbs, or who have been permanently prevented from ever cycling again due to, well, life. Those people are without exception good people, not because they’ve been hurt, but because they’ve used social media to teach me how to deal with my lesser, insignificant problems. Mark, Brenda, and those of you who’ve overcome like Cheryl, thank you.
  2. It doesn’t take much to make someone feel good.
  3. Thank you Kristie for the cheesecake, cupcakes, and cookies. Thank you Smasher for helping me eat them.
  4. Thank you Chris for the homemade chocolate chip cookies with walnuts.
  5. Thank you Derek and Jami for swinging by to chat, and an especial thanks for encouraging me to make an appointment with one of those, you know, doctor people.
  6. Thank you Marc for the bedside visit and the book.
  7. Thank you Michelle for the bike mags, the NYT/London Review of Books, and the giant ice bag.
  8. Thank you Gus for the bar tape and for the ridiculous kindness of swinging by and paying Boozy P. for my bike repairs–on the condition that he not turn over the bike until I’m completely healed.
  9. Thank you Dan, Greg, and Big Orange for the Crash Fund-funded hi-viz orange replacement helmet. My membership has already paid for itself.
  10. Thank you Dan for the mixer and encouraging me to get out and socialize. It’s still the only time I’ve been outdoors since 11/21.
  11. Thank you Robert for offering leather-seated Uber services next Saturday.
  12. Thank you Aaron and Jay for the hilarious text messages. If laughter really were the best medicine I’d be healed by now.
  13. Thank you Josh for the calls, messages, photos, encouragement, and technical discussions of how to use my giant crescent wrench.
  14. Thank you Major Bob for planning the drive-by coffee dropoff later this morning!
  15. Thank you Barbara for the referral to America’s best doctor and his gentle explanation that, yes, an MRI will help.
  16. Thank you Michael for continually checking in.
  17. Thank you Ringoro for letting me hold you and sing you to sleep.
  18. Thank you Yasuko for quietly picking up the slack, caring for me, and never reproaching, complaining, or suggesting that it’s “time onna eBay that bikecycle.”
  19. Thank you Casey for offering to squeeze me in early for an appointment.
  20. Thank you Woodrow for always being ready to grab things I can’t reach, fetch books and whatnot, and humming all those great Woody Guthrie tunes.


Facebag to the contrary, there’s a lot of good out there in the world!



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Get thee to an orthopedery

December 3, 2015 § 37 Comments

Reader of this blog may know that I am cheap, so when the cute ER doc fondled my ballsack with thick rubber gloves and enough disinfectant to sanitize the Rio Doce, and told me that if it “still hurt after two weeks” I should see an orthopedist, I could only snicker to myself.

“Wanky ain’t spendin’ no money on no damn doctor.”

I came by my medskepticisum honestly. My mother, who is a doctor, taught me early not to trust MD’s. “Don’t ever go to a doctor unless you’re on death’s door,” she used to whisper, “and when you do, only go to the very best.”

My Grandpa Jim hated doctors, all of them, except my mom, but she didn’t really count because she was a psychiatrist anyway. “Sumbitches,” he called them.

One night he had his third heart attack and they took him to the ER at Lake O’ the Pines Hospital and Used Carburetors in Daingerfield, Texas. We sped up from Houston, six hours distant, to find Grandpa lying on a gurney in a hallway, in a rage.

“Oh my god, Daddy, are you okay?” Mom asked.

“Hell no I’m not okay!” he roared.

“What are you doing in the hallway?” she asked.

The flustered doctor came over. “He won’t let us check him in.”

“Get away from me, you sumbitch!” Grandpa roared, his fourth heart attack not far off. My grandmother, Estelle, stood there wringing her hands.

Grandpa, who couldn’t move his head because he’d also broken his neck when he fell out of the bed, roared at the top of his lungs. “STELLA! GODDAMIT, GET ME SOME GODDAMN WHISKEY!”

Even at the age of six I knew that whiskey was good, Grandpa was great, hospitals were terrible, and doctors were sumbitches.

So each day at home with my strained ballsack I’ve been watching the incremental improvement and getting treatment from a combination of efficiently using Google Chrome and a straw poll among fellow idiots.

It turns out that the strained ballsack, a/k/a pulled groin, is common. Everyone has either had three, or knows someone who has. My problem is that since I began cycling in 1982 and racing in 1984, I’ve never been injured. Scraped, banged, pushed around, spit on, laughed at, dropped, and knocked over? Yes.

Injured? Never. As Daniel Holloway put it, “Man that’s the most incredible run of luck for a bike racer ever.”

I thought about his statement, which was itself amazing, as no one has actually called me a bike racer before.

But the straw poll was starting to look like this:

  1. 76% of respondents said that strained ballsack hurt worse than a bunch of bad words said quickly in a loud voice, repeatedly.
  2. 27% of respondents said that it takes 3-4 months to heal.
  3. 44% of respondents said that it takes 1-2 months to heal.
  4. Smasher said to “quit being a puss” and “get back on your fuggin’ bike.”
  5. 12% recommended surgery.
  6. 87% recommended deep tissue massage.
  7. 99% of the 87% who recommended massage said it was the most horribly painful thing they’d ever done, worse than the injury. So I scratched that off the list.
  8. 35% said that it will become chronic if you don’t let it heal.
  9. 78% said that they had a friend who knew somebody whose uncle could get me in at a chiro/acupuncture/medical marijuana shop.
  10. 54% asked for my leftover pain meds.
  11. Derek the Destroyer told me to fork over the money and go to a real doctor.

No one suggested self-rehab, so that’s the course I embarked on three days ago. I began by lying on my back and gently stretching the injured ballsack muscle. Huge spears of intense pain shot up into my nuts and from there to my abdomen, pancreas, duodenum, eyes, and back to my urethra.

After that 2-mm movement I stretched a bit further. This time the searing, tearing, ripping, rending feeling was so intense that it felt like sitting on Smasher’s wheel after getting dropped by Derek, mutilated by G$, and then having the whole thing analyzed by Dr. Whaaaaat? after he draggled up to the Domes five minutes later. It fuggin’ hurt.

The rest of the day my stretching regimen made itself known because the tiny improvements I’d made in the last ten days were all completely erased. Stabbing pain with every motion, swollen feet, bleeding eyes, and an aching spine accompanied me until bedtime, so I knew I was on the right track.

Yesterday I upped the rehab intervals so that the pain color flashes looked like the worst of Prez’s outfits and hi-viz orange. By mid-afternoon I couldn’t even sit and the torn ballsack felt worse than it did the day of the bicycle falling off incident. That’s how I knew it was progress.

Proudly I called Derek the Destroyer to let him know that with a combination of my straw poll and a careful reading of the medical articles surrounded by ads for tummy-fat reduction, I had managed to make the pain worse than it originally was.

“Dude,” he said. “You were hurt two weeks ago and you still can’t walk, right?”

“Right!” I said.

“Go see a doctor, okay?”

I thought about it for a second. “Okay,” I said. And then I sang the grandbaby to sleep.



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Cyclist, Cover Thyself! [More … ]

December 1, 2015 § 27 Comments

Although I generally disdain using this space for anything useful, here’s something useful: Using MedPay insurance to defray your medical bills.

If you get hit by car, you now know (because you religiously read this blog–and by “religiously” I mean “daily,” not “becoming an angry white Christian man and shooting up an abortion clinic”) that it’s a great and inexpensive idea to have uninsured or underinsured motorist coverage.

However, whether you have such coverage or not, once the driver’s insurer admits liability and issues you a check, you have the problem of healthcare insurance liens (and so does your lawyer, and frankly, whose problems are more important–yours or his?). In short, when your healthcare insurer pays for your medical bills after fighting tooth, claw, nail, fang, whip, hammer, icepick, baseball bat, and slingshot, the terms of their agreement with you allow them to assert a lien against the bodily injury settlement money you get from the insurance company of the driver who hit you.

In other words, you finally got them to cover your accident, and your humble lawyer finally dragged a few dollars out of the offending driver’s insurer, and lo! The health care insurance company wants its cut. “After all,” they piously intone, “we paid your hospital bills.”

Now you’re probably thinking, “Like fuck you did. I paid them–it’s called a fuggin’ insurance premium. Why should you have any claim to the money I get from the baddie who mowed me down?”

Answer: Because they have the gold and they write the rules, and California rules say that they can. Don’t like it? Become a major insurance company. I hear it’s a growth business.

If this seems like it sucks, that’s because it does, and as time goes by health care providers are getting harder and harder to negotiate with regarding these liens. Used to be, your savvy lawyer could phone them up and say, “Look here, Mr. Dikbag, I worked my butt off to get this settlement. If it weren’t for me you’d be getting zero, so cut me some slack and reduce your lien.”

They’d hem and haw and do it. Now they still hem and haw, but the reductions aren’t as high, and in many cases they don’t reduce them at all.

It’s often the case, especially when you get hit and your injuries are moderate or minor, that the ambulance ride and the follow up treatment greatly reduce your eventual recovery. In essence, by filing a claim and hiring a lawyer, it can seem like all you’re doing is working for free for the healthcare provider: Getting the driver’s insurer to cut you a check which then gets (mostly) handed over to the healthcare provider. They think it’s great. You (and your humble lawyer) think otherwise.

Since the healthcare insurer has first priority over the settlement check, he gets paid before you, and before your lawyer. Lawyers don’t like that very much, and neither do you.

So although the message might seem to be, “If you’re going to get hit, make it a catastrophic injury and get hit by someone with a billion dollars of coverage,” it isn’t. The message is that there is at least one low-cost way to keep the healthcare provider’s grubby paws off your money so that it can remain in your grubby paws and the even grubbier paws of your lawyer.

Here’s how: Get MedPay coverage added to your auto liability coverage. If your insurer doesn’t offer MedPay, switch insurers. MedPay coverage is an add-on that lets you send medical bills directly to your auto insurer when you’ve been hit by a car. Your healthcare insurance pays zip, and therefore has no lien on your recovery. For small and moderate cases, MedPay coverage is great, and some insurers will offer benefits up to $25,000.

You submit the bills directly to YOUR auto insurance company, they pay you or the doctor/hospital/ambulance directly, and you submit your claim for pain, suffering, and lost wages to the insurance company of the offending driver. When you reach a settlement, your healthcare insurer (Kaiser, Anthem, Providence, etc.) has no claim to any portion that was covered by MedPay.

The other good (great) thing about MedPay is that it kicks in regardless of fault. In other words, you don’t have wait until the mud wrestling match is completed with the offending driver’s insurer to receive the benefits, and in the event you’re tagged as being the one who caused the collision, your MedPay coverage still pays as long as your injury isn’t covered by worker’s comp.

One added note about MedPay: In some states, and California is one of them, MedPay does have a right of reimbursement in the event you are “made whole” by your settlement. Although it’s beyond the scope of this blog post to discuss the “made whole” doctrine, even a MedPay insurer may be able to claw back some of its payments from your settlement. In any event, MedPay gets you paid more quickly and will cover co-pays and other out of pocket expenses that your healthcare insurer will not.

Be sure to check the policy for exclusions, reimbursement rules, and read the fine print; every insurer’s policy is different.

So before you lawyer up, MedPay up.



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New UCI rule allows customers to spend more money

November 30, 2015 § 57 Comments

The UCI Rules Committee announced that professional teams will be allowed to use disc brakes in all races for 2016. “We think this will help cyclists at all levels spend more money,” said committee chairman Snookie van der Sluit in a press release.

“There is a significant need for disc brakes among manufacturers, wholesalers, and retailers in every market segment,” said van der Sluit. “And disc brakes allow them to meet the need for more customer expenditures, which is a key component in making cycling even less affordable as a sport or recreational activity while simultaneously accelerating the twin trends of planned obsolescence and product incompatibility.”

Reactions in the cycling world were generally positive. “I don’t give two fucks what we ride, all my shit’s free,” said Fabian Cancellara when asked about the rule change.

Mike Sinyard, president of Specialized, was equally enthusiastic. “I’d definitely give two fucks, probably even ten,” he said. “Although braking performance in wet conditions is offset by the greater weight and the pain-in-the-ass factor of through-axles, getting every pro on a disc brake is crucial if we’re going to make weekend warriors insecure about not having the latest trick shit. And that’s the fulcrum behind every meaningful bike purchase these days.”

Simon Mottram, CEO of Rapha Clothing for Gentlemen and Gentlegirls, saw huge opportunities in the new rule. “Cyclists have shown a huge appetite for spending more money, and the fact that disc brakes are better in the rain, an environment in which no one with a brain ever rides, is a key sales point. Now the flabby flabber who only goes out when it’s 65 and sunny can buy a whole new bike and wheelset to feel better about the possibility of riding in the rain, even though the actual chances of him doing it are zero. And we have a new line of disc gentlemen rainy pink clothing to go with it, a cute motif of baby whales with pink spouts.”

Derek Bouchard-Hall, the new CEO of USA Cycling, gushed about the new ruling. “Expensive? Yes. Requires replacement of your current $15k wheel quiver? Yes. A guarantee that fewer kids will get into cycling? Yes. More ad revenue as manufacturers and retailers seek our platform to tout the new technology? YEEESSSSS!!!”

Frumpy McDangle, local trail boss for the South Bay Sunday Fritter Crawl, was more circumspect. “I’m sure it’s a great idea,” he said, “but I haven’t bought a new piece of bicycle equipment since they came out with derailleurs, so unless it helps me with my morning dump I’ll probably pass.”



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