Money in the bank

March 16, 2015 § 35 Comments

The guys were standing in line to order the food and Sherri had sat down at the table on the terrace to make sure no one else snagged it or stole the bikes while we were inside. It was a perfect Santa Monica Saturday in March, sunny and warm, and the terrace was bustling. Sherri noticed the light on the rear of my bike was still blinking, so she went over to switch it off.

When she came back to the table, a tattooed and ill-tempered young fellow and his friend were about to sit down at the table, which had our helmets and gloves on it.

“That’s my table, sonny,” Sherri said politely.

“Not any more,” he answered.

“Yes, in fact, it is,” she countered. Everyone at the surrounding tables was now watching, and we had just walked out from indoors with our hands full of tacos.

“I don’t see your name on it,” the guy said.

“Honey,” Sherri said in her sweetest but firmest and oh-so-unwavering Southern accent. “If you want to get into a dick swinging contest with me, you need to know I got a drawer full of ’em at home and they’re all bigger than yours.”

The tough guy blushed to his hair roots and his friend began laughing at him as the onlookers snorted and spit pieces of taco out their noses. It was turning into an epic day.

Early last week I had made plans for my Saturday ride. I was going to crash the 6:00 AM Top Secret Invitation Only South Bay Royalty Ride and tag along for the 120 miles or so of wandering through the Santa Monica Mountains. It would fit perfectly with my plans to do the Belgian Waffle Ride (43 days away but who’s counting?) and would be a nice follow-up to the rather longish ride I’d done the previous Saturday.

Plus, I’d get to ride with a group that I normally don’t hang out with because of their very early riding schedule.

On Friday evening I was airing up my tires when it occurred to me that my eldest son had suggested we go for a bike ride on Saturday. We’d talked about it the previous weekend and it had completely slipped my mind. “Hey,” I looked over at him, “do you want to ride on Sunday instead of Saturday?”

“Yeah, but I can’t. I work Sundays from ten to four, remember?”

“Oh, right,” I said. “What time do you want to ride tomorow?”

“Let’s go around ten or eleven,” he said.

“Great,” I answered, with that feeling-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach that every cyclist gets when his weekend riding plans and oh-so-important training schedule get upended. But I didn’t let on. My son and I don’t spend a lot of time together; he’s 22 and works full time, and although he commutes by bicycle he certainly doesn’t view a bike as a form of recreation. When I think about all my friends who have spent so much time doing things with their kids I’m acutely aware of my deficit in that particular bank.

Since he’s the one who had suggested it, I knew I’d be crazy not to follow through. We left at 10:30, and before we rolled out he handed me his t-shirt. “Would you stick this in your jersey pocket so I’ll have something to wear if we go into a restaurant?”

“Sure,” I said.

The bike path was already packed as people flocked to the beach after having endured that one brutal day of winter when it rained for thirty minutes and got down into the mid-50’s. Hardship really makes you appreciate the good days.

It took us a long time to get to Manhattan Beach, where Surfer Dan was late, as usual. We waited for him, but not really, and continued on, chatting as we rode. We stopped at the Marina bridge a while later and met up with Dan. He and my son talked all the way to Helen’s Cycles, where we picked up Sherri for lunch.

After the dick-swinging incident we rode back to Manhattan Beach and drank iced coffee as the swirl of scantily-clad girls flowed by. We pretended not to be looking, and we continued to not-look for a solid hour. Then we got on our bikes and pedaled home, knocking out fifty miles in about 5.5 hours.

There had been no hammering or intervaling or pacelining or dickmeasuring, with the exception of the exchange at the taco shop that Sherri had won by several inches. “That was fun,” he said when we got home.

Dinner tasted especially good that night. Mrs. WM had made a giant pot of meat sauce for the spaghetti and she had baked a fresh loaf of bread whose smell wafted down the hallway of our apartment complex. My son and I didn’t say much over dinner; we’d said what needed to be said already, as well as what didn’t. It was, as bike racers like to say about a particularly hard training day that will pay off come race day, “Money in the bank.”

END

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Let’s try a new position, honey

March 14, 2015 § 12 Comments

The riders dribbled up to the Manhattan Beach Pier for the start of the Chief’s sixtieth birthday ride. “Hey, how’s your knee?” asked T-Dub.

“Oh, I’m getting it operated on next Thursday. Yours?” Iron Mike’s joints weren’t quite so ferrous anymore.

“Got a tear in my meniscus. Doc says it’s too small to operate on but big enough to give me trouble. Like having a hole in the carpet.”

A couple of other riders horned in on the conversation. “Yep, I threw out my prostate carrying a load of firewood,” one offered.

“And my neck … ” said another rider.

As soon as he said the word “neck” everyone began comparing their neck problems, the neck problems of people who weren’t there, and the names of the best neck surgeons in West L.A. I’d never seen a group of people more animated, and SB Baby Seal, the only guy there who was in his 20’s, listened in on the organ recital with a raised eyebrow.

It reminded me of how rides used to start, back in that mythical day. We’d talk about who had gotten laid the night before, who was on track to get laid tonight, and would compare the various sex acts, their number and quantity, the skills of the partners, and whether or not the associated quantity and type of drugs and alcohol had rendered the whole thing a fuzzy memory or not.

And the few times that we weren’t talking about sex, we were talking about bike racing, which in many respects was very similar.

I certainly don’t remember ever sitting around talking about neck specialists, but then again, this was my first ever #60 birthday celebration ride. When I started riding, I didn’t even know anyone who was sixty except for my granddad, and he didn’t ride a bike, he drove a Buick.

Still, after listening to the litany of neck problems, I realized that lots of people do have a ton of pain and discomfort when they cycle. Part of it is probably because they are old, and part of it is probably because they are fat, but another big part of bike pain is also related to position. Let’s face it, it’s pretty unnatural to sit hunched over with your neck jutting out for hours at a time.

The first step to getting a handle on your achy proscenium is of course getting a pro fit. I got a super fit from Dialed In Bike Fitting three years ago, and although the fit took me out of my 1980’s super-stretch duck paddle position, it didn’t take care of my aches and pains because I’ve never had any. I think one of the reasons I don’t have aches when I ride is because I don’t really have one position. I’m always shifting around, and instead of looking for a “perfect position,” during the ride I’m always fiddling with where I put my hands and my ass.

From an aesthetic standpoint this means that I look spastic when I pedal. But from a pain perspective it means I have none. Zero. Zip. And that’s after 33 years of riding 10,000 miles a year, sometimes a lot more.

So here are the position changes that I really think help make a difference if you’re doing them constantly.

  1. Tops to drops: Regularly move your hands from the tops to the drops. This bends your back and shifts everything at once.
  2. Hood dance: Regularly get off your saddle and climb with your hands on the hoods.
  3. Drop dance: Climb with your hands on the drops.
  4. Extended dance: Climb out of the saddle, shifting hand positions, for 10-20 minutes at a time.
  5. Look Ma, no hands: Sit up occasionally and ride with your hands off the bars.
  6. Shake your booty: Slide your ass forward and backwards on the saddle.
  7. Body stiff: When you’re climbing out of the saddle, try to keep your body as motionless as possible.
  8. Body swing: When you’re climbing out of the saddle, try to swing your body from side to side.
  9. Supergrip: Grip your bars as tightly as you can, then relax. Especially do this when climbing, and vary it from the tops to the hoods to the drops.

Will any of this help? I don’t know; it seems to help me. And at the very least, you’ll look like you’re having a seizure when you ride. So, as Knoll would say, “There’s that.”

END

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It’s never a good time to stand up for your rights

March 13, 2015 § 49 Comments

Rights are extremely inconvenient things. If you keep them in a drawer without food, exercise, and nourishment, one day when you take them out for a fine stroll on the town you will find that instead of being robust with a thick coat of fur, happy and healthy companions that you can turn on enemies in a pinch or use to get you through the day, you find instead that they are emaciated, tired, twig-legged, and all their teeth have fallen out.

What’s worse, when you snap them off the leash and say, “Run, rights, run!” they stagger and stumble and you end up having to carry them to the vet, a sad looking guy in black robe who often pronounces them either dead or seriously impaired. There’s nothing worse than thinking you’re the proud owner of a right that dates back to 1789, an heirloom enshrined in centuries of jurisprudence and vigorous exercise, only to learn that you’re the keeper of an empty, toothless, saggy-dicked principle that has one foot in the grave and the other in a nasty opinion written by Justice Scalia.

Yes, it’s a shock to have some ignorant, mean, ‘roided out lardass who rode the bench on the JV football squad, a peabrain who’s now packing a gun, cuffs, tazer, radio, and mace, a barely literate boob who drives a patrol car loaded with a riot shotgun and is backed up by helicopters, a SWAT team and dozens of similarly armed brethren, and to have that guy pull you over while you’re riding your bike and write you a ticket for doing something that’s perfectly legal.

Pretty galling, because there you are in your underwear flexing your pot belly as you’re reaching into your back jersey pocket to whip out your rights and have them eat this asshole’s lunch and he takes one look at your puny, underfed, under-exercised, long-ignored rights and flicks them off into the ditch.

Then he writes you the ticket and goes on his way. “Tell it to the judge,” he sneers as you desperately try to pick up your sick and feeble rights and sic ’em on this lawbreaker.

And the question is, what are you going to do about it?

Some people will pay the ticket. Some people will complain on Facegag. Some people will get up at 4:30 AM and write what they hope is a clever blog. Some will hold a small ceremony for the dead rights, take up golf, or excoriate college students who dare to insult the flag.

Me?

I’m going to take out my puny, shaky-legged, underfed rights and give them some exercise. They may be sick, but they aren’t dead. And I think that given their genetic makeup and their Constitution, with some vigorous exercise and some healthy time out on the town, they’re going to come roaring back.

The tentative dates for this rolling rights protest, which will take place at the city office in Malibu and then proceed down PCH all the way to the Santa Monica Pier, are April 5, April 25, or May 9. I’m in the process of obtaining permit information from the city and will provide updates once a firm date is confirmed.

The protest will demand that the city instruct its minions at LASD to stop harassing cyclists, it will demand that the LA Sheriff’s Department stop its policy of writing bogus tickets to cyclists, and it will also call for the implementation of political change: Instead of having to fight every harassing ticket, we will start the process of finding a new candidate for sheriff who will take action against these lawless deputies.

My rights may die anyway. But they won’t die without getting a bit of vigorous exercise first.

END

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You can’t fix stupid

March 11, 2015 § 68 Comments

After a battle with the L.A. Sheriff’s Department that lasted well over a year, I thought that we had finally put to rest the harassment of cyclists on PCH north of Temescal Canyon. Our loose coalition of idealists had a three-pronged attack on the harassing citations that the Deppity Doofuses were writing:

  1. Outreach and education for the LASD.
  2. Fight each and every ticket.
  3. Continue riding in the lane where it’s legal to do so.

Of course we had a few secret weapons up our sleeve. We had Dr. Tomato Stain, our sly expert witness who made himself available for detailed measurements and expert testimony at each of the three trials that we won when the harassing deputies didn’t appear. We had the heft of Eric Bruins and the LA County Bicycle Coalition providing expertise and expert testimony. And most importantly, we had the full support of Greg Seyranian and Big Orange. These riders are the ones who refused to be pushed back into the gutter, and who weekly rode their bikes legally in the lane.

They backed up their willingness to ride in the lane by an equal willingness to take time off of work to fight the bogus citations. The tickets stopped, and I went on to other less pressing concerns, such as work and family and cat videos. Until Monday.

That’s when I learned that we do indeed have another Deppity Doofus with a severe case of citation writus reflexia.

A group of Big Orange riders were cruising north bound on PCH, legally riding 2×2 in the right lane. When they got within about half a mile of Cross Creek, they heard the dreaded beep of a short warning siren. It wasn’t clear that it was for them so they kept moving. Then the angry voice of Deppity Doofus told them to get out of the lane. Confused and frustrated, they began to move to what little shoulder there was. As everyone who’s ever ridden this stretch of road knows, there’s no bike lane and nowhere to put your bike except the lane itself unless you want to charge through the glass, rocks, gravel, used condoms, bongs, used dildos, meth paraphernalia, and other necessities for surfing Malibu that are strewn in the gutter.

Deppity Doofus then called out to to one of the riders, “You in the red jersey, pull over!” Red Jersey Rider had been singled out for two obvious reasons, neither of which was justified. First, he was at the back of the group, and like the wounded gazelle at the rear of the herd he was the first one to be dragged down by the throat by the marauding lion. Second, he was wearing a white jersey with cats wearing red Santa hats, a fashion misstep that some would say justifies every persecution. I however, would not.

All of the riders pulled into the parking lot at Aviator Nation, a place that Harrison Ford frequents in between golf course crash landings. There were a few cyclists who passed by, also in the lane, and who continued up the coast. These scofflaws, who were obviously on the lowest step of the gradual cyclist ladder to violent crime that begins with riding in the lane, were ignored by Deppity Doofus and his assistant, Newbie Nukkelnoggin.

When Doofus and Nukkelnoggin got out of the car, the cyclists asked the officers to explain exactly what they had done wrong, aside from the cats in the Santa hats. Some of the riders videotaped the incident while others looked up the section of the California vehicle code that gives cyclists the right to ride in the traffic lane. They offered up facts and even asked about the “Share the Road” sign that was posted on PCH a few hundred yards south. Doofus, uninterested in law or fact and apparently unable to read, rolled up his window when one of the riders approached his vehicle to show him digital documentation of the CVC code section displayed on his phone.

Another rider pulled up additional information on his phone regarding the right to legally use the traffic lane and handed it to Nukkelnoggin, who, after excessive efforts that involved moving his lips while he read, digested the information. He showed it to Doofus but by now it had become a matter of phallus measuratus, and Doofus wasn’t about to back down even though he was wrong on the law, wrong on the facts, and wrong on just about everything. Nukkelnoggin then informed them that their supervisor was coming to the scene from Calabasas.

A fun day in the saddle was thus transformed into a miserable altercation with deputies so bad at their job that they required backup and supervisory reinforcement to evaluate a traffic citation.

When Deppity Doofus finished writing the citation, he approached Santa Cats and told him to sign it. At this point, things got a little hairy. One of the riders asked why Santa Hats had to sign the citation if he didn’t believe that he had done anything wrong. Doofus became irate and started calling the other cyclist a “jackass” and told one of the riders with a video to “Go ahead and film me, I’m not doing anything wrong.”

As they waited for the supervisor to arrive, reinforcements showed up in the form of another deputy who parked next to the other two. It was obviously either a slow day at Malibu or this dangerous gang of cats-in-Santa-hat-sporting-scofflaws was going to need some serious SWAT backup.

The  supervisor finally showed up and he approached the sheriffs first. It didn’t look like Deppity Doofus was pleased. He then began to point his finger at the cyclist who had asked why Santa Hats had to sign the citation. He was livid and the supervisor seemed irritated. When the riders spoke to the supervisor, he was friendly. He shook Santa Hat’s hand and patted him on the back while Doofus and Nukkelnoggin stood quietly and Deppity Reinforcement flanked the group as if he were ready for something to go down, like, you know, in case someone attacked the armed police battalion with a Bonk Breaker or a Gu gel packet.

The supervisor then expounded wrongly on the law, telling the riders that they have the right to take a lane when there’s an obstruction in the bike lane or shoulder, but that they would have to return to the shoulder when said obstruction was gone. Super defined “obstruction” as car doors and other objects. The riders tried to explain the law but he kept saying that there was nothing he could do about it. The ticket had already been written, and he he parted with the sage and helpful advice to “Tell it to the judge.”

On their time, of course.

After an hour and a half, everyone left the scene of this incredibly significant law enforcement incident. The cyclists rode cautiously to Cross Creek then turned around. On the way home, they took the lane because all agreed that their safety was worth more than the price of another citation. They passed the sheriffs on the way home, but Doofus and Nukkelnoggin did nothing, focusing all of their energies on a 12-pack of donuts.

In this instance, the citation was for violation CVC 21208(a), which requires a cyclist to ride in a bike lane when such a lane has been established pursuant to CVC 21207. A quick search of the local roads database shows that this section of road is designated as a Class III Bike Route, otherwise defined as an on-street travel lane shared by bicyclists and other vehicular traffic.

A Class III Bike Route is, of course, a completely different dog from a bike lane established pursuant to CVC 21207. In essence, a Class III Bike Route is a metal sign on the side of the road indicating that there is no bike lane or other separated facility. More importantly for Santa Hats, on its face the citation is void, as Deppity Doofus will be unable to show that there was a bike lane anywhere on PCH, much less at the point where he cited Santa Hats.

In addition to being a wonderful showcase for how ineffective we’ve been at educating the sheriff’s department regarding actual laws, it’s even more disheartening to realize that the ignorance festers at the supervisory level as well despite meetings, encouragement from the captain at the substation, and even ride-alongs with deputies and supervisors to educate them about cyclists’ rights. The behavior of the deputies showed that when push comes to shove, they will push and shove the cyclists rather than back down and admit they are wrong.

Sounds like another case for Dr. Tomato Stain and his crack legal team.

Sigh.

END

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CIRC désolé

March 10, 2015 § 20 Comments

The Cycling Independent Reform Commission (CIRC) released the results of its year-long investigation into doping, and CitSB sat down with the lead investigator, Jean-Claude Peut-être, to discuss the significance of the commission’s findings even as shock waves continue to roil the cycling community.

CitSB: After a full year of intensive research and investigation, the retention of a former war crimes prosecutor to head the effort, and a budget of €12 million, what is the commission’s most significant finding?

JP: There are actually three. First, Lance doped. Second, so did many others. Third, Betsy is still very angry.

CitSB: Wow. How confident are you regarding that first finding?

JP: I would say that we are probably 95% certain. When you add up the back-tested results, the statements of his former teammates, USADA’s Reasoned Decision, the finding of the arbitrator in his insurance case, his settlement with the Times of London, and his 12-hour confessional special on national TV, we think it’s highly likely that he doped. But of course nothing is 100% certain.

CitSB: This is going to destroy a lot of childhood dreams, isn’t it?

JP: Oh, yes. There are a lot of masters racers out there who will be taking off their yellow bracelets.

CitSB: And you are equally certain with regard to your second finding, that many others doped as well?

JP: Unfortunately, yes. We dug deeply into the history of the sport and learned some fairly shocking things which we frankly haven’t shied away from including in our report.

CitSB: Like what?

JP: Well, the biggest one is that doping has been around for a long time.

CitSB: Really? You mean that Wikipedia doping cheat web page is true?

JP: It appears to be.

CitSB: And it took you a year’s investigation and a €12 million budget to Google “doping in cycling” and click on the first link that came up?

JP: We had to be thorough.

CitSB: How is your report going to change cycling at the professional level?

JP: Fundamentally it will let cyclists at all levels know that the UCI and the organizations responsible for clean sport are now on the alert that doping used to exist, and that in all likelihood it still does.

CitSB: You’re suggesting that actual professional riders are still cheating?

JP: It’s possible.

CitSB: So when Chris Froome puts out 6.84 w/kg this past week on a mountaintop finish, you think that’s fishy?

JP: I wouldn’t say “fishy.” But It suggests that perhaps he may have an unfair performance advantage over other riders.

CitSB: Such as?

JP: Wheaties, perhaps.

CitSB: And what about corruption at the UCI? What were your findings in that regard?

JP: There was no corruption.

CitSB: Wow. What about that whole Verbruggen/McQuaid/Armstrong kerfuffle? You know, backdated TUE’s, giving Brochard a pass, letting Armstrong’s lawyer write up the results of the independent investigation, that stuff?

JP: It wasn’t corruption. There simply was no corruption.

CitSB: The preferential treatment of Armstrong to the detriment of other riders, bending the rules about Contador’s tainted meat? Accepting massive donations from a rider they were supposed to be monitoring? That wasn’t corruption? What was it?

JP: It wasn’t corruption. More like being bad boys. They were sort of bad boys, naughty, you know? Mischievous, even. But not corrupt.

CitSB: And what did the commission find regarding the current UCI and its president, Brian Cookson, who funded this completely independent report?

JP: We think he’s a wonderful chap, really, and look forward to working with him in the future.

CitSB: I’m sure you do.

END

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I think I’ll follow that guy

March 9, 2015 § 35 Comments

Most CBR races that I do start the same way. About twenty guys push and shove and jostle and squeeze to make sure they’re in the very first row. After the race starts, I never see any of them again.

I always lollygag at the back before the race with Big Steve. He doesn’t care where he starts. He’s more concerned about where he finishes.

There is another guy who always starts at the back of the back of the back, and then two wheels behind that. He’s at every race, and he’s one very rotund fellow. You look at him and you think, “Dude, lay off the Oreo triple stuf. You are going to have a heart attack before we get to Turn One.”

Then you notice that even though his belly is testing the physical stretch limits of his jersey, so are his massive quads. Then, if you’re still paying attention and haven’t written him off because he’s obviously pushing sixty, you notice the bands on his shirt sleeve, the rainbow ones. And you’re like, “Whaaa? World champion of what? Carrot cake?”

The race starts and it always starts fast, and my goal is always the same, every single time: Follow that guy. There are a lot of good reasons to follow him, and not just because Gibby Hatton is one of the best track racers in the history of U.S. cycling. For me, following Gibby is a lesson in humiliation, and I’m never happier than when I’m under the lash.

“What could be easier than following an oxcart?” you wonder. Well, it’s harder than it looks. For one, even though he hardly ever pedals and it looks ridiculously easy, you quickly find out that he’s the most efficient rider in the peloton by a factor of ten. That would make sense, because at his professional zenith he was the No. 2 highest-earning keirin racer on the Japanese professional circuit.

For another, Gibby doesn’t use his brakes. Whereas I’m the kind of rider who replaces his pads in between events, Gibby has been using the same set since 1982. They still have the shrink-wrap on them. This means he slingshots through the turns. While the idiots are grabbing brakes and wobbling and dodging curbs and spraying up fountains of carbon brake pad powder, Gibby is coasting at 35. Out of the turn he pedals once or twice to hold his momentum, and in the process he’s passed forty people.

There’s another great reason to follow Gibby’s wheel. It will give you your adrenaline rush for the decade. Sure, he looks like a walrus on a bike. But a more delicate, graceful, perfectly coordinated rider I’ve never seen, or imagined seeing. He floats through gaps that shut with a clang once he’s through. He edges around kooks with the gentlest shift of weight on his saddle. He creates openings by lightly tapping on someone’s thigh … and it’s the tap of authority that doesn’t say, “May I come in here?” but that says, “I’m coming in now.”

The best reason of all to be on Gibby’s wheel is that if there’s no breakaway, he’s going to put you in the top five or higher if you can come around him (you can’t). At 58 years old, by the time everyone has wheezed and gasped and struggled to the final 200 meters, Gibby will finally activate the thighs, and the acceleration is vicious, fearsome, and effective.

I’ve never been able to follow his wheel for more than two laps. It’s like following a solo by Louis Armstrong, or matching the steps of Fred Astaire, and today was no different.

After the race started, some people went fast and some went slower, some people dreamed big dreams and some people dreamed small ones, some people got tired and some people quit. Leading into the final turn three riders decided to throw all of their bike parts and bodies high into the air and then splatter painfully on the ground. With 200 meters to go, the Walrus, ever perfectly positioned, mashed hard on the pedals. It was his first real effort in the whole 60-minute race.

Two riders were ahead of him, much younger and much faster. But not cagier, and not better at using all the right effort at just the right time. Gibby nipped them at the line.

Again.

END

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Wankmeister cycling clinic #28: Can we get a “B” ride?

March 6, 2015 § 35 Comments

Dear Wankmeister:

I know you are a big fan of that Thursday Flog Ride around the PV Golf Course and I am too. I have done it several times but I always get dropped. The hardest part is right when we turn out of the parking lot. I’m tired of getting dropped and have spoken with some other people who have also been dropped, and what we’d like to know is if you would make everybody stop at the top at the golf course and regroup, that way we could all be together until the next lap, and then after we all got dropped you could wait for us again and then we’d do that for all six laps and it would be like doing intervals on the Amalfi Ride that they do over in West L.A.

Hopefully,
Dudley Duffersmith

Dear Dudley:

First, it’s not my ride and I don’t control how people ride it. If you want people to wait for you then at the start you should say to everyone in a loud voice before rolling out, “Hey, guys and girls, please wait for me after I get dropped, okay?” Then each person can decide how he or she wants to proceed. The Amalfi Ride is indeed a regroup-and-wait ride, yes, it certainly is.

Respectfully,
Wankmeister

Dear Wankscum:

I am sick of getting dropped by all the snooty SPY wankers on the Flog Ride. How come you don’t regroup? The thing that’s awesome about the NPR is that everyone stays together. Or at least make a B Ride. Quit being such an asshole, okay?

Pissedly,
Peter Peckinpaw

Dear Peter:

You’re being unfair. Your’re not just getting dropped by SPY, you’re also getting dropped by the Big O wankers, the Surf City wankers, and the Monster Media wankette. Have you noticed that the no-drop NPR goes off on Thursday at exactly the same time as the Flog Ride? Hint, hint.

Libertarianally,
Wankmeister

Dear Wankmeister:

You SPY guys reek of elitism and exclusiveness. Get over yourselves, and while you’re at it please let’s do a regroup at the top and also have a B Ride and maybe also a C Ride for the people who can’t ride with the B’s. Really. I’m serious.

Frowningly,
Tess Tookingham

Dear Tess:

Rather than pointing to SPY’s elitism and alleged exclusivity, please let me point you to their fourth quarter results. How did they do this? By having a happy disrespect for the usual way of looking at things. In most cycling communities, when a ride is too hard, it gets watered down with a B, C, and D ride. Then “no-drop” rules get instituted. Before long, you know what happens? Someone like Tony Manzella goes out and creates a Dogtown Ride, which shreds everyone until people start complaining and the watering down starts all over again. Our Thursday Flog Ride is an alternative to the usual way of doing things. It was thought up by a creative genius, and the participants like hard rides. If it will make you feel any better (it won’t), everyone eventually gets dropped. Especially me.

Shelled but happy,
Wanky

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