July 5, 2017 § 28 Comments
One of the things about getting old is that the thrill goes away. What thrill? Every thrill.
You see it in your relatives, for example, who go batshit crazy about religion, or they become rabid racists, or they become recalcitrant conservatives who subscribe to the philosophy of “Everything for me, nothing for you.”
This is why I love riding my bike with other crazy people. It is flat fucking thrilling. If you don’t do it you won’t ever understand it.
Take today, Independence Day. It started with an NPR smashfest of epic proportions. Rumor had it that numerous baby seals had gotten too big for their pelts and needed a good skinning. Sure enough, on Lap 1 vast numbers of bleating pinnipeds got shucked out the back, only to play Hop-In-Wanker, reattach on the flip-flop, and get shelled again.
Rather than seventy baby seals sprunting vigorously for the win after sitting in and munching fresh sardines for four laps, at the end there was a tiny group of about fifteen, of whom only five or six had any legs at all. The clubbing and skinning were epic as Charon ended the hopes and dreams of all the sad-faced baby seals.
Then we did the Holiday Ride, 150-strong from the Center of the Known Universe, hooking up with another 100+ group in Marina del Rey, and barreling through Santa Monica to San Vicente. But today those of us who had smashed on the NPR moved the finish line from the top of Mandeville to the top of San Vicente, and the seal pups were denied the leisurely pedal to which they have become accustomed.
Instead, Cory Williams, Smasher, G3, and one or two other clubbers began crushing skulls at the bottom of San Vicente, skinning well over a hundred baby seals before we reached the top of San Vicente.
After the left-hander, a shameless group of La Grunge Hop-In-Wankers jumped into the mix and turned a 30-mile race to the bottom of Mandeville into a 1-mile downhill pedal followed by a 15-minute smash up the hill on fresh legs. They were crowned glorious winners, sweeping the imaginary podium and getting six out of the top ten fake slots, but their hop-in antics earned no approbation from the clubbers who’d been at it from the beginning of the ride.
Was that all the excitement and thrill? No!
Next was a bitter, hand-to-hand fight to the death at the annual Helen’s Cycles July 4th Sale, where cyclists poured through the doors and battled tooth and toenail to get unbelievable discounts on shoes, socks, BonkBreakers, bikes, helmets, and other useless stuff. The KOM was won by some dude from Malibu, who spent $15,000 in fifteen minutes.
Bar bumping, seal pelt skinning, vicious motoring, Mandeville uphill time trailing, it was a morning filled with adrenaline, testosterone (natural and added), and more fireworks than the Chinese New Year. But was that all? No that was not all!
We got home to find out that Mark Cavendish, sprinter extraordinaire, had been tutored by our very own James Doyle, the local wanker who squeezed through a non-existent slot and took out veteran Johnny Walsh. Unlike the UCI, however, who quickly reached a decision on the matter, USAC continues to drag its feet, twiddle its thumbs, review the tapes, and stick their thumb up a dark smelly place, paralyzed and unable to make a simple disciplinary decision about an outrageous move.
All of that and it wasn’t even noon …
The thrill? It’s alive and well and going strong. You can save your religious tirades for someone who GAF … because it ain’t me.
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January 13, 2016 § 34 Comments
The average time that it takes a 1mm fracture in your pelvis to completely heal is 5-6 months. During that time it is important to exercise in such a way as to bring increased blood circulation to the fracture site, yet not to “overdo it” such that the soft tissue around the fracture becomes inflamed.
The best thing to do is to let pain be your guide as to any rehab program. Moderate pain is to be expected, whereas severe or excruciating pain likely indicates further damage or re-injury of the fracture.
Full resumption of pre-fracture, intense activities should not be resumed until at least five, preferably six months after the injury.
I had all this in mind as I rode to the NPR this morning, fully aware that I was merely seven weeks into the Wanky Rehab Plan. Then I became even more fully aware as the ride kicked up Pershing and gravity plus wind resistance plus speed forced me to the tail end of the 80-plus gaggle of flailing idiots.
As we made the sweeping turn for our first lap on Westchester Krapway, a place where I am accustomed to land the first blow, I grit my teeth firmly around my small intestine, hanging by a thread to the wheel of Scrubby Carbuncle, a poor fellow who, resplendent in his new 2016 team kit, had failed to adequately prepare for the physical stresses about to be placed on the fabric when it almost ripped after Scrubby doubled to his normal size by enormous gasps, and as a result began to gap me out as the massive, spiked Baby Seal Club of Turncoat Cobley swung a mighty blow across Scrubby’s tiny seal testicles.
The gap widened and there was nothing I could do. Slow of leg, weak of spirit, and fractured of pelvis I watched the gap widen as this–MY HOME RIDE–punched me in the kidney and prepared to drop me on the first acceleration of the very first lap.
Fate intervened, though, which was bad, because the brief stop at the first red light allowed me to catch back on, something as happy as, saying, getting the opportunity to ram your dangling, bloody stump back into the garbage disposal a second time.
I skittered briefly off the front only to hear the whooshing of The Club, this time being swung by the mighty G$. It cracked me across the nape of the neck and sent me hurtling to the back, where, instead of dying on the wheel of Scrubby, who had been skinned and had his bloody carcass dripping with entrails tossed into the maw of the rear-pack sharks who gnawed his guts while spinning in the slipstream of the mighty clubbers on the point.
Now my savior was the rear wheel of Daisy O’Doodle, a nice enough person who was suffering the slings and arrows of an outrageous clubbing by Benedict Alverson, Sausage, and the gore-soaked South Bay Baby Seal, who had graduated from the ranks of the skinned into the ranks of the dickstompers.
Daisy’s skull split with the first whack of The Club, and as she sank to floor of the ice floe I felt huge shooting pains fire up into my crack, the tender fibers of barely knitted bone infused with the unholy fire of nerves being stimulated with red-hot coals. My tender nutsack, barely joined to my pelvic crack, dangled and jangled with each blow of the The Club as I shuddered and swayed, pushing harder than hard to close the four-foot gap which threatened to mushroom into a solid quarter mile.
By the final lap the monsters of the deep had taken over, with the Williams brothers, national clubber Holloway, Nutjob Pedalbeater, Dawg, Benedict Smasher, Baby Seal, Turncoat Cobley, and a host of murderers forming a final arrow that flew from the bowstring directly through the throats of all pretenders. I finished so far back I had to read about the sprunt in the newspaper.
At the post-coital lie and whopper exchange at CotKU, I required three people to help me dismount. After coffee I pedaled home at record slow pace, my tightened and aching bones barely able to turn the pedals.
Later that morning I had my first appointment with Dr. Patchumup, the bone guy who had diagnosed my strained nutsack as a broken pelvis.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Great,” I lied.
“What kind of activities are you doing now to help with your rehab?”
“Oh, just the usual.”
“You know, walking slowly in a heated pool. Stretching on my bed in the mornings. Trying not to move too quickly or to overstress anything.”
“Good,” he said. “Keep it up and you’ll be back on your bike by June at the latest.”
“Okay, doc,” I said obediently. “I will.”
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October 9, 2013 § 32 Comments
Several baby seals, confused by the vicious clubbing and strewing of brain matter about the Parkway, have sent me emails requesting to know the “rules” by which the NPR is organized. Although the typical answer to such inquiries is a vicious blow to the head and skinning, I’ve decided to answer. Here they are.
- There are no rules.
- There is no off season.
- If you didn’t go to the front repeatedly until you aspirated your own shit, you didn’t do the NPR.
- First wanker to cross the plane of the starting point of the third island on the fourth lap wins.
- The group must obey all traffic laws.
- The break must break all traffic laws.
- If you are repeatedly towards the front but rarely on it, you are a baby seal, worthless except for clubbing.
- If you are towards the front and don’t pull through, you are a baby seal, worthless except for clubbing.
- If you won the sprunt and didn’t take at least five shit-aspirating pulls, you are a baby seal, worthless except for clubbing.
- Do not let your head droop, lest you become a baby seal, worthless except for clubbing.
- NPR is terrible training, therefore you must do it to win or to aspirate your own shit.
- One point for the win; most points by the annual South Bay Cycling Awards is crowned Champion of the NPR.
- The noblest NPR win is solo.
- The second noblest win is out of a break.
- The third noblest win is by beating another team’s leadout train.
- The most ignoble win is by following wheels.
- All wins are equal.
- On the NPR, Strava is for shit.
- Better to dig, blow, and get shelled than to follow and finish with the group.
- Everyone knows the wheelsucks.
- One all-out effort at the front equals an entire year of FB wheelsuckery.
- The nastier the weather, the greater the cred.
- The highest form of NPR-ism is pushing the weak when you’re gassed.
- Advice is better spoken than screamed with flecks of spit and snot dribbling around your mouth.
- No one forgets.
- NPR-ists always forgive.
- Thou shalt never brag about taking a pull. Those who matter saw it. Those who didn’t, think you’re a lying sack of shit.
- The only thing lower than a baby seal is a shrimpdick who chops a chick’s wheel.
- If you “join the group” after the bump up Pershing, you are a baby seal, worthless except for clubbing.
- If you reach World Way Ramp without having aspirated your own shit, you are a baby seal, worthless except for clubbing.
- When in doubt, go to the front.
That is all.