November 22, 2015 § 70 Comments
From the tires:
We had been in the box for like a year. Are we ever getting out of this stupid closet? Then the light comes on and woooosh–uncoiled! So rad! And he stretches us out and pops us on the rim, oh baby that felt sooooo gooood! So we were like, “Hey rims!” and they were like, “Oh, you’re the new guys, huh? Hope you last longer than the last ones.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” we asked because we were nervous. “You’ll see, just don’t fuck it up.” We were stoked to be on these rims they were 100% carbon and made of full carbon, FastForward F4R’s, bitchin’! He aired us up and stuck in new tubes, so rad!
Then a couple of hours later we’re on the road! Contact patch! Felt soooo gooood! Then the full carbon frame was like, “Easy on the hairpin, you idiots go flat you’ll get aired up again, but I snap,” and we were like “We got this!” Sooo awesome! Whoooosh! We are the rubber that meets the road then we hit the hairpin and oh shit holy shit no way not our first day aw fuck and now we’re in the air which by the way is NOT where tires do their best work and he’s on the ground spewing blood and the rims are screaming and the frame is hollering and the derailleur is ground off and next thing you know we’re stuffed into the back of a car and he’s hauled off in an ambulance and we’re unloaded into the living room and everyone is PISSED. The rims are like, “You had one job, assholes,” and the frame won’t even talk to us. Then the rims are like, “Hope you like the dumpster and the junkheap, assholes, because he’s never going to ride 23’s again. At least the German guys never slid out.”
Now nobody will even talk to us. Will he really ditch us after one ride? We’re really scared. What if we wind up on that guy Cobley’s rims?
From the rims:
I knew it was gonna be bad. First off he puts a 23mm French dude on the back. He never uses 23’s. Then he puts a fuggin’ 25mm on the front. Who does that? I’ll tell you who, someone scrounging around in the closet for leftover tires who isn’t paying attention, that’s who. Match the tires for dogsake. And if you’re not gonna match ’em, put the skinny one up front and the fat one behind. Any idiot knows that, even him. We tried to tell him but he’s so busy not prying his thumbnails off with the tire lever he doesn’t listen.
Then we talk to the new guys, who are French. I got no problem with French people but they were so fuggin’ cocky and my French isn’t that good. I told ’em that there was $10k of real equipment riding on a hundred bucks of rubber, so be careful, especially your first day out. I told ’em not to try anything trick until the silicone coating from the factory has had a chance to wear off but they wouldn’t listen. No one ever listens to the rims, even though we see everything.
Plus I told them he’s very aggressive on the first hairpin so be ready. Just be fuggin’ ready. But nope. They sailed into it full bore. We all knew what was coming it was just a matter of how bad was it gonna hurt and would we all wind up at Predator Carbon Repair. But we really felt sorry for the rear derailleur because it was a right hander. Him and the right bar end and the right shifter were gonna get shredded. And they did. And who gets off scot-free? The tires, of course. The stupid cocky French tires.
From the groin:
I don’t pay any attention to the whole bike thing. I’m a muscle/ligament devoted to standing and ambulation and the whole bike thing is frankly stupid. Now if I were a collarbone I’d be a nervous wreck. I don’t know how those guys stand the stress. Every single day they are on the front line, and all it takes is a stick or a crack in the road or Joe Yule and bam you are in surgery with pins and bolts and knives and a catheter.
Or a hip. They have it worse. No flesh covering, they’re the first ones to hit the ground and when they break it’s nasty, not to mention elbows. Have you ever seen his elbows or his skin? Yeccccch. But me? Dude, I’ve got it pretty good. If you’re a groin and you get hurt on a bicycle you are doing it wrong.
So we’re sailing down VdM like we always do and the collarbones are whining “Back it off” like they always do and the hips are saying, “Brake a bit, dummy,” like they always do, and everyone’s all nervous while he acts like he’s the Master of the Universe zooming into that hairpin so leaned he could practically drag a knee but we’ve got these new French dudes down below and they don’t give a single fuck until they start sliding then we’re all airborne, but I frankly am not worried. Sucks to be them, maybe now he’ll think about golf. Then “Wham!” we hit and whoa! Right leg is latched in the pedal and left leg drags behind the bike and oh my dog I start to stretch and I’m like, “Hey, what the hell is THIS?” then I keep stretching and then tearing as he does the splits and suddenly I’m unconscious.
The next thing I remember this cute doctor is looking at his nuts and poking me. Are they going to splint the banana? What the hell do they even do for me? A groin sling? It hurts like hell. They stick a needle in his ass “This will relieve the pain” they say and it still hurts like hell. I’m like “Why is the ass getting the shot? It doesn’t even hurt.”
Everyone’s all happy, of course, “Glad nothing’s broken!” and shit like that and all I can think is, “Wait until you try to stand up and walk, you bastard. I may hang out around the sweaty nuts and the bruised banana and I may not pedal a bike but when it comes to walking, you’re gonna find out who’s boss.”
And he does, the big baby. He starts moaning and whining like a little girl and they have to put him in a fuggin’ wheelchair and then back home he hobbles around on crutches, every step I jab him so hard he breaks out in a sweat and pants. You ought to see him hobbling around like he’s got a four foot stick up his butt. So lame. I don’t even glance over at the stupid bike and tires, sitting in the corner all dejected. Serves them right.
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May 6, 2012 § 10 Comments
In the first stage of the 2012 Giro d’Italia,
Davis Phinney became the first American to win a stage in the Tour de France Taylor Phinney became the first American to win an ITT in this prestigious, 3-week event in which the world’s best doped athletes ride amongst some of the world’s lewdest, craziest, and most drunken sports fans.
Although the time trial is commonly regarded as the “race of truth” due to the test of each racer’s strength and skill against the inflexible constraints of the clock, experts agree that the rest of the Giro consists of a “race of lies.” Wankmeister lists the most notably mendacious events below.
Team Car Hang and Draft: Rider gets dropped, crashes, breaks his bike, has a bowel movement, and finds himself wayyyyy behind everyone else. Rider then grabs onto car, or gets motor-paced by team vehicle back to the group. In marathoning, this would be like having the leaders pull away from you, then having your supporters plop you on a moped and drive you back up to the front.
Beat the Cut Grupetto Scam: Big tours set time limits so that the podium girls can blow the commissaires before they have dinner with their wives. Riders who have no hope of finishing the 200-mile stage with 15,000 feet of climbing on the same day team up so that enough of them are together to prevent the majority of the field being kicked out of the race. In golf this this would be like having 95% of the players at the US Open spend 15 hours dawdling per round so that if the rules were enforced and the players DQ’d, the event would be cancelled.
Handshake Deal Sprint Rigging: Riders are in breakaway. Spindly no-hope wanker dude wants to win. Powerful, badass sprinter dude wants money. Done…the essence of sportsmanship, where a bold and crass financial transaction is packaged in adjectives like “courageous,” “canny,” “tactical,” and “surprise outcome.” In baseball they actually do this. It’s called “the Chicago Black Sox from the 1919 World Series.” And in cycling, it happens all the time.
Sprint Train Lameness: Alleged fast man with cool nickname like “Lion King,” “Manx Missile,” etc., is the fastest human being ever to ride a bike. So fast, in fact, that the only way he can beat solo sprinter dudes like Robbie McEwen who have to win on brains, balls, and brawn is by hiring the other ten fastest riders in the pro peloton and paying them to do nothing but drive him to the line. In college sports there’s an analogue. It’s called “Bear Bryant and the Alabama football program.”
Perfectly Timed Breakaway Catch: Riders are brainless doofuses who have no idea how to reel in a breakaway. So they hook their tiny brains up their race directors via radio to perfectly time the breakaway “catch” with 1k to go. The valiant escapees don’t get the chance to do the Handshake Deal Sprint Rig, and the Manx Misericordia gets to win the 15th Tour stage with his sprint train. In pro football it’s called “$50 million Quarterbacks Too Stupid To Call Their Own Plays.”
Domestique Donkey Food and Water Hustle: The word “domestique” in French means “put on your bitch suit you stupid skinny prick because I’m going to drive your sorry ass back and forth a hundred times to the team car per race to fetch water, food, and drugs so that I don’t have to work and can place in the race even though you’re just as good, probably better than me, but I’m more famous.” In football they are called “fullbacks,” “the practice team,” and “Tim Tebow.” I mean, why pay Cunego all that money just to find out he’s too weak to do the race on his own, when you can pay his bitch $12 to finish the race for him?
Domestique Donkey Wind Pull, Climb Pull, and Tempo Pull: Donkeys in bitch suits go the front and break the wind (saving protected douchebaguette 30% or more energy) while prima donna Brad Pride or Abandy Schleck get a peddie. Boys in bitch suits blow up, fall off the back, and barely make the time cut, then fail to get a team the following year because they have no UCI points. In soccer this would be like having the entire team get the ball in scoring position, then stop the game, and bring in Lionel Messi while the goalie stands off to the side and everyone else on the field just watches.
Multi-team Conspiracy: When a leader sucks and his whole team sucks, he will conspire with several other sucky teams to work against potential threats, breakaways, strong riders who race aggressively with panache, etc. This assures that the better funded, “cooler” team takes the win over that ugly dude from GS-Colnago-Pimplimiento-Ladies-Products-Cologne wearing the orange and pink and red and blue and green-striped kit. In basketball, this would be like two weak playoff teams agreeing to waylay Kobe on his way home from Whole Foods and break both his legs.
Sticky Bottle Scam: When a rider has been dropped (again) or has a blister on his pee-pee, the team car hands him a bottle and drags him several hundred yards closer to the pack. In swimming this would be like letting a dude jump into the water before everyone else.
Derailleur Adjustment Cheat: When a rider’s drugs aren’t working right and he needs to drop back to the team car to have the soigner ram the suppositories further up his ass with a fist, the team mechanic pretends to adjust the derailleur while pushing Dopey along for kilometers at a time. In auto racing this is called “The Pit,” and it’s the reason no one takes seriously a sport where you get to whip in and fill up with gas, change tires, have a smoke, and do quick photo sessions of Danica’s long, flowing pubic locks.
UCI Bio Passport Permanent Doping Visa: When a rider’s blood values have become so ridiculous that even a UCI drug tester can’t look at them without giggling, the entire governing body throws the program in the trash and issues every rider a doping visa, valid for entry into every race, and in every country (except Iran and North Korea). In football it’s called “Weight Training.” And it starts in junior high.