March 28, 2018 § 2 Comments
Great night of racing at the Telo training crit last night, filled with action and #faketactics. Smasher smashed away from the field about halfway through and was never caught despite the disorganized and haphazard efforts of the chasers, who included Heavy D., Tony Wang, Shiftless, Dr. Whaaaat?, Hair, and me.
Cameo appearances by Prez, Wily Greek, and Junkyard enhanced their own personal fun of getting kicked out the back and fighting the 20 mph headwind alone for an hour.
Team Lizard Collectors used its four riders in the chase to perfectly set up Hair, who rides for Methods to Winning, for the field sprunt, which he easily nailed as the Lizards shouted at each other, watched Heavy D. ride randomly, and vigorously chased down each other’s attacks.
It never occurred to the Lizards to take turns attacking Hair, who happily sat in while watching his chances go from one-in-six to 100%. Smasher was awarded a coveted loaf of bread for his efforts. Hair, who got second, got nothing, and I, who got third, got the best prize of all: A ride home.
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October 27, 2015 § 13 Comments
I see all kinds of weird shit on the bike. Here’s a list of things that you don’t need to try because they’ve already been done and they suck.
- Rear wheel pitch-back. Tomorrow will be a great day not to jump out of the saddle with someone on your wheel and throw your bike back six inches. Go ahead! Don’t try it!
- Architectural digest. Next time you’re riding along the crowded bike path, take a couple of hours not to ogle the oceanfront homes. You can’t afford them and you’re about to run over that small child’s testicles. So go ahead! Don’t look!
- First thong of spring. She’s not just old enough to be your granddaughter, she is your granddaughter, and someone much younger and virile than you has already staked his claim. So don’t enjoy the view. Look straight ahead.
- Uh-oh shift. When the road kicks up, don’t wait until you’re about to tip over before shifting in that horrible grinding way that sounds like someone is emptying a gravel truck. Go ahead! Don’t not shift in advance!
- Sticky shower. Next time you gobble a mouthful of sugary energy drink goop, swallow without dribbling a few tablespoons of spray on the rider or bike behind you. Go ahead! Don’t attract so many flies when you ride!
- Rubber beggar. You’ve flatted because it was easier and cheaper to put the 12,200-and-first mile on that threadbare tire, and now’s your chance not to beg a spare tire worth $9.99 from a kindly companion. Go ahead! Buy your own fucking tubes and CO2 cartridge!
- Window into eternity. Sure those see-through white bib shorts are vintage and covered with a shiny patina. Problem is, so’s your furry bunghole. Go ahead! Don’t cause PTSD a-la-Brad House to whomever’s behind you–put on a pair of undies or better yet, buy a fresh pair of bibs.
- It’s only time. Group ride coming up? Try showing up BEFORE the roll-out time rather than 15 minutes AFTER. Go ahead! Show your pals that you know what it means when the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the eight!
- Weebles wobble. Galloping into the sprunt with legit riders? Now’s the perfect time to not charge to the front and show your mettle. Go ahead! Stop pedaling and float to the back of the bus and out of the way, where the only person you’re likely to harm is yourself.
- Mansplaining. See a new rider who’s in desperate need of your keen advice? Go ahead! STFU, or introduce yourself and try to remember their name. He/she’ll probably be riding you off his/her wheel in a couple of weeks anyway!
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August 25, 2015 § 9 Comments
We used to call him “Prez.” Or “Frankendave.” Or “Wanker.” Or just plain “Get the fuck away from me for fuck’s sake!”
But not any more.
After his stellar, superhuman performance at the CBR Crit and Fake Wanky Monopoly Money Primefest, our very own South Bay bomber from Puerto Rico redefined human performance on a bike.
Henceforth he shall always be referred to simply as “Leadout.”
It all started like it always does. When Leadout asked his team the race plan, they gave the usual answer: “Don’t get near me or I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Hang out at the back until one to go, then hang out there for two more laps.”
“Who are you and why are you wearing our team kit?”
But Leadout wasn’t deterred because he never is. It was late August, when most racers, having begun in January, had already hung it up for the year, but not Leadout. He was peaking for the last two parking lot crits of the year and he was going to deliver Team Boss, the fastest human in America not seated in an airplane, to victory.
Here is the video of this crushing, devastating performance by Leadout which gifted Team Boss with the win. Since it is one of the most complex and amazing sprint performances in cycling history, it requires detailed narration. The genius of Leadout isn’t always clear without a roadmap.
00:18 Terrible music coming into Turn 4 with one lap to go. Red Socks is the first designated man in Team Boss’s leadout train.
00:22 Scrum tightens into and out of Turn 4. Everyone wants to be near the front but not on it. Red Socks begins to assume the position.
00:23 Leadout is on the left of your screen, squeezed between bright green bike on the right and black kit on the left. Overlapped wheels don’t scare Leadout. Leadout’s teammate Orange Bike, on right of green bike, is the No. 2 designated pilot fish in Team Boss’s leadout train.
00:27 Still kind of scrum-ish as the sharp end of the peloton approaches the start/finish and the bell signals one lap to go.
00:32 Red Socks to the right, and 300-year-old Bustemup Bart in the bright green bike on the left, with a giant, swollen blue whale in the slot that looks suspiciously like a race promoter we all know and love.
00:44 Red Socks punches through on the outside. It’s showtime, and Orange Bike slots in behind him, assuming the position for real.
00:47 Just off Orange Bike and slightly to the right, Team Boss slots in. The trifecta is now complete. Red Socks will accelerate to terminal velocity, Orange Bike will drag the Team Boss grenade through the final corner, and it will detonate across the line leaving vitrified dreams of glory in its wake.
1:07 They’re approaching Turn 3. Team Boss is on the right, tucked in behind Orange Bike. The cameraman, Sausage, is wondering what Debbie’s going to say when he breaks the same shoulder on the same course on the same Turn 3 in the first race back since his surgery.
1:09 Red Socks explodes as they approach Turn 3, about to jam through the turn and deposit Orange Bike for the final glory pull.
1:18 BUT WHAT’S THIS? LOOK, THERE ON THE RIGHT! IT’S A BIRD! IT’S A PLANE! IT’S A ROCKETSHIP! IT’S A WANKER! NOOOOOOO …….. It’s Leadout!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
1:19 Leadout explodes up the right hand side coming into Turn 3 with Team Boss on his wheel! Well, Team Boss isn’t technically on Leadout’s wheel, it’s Sausage, the guy with the camera. But it’s the thought that counts.
1:21 Team Boss is off to the right. “WTF?”
1:22 Leadout has blasted up the side and created a perfect, wide-open alley for Sausage and a handful of other fresh riders, all glued up to Leadout’s rear wheel.
1:24 Coming through Turn 4 Leadout is fourth wheel and Sausage is now neatly tucked in behind him. Too bad ol’ Team Boss missed his own train, heh, heh. Shoulda checked the fuggin’ schedule!
1:45 Orange Bike is approaching Turn 4 at warp speed. The victory train has derailed. Leadout has led out five fresh riders and Team Boss is nowhere in sight.
1:53 But wait! Team Boss isn’t done! After the fantastic setup by Leadout, he’s not about to waste his chance! Team Boss, despite being boxed in, punches a hole through the concrete wall with his fist! Time to thank Leadout for all his hard work bringing those five, no six, fresh guys through the last turn and getting rid of pesky teammates Red Socks and Orange Bike.
1:54 Five riders, including camera-ready Sausage, gallop to the line! It’s only three hundred yards away! Bustemup Bart is going to win for the first time since they invented the seed drill! All of Leadout’s great work leading out other team’s riders is paying off! Sucks to be you, Team Boss!
1:57 Out of gas, out of real estate, out of cards, and out of luck, Team Boss decides, with only two hundred yards left to catch five fresh riders who have almost crossed the line, that it’s time to pedal his bike because even with a super pro leadout like the one he got from Leadout, it ain’t over, baby, ’til it’s over.
2:01 Team Boss nails it at the line, and after the race throws his arms around Leadout in a big friendly hug that looks like a punch to the face. Couldn’t have done it without Leadout!
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June 15, 2015 § 14 Comments
When people sniffing around the edges of competitive cycling ask me about bike racing, I always tell them this: Preparation is key.
Not, of course, that there are any such people, but if there were that is what I would tell them.
And of all the critical preparations, none is more important than nutrition. Since Mrs. WM abandoned me for a 3-month orgy of Japanese food and home cooking courtesy of her mom, the world’s best cook in a nation of great cooks, I have been making do admirably because nutritional preparation is key to major races like the CBR crit #6.
This is a major race even though, despite diligently promoting the hell out of it and shaking the crust off my teammates to get them to show up, CHRIS LOTTS STILL HASN’T COMPED A SINGLE FUGGIN’ RACE ENTRY.
Anyway, I wanted to do well at this race and so I prepared nutritionally for it. However, the day before the race we were running low on food, well, actually we’ve been running low on food for a long time now since I’ve decided to boycott the supermarket until we eat through the stores that MRS. WM HAD LAID UP IN ANTICIPATION OF THREE NUCLEAR WINTERS.
This isn’t a contradiction; we are running low on fresh foods but not on flour, for example. You can’t have enough flour, and we don’t not have enough.
So sure, it’s going to be hard to eat all that flour, but not as hard as it will be to eat the twelve large cans of salt. So getting ready for the race meant preparing some flour and salt. Fortunately, the one thing Mrs. WM had left an ample supply of was Nestle chocolate chips. She bakes cookies once every three years, so we had twelve bags of chocolate chips in case someone needed to get diabetes over the weekend.
“Honey,” I said before she left, “please don’t go to the store and buy anything. Whatever it is, we have enough.”
“Okay,” she said.
Later that afternoon she came in, loaded down with grocery bags. “Did you just go grocery shopping?” I asked.
“I thought I asked you not to.”
“I didn’t buy any ‘food’ food.”
“What did you buy?”
“Toilet paper and chocolate chips.”
“But we already have twelve bags and I’m on a diet.”
She smiled and unloaded the bags.
The night before the race I took out the flour and butter and sugar and salt and baking soda and vanilla extract and chocolate chips and pecans, and I made a giant bowl of cookie dough for dinner. It was getting late and I didn’t feel like cooking because I wasn’t sure how the oven worked so I took out the peanut butter and Nutella jars and the remainder of the ice cream and put it all on top of the cookie dough and ate a couple of big bowls and drank some milk and a lot of coffee and then I went to bed.
The next morning I didn’t feel very good but I felt worse after breakfast, which was more cookie dough. For vegetables I sauteed an onion and some garlic and mixed it with Cheerios because I’d drunk all the milk the night before.
At the bike race I saw Prez, the most well prepared bike racer in history. He always gets to the race early to warm up, and this time was no exception. He’d arrived eight whole minutes before the race started, which is a long time for him. He was in a great mood. “Hey, Wanky,” he said. “Guess what?”
“I forgot my bike bag and don’t have any shoes. And my bike.”
Pretty soon twelve people were scurrying around to find him a pair of shoes. No one would loan him any because his foot fungus is pretty infamous, but a Cat 5 who didn’t know any better offered up a pair of New Bongasnoop Xtra Race Shoes. They were four sizes too big but Prez didn’t care.
“Hey,” he shouted to no one in particular, “does anyone have a helmet I can borrow?”
Someone did, but they knew that no helmet on Prez’s head is safe, so we ended up going up and down the line of parked cars trying to find one that was unlocked. We did and borrowed a really nice $400 POC aero helmet. “I’ll put it back as soon as I’m finished,” Prez said as we checked to make sure the sheriff patrol wasn’t around.
Back at the starting line with one minute to go Prez yelled to the onlookers. “Does anyone have a bike? I forgot my bike.”
He was in fact the only fully kitted out, aero-helmeted guy on the line without a bike. The same Cat 5 guy who just wanted to be nice gave Prez his $10,000 carbon bike with full carbon wheels and 100% carbon. “Be careful!” he said.
“That’s my middle name!” Prez said, pleased that he’d be able to wreck someone else’s machine this weekend.
With two laps to go Prez, who is the key lead-out man for Surf City’s train, roared up through the pack to take control of the lead-out and give his boss, Charon Smith, another lightning bolt pull to victory. “Dammit, Prez!” Charon shouted, “you’re doing it again!”
Prez had boxed in his boss, forced him into the curb, and was about to take out his front wheel. “Sorry!” he said, but not before the sound of screaming, cursing, and twelve broken bikes rent the air. A loose wheel arced overhead, temporarily blotting out the sun. Prez stepped on the gas, took out four people, ran over a pylon, hit a small child on the sidewalk, bounced off a tree, and flipped into a tent. The poor Cat 5’s bike shattered into a billion pieces at the poor kid’s feet.
Prez staggered to his feet, shading his eyes to watch Charon hit the jets and win his 67th victory of the season. As the poor Cat 5 cried inconsolably, sobbing about the five years it had taken him to save up for his bike, Prez stripped off the fungal shoes and patted him on the back. “Don’t worry sonny,” he said, “next time you just need to be a a little bit better prepared.”
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February 2, 2015 § 19 Comments
I’m an idiot. I know this because I subscribe to Science, a magazine that makes me feel silly, innumerate, and illiterate every time it arrives in the mailbox. Since I can’t understand anything in it, when I read an article I play a game called “Name that acronym.” Here’s how it works:
Each Science article is chock-full of acronyms, for example TCRs, MHC, CEBAF, and “the EMC effect.” Since I’ll never understand any of it no matter how much time I spend on Wikipedia, I content myself with memorizing what the acronym stands for. So, each time I see the acronym in the article, I repeat to myself the fully spelled-out word. T-Cell Receptor. Major Histocompatibility Complex. Continuous Electron Beam Accelerator Facility. The European Muon Collaboration Effect.
What the fugg does any of it mean? No idea. But at the end of each article instead of feeling like a complete moron, I just feel like an idiot.
At our SPY-Giant-RIDE p/b GQ-6 profamateur Team Camp and Poser Assembly the day before the Boulevard Road Race I was listening to one of the presentations about energy drinks when I happened to notice that in one of the slides, in super tiny print, someone had written a paragraph that mentioned “mTOR.”
I jumped out of my chair. “Mechanistic target of rapamycin!” I yelled. Everyone stared.
“Excuse me?” said the presenter.
“Mechanistic target of rapamycin! It says it right there!”
“What are you talking about, dude? And could you please quit shouting? And sit down?”
I did as he said and he continued with the slide. King Harold tapped me on the shoulder. “What the fugg did you just say?”
“Mechanistic target of rapamycin,” I whispered breathlessly, pointing at the slide. “Right there! mTOR is the abbreviation for mechanistic target of rapamycin.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, patting me. “Just calm down and tell me what the hell it means. Can you use it in a sentence?”
“No,” I said. “I only memorized it from the acronym.”
“You’re a complete idiot,” he said.
Derek is not an idiot
This year I had decided to race the 40+ masters category at Boulevard because it was 22 miles longer than the 44-mile race for the 50+ leaky prostate category. My reasoning was simple: Since I had no chance of doing well in the 2-lap race with people my own age, perhaps I could do better in a 3-lap race with people who were much younger and faster and better than all of the people in the 50+ race put together.
In other words, it was an idiotic plan.
My friend Derek, however, who is ten years younger and who is easily one of the best road racers in his age class, had a very good plan. In order to win the season opening, most prestigious race of the year he would have his whole team line up to support him (except for Prez, who would spend the day drinking coffee with his feet up on the table). Even the sprinter dudes who could generally be expected to explode into tiny flecks of muscle and mush after the first climb were there to help.
With his full team at the race (except for Prez, who would spend the day drinking coffee with his feet up on the table), Derek’s team would send off bulletproof sprinter “Red Bull” Wike to cover any early moves. Team Captain Charon Smith would then ride the front to keep the field in check by threatening to knock down anyone who tried to pass by flexing his massive calves, which are wider than most mobile homes.
Rob the Blob would follow potential threats and neutralize them with stories of the hundreds of races he has won since 1996, one or two of which might actually have happened. Finally, team assassin Shawn van Gassen would mark potential attacks to make sure that SCC would have a man in any bridge move.
Next, Derek the Destroyer would either wait for or initiate a move on the third lap, crack the field with his wicked acceleration, and either time trial to victory or outsprunt his breakaway companions at the line.
In order to properly set the chessboard for this Sicilian Dragon opening, only one key move was left: Prevent “Full Gas” Phil Tinstman from pinning on a number, since he was the previous winner of the race in 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, and 2014, as well as the holder of a string of victories from 1897-1956. Phil’s exclusion was achieved thanks to a terrible case of intestinal rumblings that left him standing on the sidelines, never more than two quick steps from the port-o-potties and two fistfuls of toilet paper.
As the race began I knew that I was a guppy in a shark tank. We shot through the first long downhill section, and as the speeds hit 55 mph on the turns, a massive cloudburst unleashed. Several riders skidded off the road, tattooing the asphalt with sheets of skin and copious quantities of bright red ink. We were very worried about them, but not really.
As the race unfolded, Derek’s team hewed to the plan. Red Bull Wike went with Crafty Coxworth in the early move and then detonated, sending Lycra and carbon shrapnel for miles into the air. Charon clogged the lane and prevented attacks by periodic calf flexes. Assassin van Gassen cut the heads off of would-be pursuers. The torrid pace continued as we hit the first long climb on the Green Road, with tattered and broken posers coming off the back in droves.
My personal race summary is as follows:
Lap 1: I felt like Eddy.
Lap 2: I was dropped, unlike Eddy.
Lap 3: I chased back on and was then throttled at the railroad tracks, struggling in alone for a pathetic 34th place.
Race day is payday, baby
For Derek the Destroyer, however, it was a tour de force. At the top of the brutal climb on Lap 2, Easter Egg ripped away from the tattered peloton like a giant piece of Velcro. Derek, Ollie, and Some English Dude on Vacation in California Who Showed Up out of the Blue followed the ripping attack of Easter Egg.
Now I don’t know about you, but when a 6′ 4″ dude who always carries a gun because he’s in the FBI and whose primary assignment is the liquidation of high value targets decides to ride away from you, I think that generally you should let him go.
But they didn’t. After a pulverizing four-man TT to establish the break the leaders eventually fell victim to Spontaneous Breakaway Degeneration Disease, an illness that strikes riders who aren’t close enough to the line to go it alone but who don’t want to work any more in order to be fresh for the sprunt.
As they turned onto the final 4-mile climb, the Destroyer turned to Easter Egg. “You gonna pull?”
“I didn’t race at all last year. I’m not going so well.”
“Is it your kid’s birthday?”
“Are you gonna sprint at the end?”
“It’s a bike race.”
“Thanks,” said the Destroyer. “That’s all I need to know.”
And then as they started up the climb, the Destroyer asked himself “WWFGD?”
What would Full Gas do?
Full Gas Phil would, of course, attack, and he would attack so hard that if you were still hanging around you would decide that second place was infinitely preferable to the stroke you would suffer if you tried to chase.
And so the Destroyer attacked. The other breakaway riders crumpled like tin cans beneath the wheel of a fully loaded, onrushing 18-wheeler. The Destroyer twisted the dial up to 300 watts and held it all the way to the line–a team win if there ever was one.
I dragged myself across the line a very, very, very, very long time later. My buddies Jan, Dean, and Honey were waiting for me with hot coffee, a towel, and lots of great excuses mixed with fake praise. “You looked good out there.”
“It was a fast pace today.”
“You finished before midnight.” Etc.
Then Derek walked over with his smoking hot wife and his hand on an envelope. He was nattily attired in the fanciest apres-ski cycling apparel, which generally means a clean t-shirt and pants. “How’d you do?” I asked.
“I won,” he said. “Thanks to the team.”
“And Prez,” I added. “You couldn’t have done it without Prez.”
Derek handed me the envelope. “Here’s some cash for your blog, man. I don’t do PayPal.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, thinking guiltily about the similarly generous gift that Dandy Andy had handed me the day before and that I’d immediately cashed and spent on craft water. “But if you insist … ”
“I do,” he said.
And suddenly, although I still felt like an idiot, I didn’t exactly feel like a loser any more.
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December 21, 2014 § 16 Comments
If you want to be a profamateur in SoCal you had better follow these rules.
- A week has two days: off days (1) and ride days (6).
- Buy full-carbon wheels for the annual fun ride.
- Never test, try out, or adjust trick equipment until five minutes before the race begins on race day.
- Always wear skinsuit, teardrop, and shoe covers on the coffee ride.
- Call the plumbing shop, ambulance chaser, and web designer on your jersey “my sponsors.”
- 5-10 minutes after getting shelled and falling into a grupetto, talk about who you think is doping.
- Whenever anyone suggests anything (movie, anniversary dinner, child’s talent show, free vacation to Monaco) ask yourself, “How will this affect my training plan?”
- Have at least one coach to analyze, critique, and fine tune the training plan of your other coach.
- The off season is when you train at race speeds and intensity.
- The race season is when you recover for the off season.
- Don’t ever acknowledge on or off the bike anyone you’ve ever beaten in a race.
- Hire a dietician.
- Often say, “They can test me anytime, anywhere.”
- Always color-coordinate.
- Wrap your car, or better yet, your Mercedes Sprinter van.
- Anything done by Prez or Charon.
- [Add your SoCal profamateur rule here.]END
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November 20, 2014 § 7 Comments
Our team leader sent us all a link to an article about how to improve our crit racing. Here’s the link.
Now, our team leader knows what he’s talking about because he’s won a ton of big crits, so it makes sense that he would send us advice about how we can win, too. Unfortunately, his optimism is clouded by the massive cumulonimbus of reality. The only people who are ever going to win crits are the ones who already win crits. Instead, I wish he would have sent us an article about crit strategies for people who are hopeless and who have zero chance of ever crossing the line first.
I googled “tips for hopeless crit racing wankers” and got no hits except for a profile on some dude named Chris Lotts. So I thought I would type up some hopeless wanker crit racing tips and share them with you, because let’s face it, you ain’t ever gonna fuggin’ win a crit. Ever.
- Don’t fuggin’ crash. This is the number one rule for crit racing. If you’re a winner, you will sometimes fall off your bicycle because you have to take risks, bang bars, check timber, and see who’s testosterone is the stinkiest. Everyone else doesn’t have a fuggin’ chance, especially you, so don’t go home with your nuts covered in road rash. When you have to choose between taking the aggressive line or falling back 30 places, you sure as fugg better cower, brake, and give way. “How come your balls are all skinned up?” is not the question you want to have to answer when you get home.
- Don’t fuggin’ sprint. Are you in the top five coming through the last turn? Of course not! You’re a fat fuggin’ wanker who’s lucky to be in 65th place with his epidermis intact. Sit the fugg up and coast. Let the other knuckleheads battle it out for 64th place, ’cause one of them is going down. On his face. And his name is Prez.
- Don’t fuggin’ attack. You know who attacks? Winners, that’s who. Chubby, stub-legged wankers on $10k bikes are not going off the front for more than 10 yards, and if they do it’s on Lap 3. Go to the fuggin’ back of the bus where you belong. Even if you did get into a break, you’d be shelled. Instantly. Save your energy for the Internet chat forums after the race where your handle is “CritStud” and nobody fuggin’ knows you’re a greasy-fingered Cheetos addict with a saggy ass and a Cat 5 racing license.
- Don’t fuggin’ wait. You know the idiot who burns all his matches drilling it at the front in the first four laps? Sure you do, because that idiot is YOU. Let’s face it, when the screws get turned on the last five laps you’ll be so far back that your girlfriend will need a fuggin’ telescope to see your saggy ass. So, the time to do the glory pull is NOW. Early and often, then sink to the rear and soft pedal. All you need to be able to say is “Didja see me?” and get a cool head-of-the-field glory shot by Danny Munson or Phil Beckman. Fuggin’ winning.
- Panic like a motherfugger. When the race starts you should already have crapped four times and be nervouser than a tuna fish at a sushi cooking class. Veer like a crazyfugg from right to left, bounce off other racers like a pinball, charge the fuggin’ inside line on crowded, tight turns, and scream at everyone like you’ve got Ebola and can’t wait to share it. It’s the only way you’ll move up. To 55th.
- Complain about the fuggin’ prize list. So what if you finished 84th? Let the fuggin’ cheapass promoter know that if he’d been giving out hundred dollar bills instead of old socks you would have lapped the field. If he’s giving out hundred dollar bills tell him he’s a sellout fugghead for commercializing our pure sport and you finished 98th as a protest. If he punches you in the face it’s because you fuggin’ deserved it.
- Tell the officials they fuggin’ suck. Even a genius like you can’t win when the game’s rigged, and the game-riggers are the fuggin’ cheatfugg officials. Tell ’em! Remind the zebras about how when you rode bandit in the Ol’ Scratchynuts Century where there were NO fuggin’ USA Cycling officials, you finished in the money, and her name was Zelda.
- Make the winners fear your fuggin’ gap. So what if you corner like a battleship with a broken rudder? There’s no reason the winners should benefit from that. Hustle towards the front and do your patented full-brake-plus-gap-out pedal stroke into the turn, opening up 12 bike lengths that everyone else has to sprint around. Are they mad? Do they yell and bitch? Does it make them tired? Sucks to be them, fuggers.
- Bounce your fuggin’ check. The d-bags promoting your event don’t deserve to eat, so always pay for your race with a bad check. They’ll never turn it over to the D.A., and the joke’s on them for taking money from a guy like you with road rash on his nuts anyway. It’s more fun than banditing a century, because the promoter has to pay a bad check fee to boot. Sucks to be him, fugger!
- Piss in the fuggin’ bushes. Just because the fuggin’ maroon promoter paid to have 15 port-o-potties doesn’t mean you have to use them. Whip out Mr. Business when the bag is full and whizz anywhere you want, especially if it’s near little kids or first time wives who’ve come to see their man race. If they think it’s a family affair, they got another think coming, especially when they see what a big ol’ handful of veined-up purplish manly wood looks like while they’re feeding animal crackers to the kids and grandma.
Anyway, I hope this helps all you aspiring crit racers out there. Good luck!
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