August 4, 2014 § 34 Comments
Born to Sam and Josephine Wannamaker sometime in the late 1980’s, and affectionately known as that “ass-pasting sorryfuk headwind beatdown in an office park,” Telo passed away peacefully on July 29, 2014 in Torrance, California at 6:00 PM when, for the first time in over 30 years, no one showed up.
Not even Brad “Elbows” House.
Telo was an incredible father to his several thousand lycra-clad children, all of whom showed up with dreams of victory and, for the most part, went home beaten and defeated. The unluckier ones went home with road rash and several thousand dollars worth of equipment damage.
Telo worked in the Tuesday Night Training Crit industry for over 30 years. He was truly a bike racer’s bike race, and left many an aspiring rider choking on his own puke, particularly after getting into an ill-advised break with Hair or Rudy. However, true to his training crit roots, Telo punished wheelsuckers just as much as those who braved the front. Every week for over thirty years countless wankers sat in the back “waiting for someone to bring back the break” only to find themselves part of a three-man flailaway, deserted by all and forced to quit early and take the shortcut home.
Telo’s greatest love was spending time with his family and friends, stomping on their genitals, and offering up a fun and rollicking 30-mph headwind on the backstretch. Telo loved nothing more than to watch a group of riders drill it on the tailwind, fantasizing that they were monsters, only to roll over and die when they hit the wall of wind half a lap later. Telo lived life to the fullest and he was always laughing and smiling at the misery of others.
Telo began to have health problems three years ago, when the already anemic South Bay racing community simply couldn’t “get it up” to go pound their brains out on Tuesday nights. Some pointed the finger at Telo’s nemesis known as NPR, a younger, more handsome and sexy group ride that took place on Tuesday mornings and seldom left any but the toughest with enough energy for Telo.
Still others claimed that Telo’s decline was the result of the Major Motion Tuesday Ride on the Parkway, which attracted bigger crowds, was slower, had lots of stop lights, and in which those who were shelled could sneak across the road and hop back in.
As Telo’s health declined, by 2014 the only people still showing up were Hair, Marco, Brad House, and one or two others. Telo leaves behind a void in our hearts that can never be filled, but he leaves us with his zest for life, spunky spirit and the ability to live life to the fullest.
Telo is survived by countless riders throughout California who left a little piece of their self-respect on Telo’s hallowed tarmac. A celebration of Telo’s life will be held wherever wankers are found and cold beer is served.
April 4, 2012 § 11 Comments
Telo is an ordinary business park, you know, a place where businesses go to play on the jungle gym, where businesses sit under the trees and sip lemonade, where they loll in the grass on lazy afternoons and, in summer, where businesses plunge into the cool inviting waters of the business park swimming pool. You can go to Telo any old time and see the businesses having fun as they cavort along the sidewalks, wave at the passing vehicles, and generally behave like the happy-go-lucky, free spirits that businesses almost always are.
Except on Tuesdays at 6:00 PM. That’s when it becomes “Telo Tuesday.” When the checkered flag drops, and the business park transmogrifies from a happy inviting series of prettily paved streets into an asphalted, unforgiving meatgrinder from hell. The timid businesses pull up their skirts and make way for the brigade of amped up cyclists who appear out of nowhere to race for an hour or until Brad thinks one of his Big Orange teammates might be in a winning break, in which case he stops the race early.
Here are the things that people did at Telo today:
Greg L.: Showed up and turned the meatgrinder on “high.” Much pureed pink slime spewed out as a result.
Dom F.: Sliced through corner after corner after corner, proving once again that he’s the best bike handler around.
Jay Y.: Sometimes you’re the hammer…but not today!
Marcel H.: Rarer sighting than an Eskimo Curlew.
Suzanne S.: Never more than ten wheels back, charging off the front again and again.
Kristabel D-H.: Not phased at all by the morning slugfest on the NPR, at it again in the PM, mixing it up with the boys and, of course, taking her turn “at the front.”
Jon D.: Can you say “anger management”? Pounding like a jackhammer.
Christian C.: Never ever took his foot off the gas.
Sarah M.: Tucked into the rolling mass, held her own and then some.
Cary A.: Gave me the “Gig ‘em” sign while leaning against his maroon-colored truck.
Greg S.: Two hundred and seventy three point nine attacks.
Harold M.: Can you say “counter” followed by “crying blood”?
Derek B.: Cooled his jets until he taxied for takeoff, then “boom.”
Nick B.: Hiding, hiding, hiding, wheelsucking, hiding, wheelsucking, hiding…
Carlos R.: Nicely placed. Can I send you a map so you can find the front? [Update: after reviewing a list of references provided by Carlos, WM sort of retracts this calumny with the following revision–“Worked like a superman at the front for most of the race, dropping the weak and feeble at will, and won the race by twelve bike lengths.”]
Alan M.: Crazy careening throughout the field like a bowling ball amongst the ten pins. Didn’t knock any down, though.
Simone M.: Always says “hi” like she means it!
Dave A.: Chopped by Wankmeister in the chicane…sorry, buddy! Monster pull with four to go, an entire lap and a half.
Andrew K.: Zinging to the front, zinging to the back, easily spotted with those red shoes.
La Grange Wanker in Green: Pulled a boner at the end and earned the wrath of Davy.
Helmetless Dude in the Bubbles Outfit: There was a time when no-helmet meant “you’re rad.” That time passed. Long ago. Long, long ago.
Walrus Dude not Wearing the Backpack: It was a tough half lap before the harpoon pierced your throat, but at least you were out there trying, which is a hell of a lot more than hundreds of alleged South Bay “racers” can say.
Rime of the Ancient Mariner Japanese Dude: You only got lapped twelve times, but you are, like, a hundred years old and have only been cycling for a couple of years and it takes balls to get out there and flail.
Peta the Brit Chick: Said “hi” to me in that cute Britty talky voicey thing, and held on for what seemed like a long time. Did you finish? Tell me you did.
Southbay Wheelchick: I don’t know your name, blondie, but you rode great.
Anonymous Big Orange Dudes: With, like, all 3,000 of your teammates out there, do you think you could have, like, let someone other than G3 and G$ do all the work? Never mind.
Heroes who sucked wheel for 55 minutes and made their cameo on the final lap: You will always suck, no matter how highly you place. There is a place in hell for people like you. It’s called Temecula.
Toronto: Never very far back, but never quite far enough ahead. Go to the front!
Major Bob: Thrashing, attacking, blasting, crushing, recovering, going again. Doing the NPR/Telo Tuesday double. Tired just watching you.
Manny G.: It’s not Telo without you, buddy! Heal up and hurry back.
Dan C.: UCI Rule 1982.39(a)ii(4) says that “Telo results shall not be validated without at least one hairy-legged monster surfer wanker showing up and kicking everyone in the teeth.” Where were you???
Fukdude: I know this doesn’t fit in with the mathematical plan of victory calculated to the nearest .000001 gigawatt, but, since you practically invented Telo, and since people still come up to me on the street and say, “Who’s Fukdude?” you need to show up. Or not.
Neumann: NEUMANN!!! I didn’t get a note from your mother! Where were you?
Paul C.: Scary fast, in all the breaks, today just wasn’t your day. Or mine.
Wankmeister: DFL. Took one or two mousey pulls then scurried back to the protection of the swirling vortex. Some days you’re the giant wheel on the semi-tractor trailer. Some days you’re the asphalt smear.
Marco C.: Rode cannily, made a couple of nice escapes that were ultimately doomed to failure.
Joe Y.: You get an eternal Telo pass, or until the bone is completely absorbed by the metal and you become the Terminator.
Tara U.: Now. I’ve seen you go out there and shred. And. I expect you to come out and do it again. Never mind that I only make it to Telo once a year.