Donuts are bad for your health

June 17, 2018 § 7 Comments

I always love it when people talk about the health benefits of cycling, as if punishing your internal organs to the brink of failure is somehow good for you.

Yesterday’s Donut was filled with about as much cholesterol, fat, sugar, enzymes, dextrose, mono and diglycerides, soy lecithin, xanthan gum, karaya gum, wheat starch, cornstarch, sodium stearoyl lactylate, artificial flavors, sodium propionate, and food dyes Yellow No. 5 and 6 as the finest Dolly Madison Little Gem.

Before we started, Destroyer looked around. “You can win today, Wanky,” he said.

“I can?”

“Yes. But you can’t attack at Kilometer 1.”

“I can’t?”

“In the race to the radar domes, every single pedal stroke counts. But there’s no one here today who can beat you. With cunning and wheelsuckery you’ve got this.”

“What about Sausage? He’s ripping legs at the Flog Ride.”

“One-off. He has peaked for the state ITT and won’t be a factor.”

“Ivan the Terrible? He is so fit right now.”

“Yes but he’s focused on crits and honing his sprunt. The climb to the domes will be a bridge too far.”

“But look over there. Medium Banana has brought his wrecking crew from D.C. They are lean and look like they just had a bucket of chum for breakfast.”

“D.C. is flat. They won’t digest their first Donut very well.”

“What about Goggle? He’s in razor sharp form.”

“He’s competition, but smart riding from you and you could collect your first Donut victory since that last one you fake lied about in your blog.”

I spied Tinkerbell as she rode up, resplendent in her pro outfit. My heart sank. “There’s Tink,” I said.

“Conserve every stroke. Do not attack. Wait until the climb. Today is your day.”

Conservation and wheelsuckery

We bit into the Donut at 8:00 AM pointy-sharp, an 80-strong phalanx of ill-tempered cyclists dreaming of glory, savoring that first taste of sugar and soy lecithin as our mouths watered from wrapping our tongues around the glory hole of fresh donut.

As we approached the starting gate in Malaga Cove at Kilometer 1, I reflected on the wisdom of Destroyer’s words. To eat this Donut I would need to nibble around the edges and only chomp when the final ramp was in view. Restraint was the key. Cold calculation. The young man is strong, but the old man is wise.

I thought of the countless years that Surfer Dan and I had attacked at Kilometer 1 and even earlier, out of the parking lot, and of the futility in which virtually all such moves had ended. I reflected on my recent Km 1 accelerations and how they always flamed out early, a soggy lump of donut clogging my windpipe and arteries as I went down in paroxysms of indigestion.

This time would be different.

Donut attack!

As we rolled past Km 1 an uncontrollable urge surged over me and I attacked, exactly as Destroyer had enjoined.

“This is futile,” I told myself.

“Don’t do it,” I told myself.

“Ease off,” I told myself.

So I pedaled harder and didn’t look back until I had passed Pregnant Point a couple of miles later. The wankoton was invisible, and my passengers were three: Dennis, Tinkerbell, and Goggle.

Tink and Dennis had no appetite for any more Donut at that point and were steadfastly chewing; only Goggle crammed more donuts between his teeth and began sharing the load.

I figured we’d get caught soon but that perhaps we could at least make it to Golden Cove. Dennis took a couple of pulls but Tink declined the invitation, masticating her chunk of Donut into smaller and smaller easily digested bits while Goggle and I stuffed ever larger pieces into our maws.

Dennis tailed off and then it was us three. Tink took a couple of token pulls, seemingly amused at our faces, which were covered in white donut powdered sugar.

Heart palpitations

We hit the bottom of the Switchbacks and Tink accelerated with the ferocity of a rider who had won the QOM at last year’s Tour of California, which she had. “Rest day,” she smiled as we struggled back to her wheel. She slid to the back and we pushed on, littering the way with crumbs and the gummy spew that lines your arteries and creates artheriosclerosis of the aorta.

Goggle and I took turns, passed the flat spot on Crest, and began to get that feeling like maybe we shouldn’t have downed the whole sleeve at once. Maybe we shouldn’t have punched it at Km 1. Maybe this was a bad idea.

At exactly that moment Tink jumped us like a schoolyard bully, her rear wheel waving wildly from side to side like a flounder on the deck of a fishing boat. Goggle conveniently had a flat tire, or so he claimed, and I was left to respond with two flats of my own, a right one and a left one.

Somehow I latched on. Tink relented once she saw my shadow. We were only a hundred meters from the final turn, and she took a quick look back to check my temperature.

What she saw was the twisted rictus of a gasping, heaving, choking, shuddering, worn out old shoe, and she stood once more on the pedals, gleefully chewing her Donut and leaving me to twist in the wind, choking on mine.

END

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Everyone wants a Wanky

August 23, 2015 § 18 Comments

The nomination period for the fantabulous 2015 South Bay Cycling Awards closed last week, but some folks who felt that they’d been wrongly left out or who had been nominated for the wrong category weren’t going to take it lying down.

Okay, some of them were.

Am I doing this right?

I want my Wanky!

South Bay phenom and pro Kristabel Doebel-Hickock won a Wanky in 2013 for QOM, and another in 2014 for Best Female Racer, so it was no surprise that she found herself again on the short list for best racer after posting impressive results on the domestic and international road racing circuit.

What was shocking to me is that she felt so displeased with her nomination for Best Female Racer of 2015 that she decided to make a full-blown run at the 2015 Crashtacular Fred category despite an already strong field and despite the fact that the nominating period had closed. Keep in mind that this year’s nominees include some of the biggest crash dummies in SoCal cycling, to wit:

  • Front-runner and heretofore shoo-in Jay Laplante, a/k/a Manslaughter. The nickname alone tells you that this is a legit contender, and over the years he has proven that he is a threat to crash every time he rolls out of the driveway. What’s so impressive about his crashtacularity is that far from being a poor bike handler, he’s practically a magician when it comes to threading needles on a bike. So why all the crashes? Obviously, he’s just nuts.
  • Super heavyweight contender Chris Gregory. Chris never met a crash she didn’t like. Different from boring nominees who’ve tried to eke out a Wanky with broken collarbones, shoulders, hands, and traumatic head injuries, Chris took crash anatomy to a whole ‘nother level in 2015 when she fell on the bike path going 12-mph (10 points), flopped off into the sand (10 points), still doesn’t know why she crashed (10 points), and shattered her humerus in three places, a bone that, in more than 30 years of riding and racing, I’ve never heard of anyone ever breaking, even when hit by a car.

With this kind of competition it’s hard to see how Kristabel could have thought she had a chance, even though she also has a rich history of amazing fred-like bike falls, like the time this year she mowed down a pedestrian (10 points) while practicing her TT bike on the bike path (10 points) and cracked her femur (8 points).

Still, “Tink” as she’s known far and wide, wasn’t about to cede the field, as she still had something in her back jersey pocket: In 2014 she went from icon to legend when she actually crashed at the start of a time trial coming out of the starting house. No one had ever heard of such a thing and when the story broke many refused to believe it.

Starting behind the 8-ball in the 2015 Wankies, however, Tink showed up three days ago at America’s premier stage race ready to do battle with the world’s best women racers, but more importantly to announce that she wanted a Wanky. As the video link above shows, it will be hard for anyone to beat her:

  • No one to blame for taking her out or causing the crash (10 points)
  • Crashed in America’s biggest pro race (100 points)
  • Video proof (300 points)
  • Crashed in the safest part of the race (400 points)
  • Pulled an ultra-Fred move as an elite pro (500 points)
  • Crashed by running into a sign that says “Healthcare” (12,000 points)
  • Crashed while her start was being commentated by Phil Liggett (1,000,000 points)
  • Got up, finished the TT, and the next day almost won the road race (1 billion points)

So although I don’t recommend this kind of extra-curricular lobbying and politicking just to get a Wanky, sometimes it works.

END

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A Giant weekend

January 28, 2013 § 35 Comments

Tink came out of the gate hot at the P[u]CK[e]RR, won her first road race of 2013, and gave SPY Liv-Giant its first win of the year.

Which was nice.

Josh Alverson came out smoking the next day at the Meatball crit and won the Cat 3 wankfest in a 7-lap solo break.

Which was nice.

Cannonball Gadhia,  propelled into the final 500 meters by the SPY-Giant-RIDE blue train, was launched to victory in the old gentlemen’s tender prostate 45+ category of the Meatball crit.

Which was nice.

Erik the Red, Walshie, Stephen Davis, MMX, Alan Flores, Roald Dahl, Logan Fiedler, and Brian Zink all nailed down high finishing spots in PUCKERR and Meatball.

Which was nice.

And then, at the team meeting on Friday night, much swag was handed out to the liver-spotted and grizzled pro masters racers, each of whom received his new shades and fancy socks and knit caps and other cool goodies with sweaty, grasping palms.

Which was nicest of all, perhaps.

Unntil we sat down on Saturday night for a lecture from Perry Kramer about “Why Your Giant Bicycle is So Kick Ass.”

There is no “I” in TEAM

However, if you add an “e,” there’s most definitely an “Eat me.” And truth be told, for years and years and years, my attitude towards carbon bicycle frames has been just that: “Eat me.”

So when I learned that Giant would be the new gorilla sponsor for the team’s bicycles, I shrugged. “Great. Another nameless Taiwanese manufacturer with no soul, cranking out machine-made bikes at a rate of 1,000 per hour.”

Having ridden Specialized for the last four years, I’d given up on the Eurocentric, hand-crafted mythology that used to accompany bicycles when they were made from Columbus tubing, by hand, in some Italian or Belgian village. I’d accepted that the future of cycling was nameless, interchangeable, soulless, plastic knockoffs made by assembly line workers pushing “start” and “stop” buttons on the Carbon Frame Goop-a-tron: Lighter, faster, stiffer, more aerodynamic…but spiritually dead.

And after experiencing the superiority of the carbon frame over steel, I’d made peace with the trade-off. Carbon frame isn’t more soulful. But it is mo bettah.

You may be wrong (but you may be right)

When Perry stood up to make his presentation, I was ready to let the words flow into the right ear and out of the left one, making minimal contact with the thinking organ in between. The only tingle of curiosity I had was this: Would he explain why my Giant TCX ‘cross bike rode so well?

Although I’m a complete clod when it comes to bikes and the way they perform, and my ignorance is trumped only by my cluelessness of why they perform the way they do, from the first time I rode my TCX I’d been blown away by the way it handled. Of course, I chalked it up to the fact that I’d never raced or ridden a ‘cross bike before, and this was just how ‘cross bikes rode.

What piqued my curiosity, though, was the fact that when I’d had to put road wheels on the TCX and use it for road riding while my Venge was having its radiator replaced and its water pump serviced, the Giant ‘cross bike had handled better and climbed better than the Specialized road unit. What was that all about?

We are the sum of our prejudices

It turns out that I’m not simply dumb about bike handling and performance characteristics and why bike frames are the way they are. From the beginning of the slide show I found out that I knew even less than I’d already thought I didn’t know, which was everything.

For example, I thought you made a carbon bike frame the same way you make a toy set for a Happy Meal, by pouring a bunch of carbon fiber goop into a mold. The mold cools, you slap on a decal and some wheels, and boom! There’s your new Specializedgianttrekwillierscannondalepinarello carbon bike.

I’ll spare you the technical details, mostly because I don’t understand them, but there’s no big Goop-a-tron at the Giant factory, with little people pouring in buckets of goop into a cauldron and stirring it with goop sticks until it’s ready for molding. Here’s the shocking fact about how Giant bikes are made: By hand.

More precisely, by 32 pairs of hands, as sixteen is the number of people involved in the meticulous, piece-by-piece construction of each bike. The bikes are painstakingly built over a mold sort of like those horrendous, smelly, ugly, badly painted papier-mache things you had to do in 3rd Grade art class. Strips of carbon fiber are placed in a specific order over the mold, then hardened with resin which is heated and pressed in an oven.

The secret to the way a carbon bike rides lies in the shape of the mold, the type of carbon fiber used, the size of the fiber strips, the number of the fiber strips, the order in which the strips are placed onto the mold, and most importantly, the “secret sauce,” or proprietary resin mixture that bonds and later hardens the carbon fiber.

Changing any of these variables changes the way the bike behaves. The best combination, or the design + technique, is what makes a carbon frame world class or a spongy piece of bubble gum.

The reason my TCX handles so well

After listening to Perry’s awesome explanation and being imbued with extensive tech specs and production process explanations, I can sum it up like this: “The TCX rides so well because it’s fuckin’ bitchin’ rad and badass.”

Hopefully, once I get on the Giant TCR road frame, I’ll have an equally sophisticated explanation for it, assuming it rides as well as my TCX.

Changing perceptions

In addition to learning that there was no Goop-a-tron, and no slave labor pouring carbon into a cauldron, I learned why Giant has flown under my radar screen for so many years despite being one of the biggest manufacturers in the world for composite frames, and being the only large manufacturer that controls the entire production process from weaving the carbon fiber to slapping the decal on the finished product.

I had heard countless times that Giant made the frames for Cannondale, Trek, and numerous other big name brands. “Why would they do that for other brands unless the other brands had some kind of superior design that Giant couldn’t equal? Aren’t they using the other dudes’ designs in their bikes? And if so, why buy a bike with Giant on it, when it’s a knock-off of someone else’s superior work?”

Kind of like my Goop-a-tron thinking, this had it back asswards at best, completely wrong at worst. Giant does make bikes for other frame makers according to the specs of those makers.

But it makes its own bikes according to its own top-secret, proprietary specs because Giant’s secret sauce and lay-up processes are better. It sounds kind of like a sex manual, you know, secret sauce and lay-ups, but it isn’t.

The result of all this is simple:

Giants are lighter (which doesn’t mean squat to me, and sounds kind of funny when you put it like that).

Giants are stiffer (which means they climb better, which explains why my TCX goes uphill better than my Venge).

Giants have less flex in the bottom bracket (which, with the stiffer frame, means they track better, which explains the feeling of being on rails, which I like muy mucho a lot takusan viel hen hao).

What this means for you, the consumer

Actually, it doesn’t mean anything. Whether your bike is made of steel or bamboo or carbon fiber (as long as it’s not one of those horrible stomping bike-running monstrosities that combine the worst things about cycling with the worst things about running), as long as you’re riding it and enjoying it, that’s all that matters. Giant, Midget, Specialized, Generalized…whatever.

The guys who are great athletes and who get paid to ride bike brands were winning before that sponsorship and they’ll be winning when they change teams. The bike doesn’t make the rider, or even the ride. It’s just the catalyst, because, you know, the ride is inside you.

However, if you’re going to buy a new bike, and if you’ve never considered Giant as being among the top tier of the very best hand made bikes ever built, you’re doing a disservice to the dollar you’re about to spend and a disservice to your legs. You can also be assured–take it from the Wankmeister–that there’s no Goop-a-tron. Never was. Never will be.

Now get out there and go to the front.

South Bay weekend roll call

September 17, 2012 § 6 Comments

Let’s start with the big stuff…

Mighty Mouse: Brought her NPR-honed dick stomping skills to the Nautica Malibu Tri and left a trail of shattered members all up and down PCH. CalTrans garbage truck overheated and broke down on Zuma Hill due to overloading with broken dicks. Wore her Big O tee on the podium’s second step.

Wankomodo: Got a public tongue lashing, laughed it off in the spirit it was intended, gave thanks for his new nickname, and refused to take the Wankmeister seriously. You are now officially part of the gang!

Italian Stallion: Came out for the Donut, rode off into the sunset in a marvelous pink outfit after telling G3 to shut-the-fuck-up about the crazy old lady trying to kill us in Portuguese Bend. Tony almost fell off his bike laughing, just as some wanker touched a wheel and flopped down in the middle of the road. Italian Stallion gives us a great write-up of his national championship road race here.

Crown Jules: Stomped everyone except Stathis the Wily Greek and the Italian Stallion on the Switchbacks, outsprinted John “Dillinger” Hall, who kicked me out the back like a pro roadie’s under-the-armpit snotblow.

Rico Suave: Got badly shredded on the Switchbacks, roared back on Wheatgrass to smash everyone up to the Domes, busted up the field on the Glass Church, towed WM to the line, beat him with a bike throw. I hope Rico never discovers drugs.

Erik the Red: Dropped all but a handful on Better Homes, took the sprunt at Hawthorne by a country mile after bridging with JLR. Formally announced his engagement to SPY Elite Team for 2013…yee-haw!

Tink: Returned to the mix, but was under coach’s orders not to engage in any nonsense for a couple more weeks. The sun shone in happiness at her return!

New Girl: Ignored flu symptoms, West Nile virus, superbug, and early onset pneumonia to lace up and ride to the Rock and then Wheatgrass before coming undone at the seams. Dr. Wanky has ordered bed rest until further notice.

Crit Champ: Showed up on the Donut after bringing home a silver medal from nationals, attacked the field on Paseo del Mar, followed all the moves until gravity took over. Also, wrote a fantastic piece about his season vs. the national championships. Read it here.

Surfer Dan: Displayed fine form that comes with his recent 899-mile weeks in preparation for the Everest Challenge, where he and a few other hardy souls will climb the highest mountains in California on a dog sled. Did three repeats up Crenshaw prior to showing up on Wheatgrass and smacking the snot out of us.

Ms. Abs: Was spied sunning herself on the strand in RB this morning, so we got to chat about life and Pen CX; she also updated me on Steve B.’s 198-mile, 11k of climbing ride that he did immediately prior to the Life Flight and coma resuscitation team.

Suze: Pushed several struggling wankers up through Portuguese Bend, and got a nice push on the tush by the Italian Stallion just past Terranea. Like the eye of Mordor, Wankmeister sees it all!

G3: Out for an easy noodle ride, set the fifth best overall time on the short Donut Loop. Ouch. Glad he wasn’t riding in earnest. Toured with WM along the Esplanade on his boss cruiser, with world’s cutest Ava in tow. When you see a kid that cute riding with G3, it makes you sure of this much: She takes after her mother.

Pilot: Noticed my general bonkishness and loaded me up with a full tankard of iced coffee atop the Hill. I owe you one; actually, I owe you several.

Lake(r): New inter-galactic rep for Lake Cycling showed up to taste the Donut despite being HQ’d in San Diego. Give him a welcome the next time he comes around. If there is a next time, as he sat with Wankmeister out at CotKU and learned that the South Bay is essentially an insane asylum without proper walls.

Iron Mike: Treated another passel of ingrates to $400 worth of nasty, foul-smelling, barely potable wheat grass, which made my front two teeth fall out and turned the others deep green. So at least they all match.

Junkyard: Spent Saturday in the 200-degree heat climbing Latigo, Piuma, Crownview, Anchovy, Deer Creek, Decker, and Questhaven, then couldn’t figure out why his legs were flat on the Wheatgrass Ride. I promised to draw him a diagram to explain it, as he’s a visual person.

Sparkles and VV: Rode the Wheatgrass in halter tops due to predictions of high heat, causing several neck strains in the field and aggressive fighting in the wankoton to ride next to them.

Casey Stengel: While he was noodling up to the Domes and I was chasing Rico Suave with all my might, he hopped out of the saddle and gave me a massive tow to within spitting distance of my quarry. The spit didn’t carry, though, and I never closed the gap.

Dude in Antique Sidis: I don’t know if you remember the Sidi Revolution, the first cycling shoe to use velcro, but Dude was wearing a pair and it looked like he hadn’t taken them off since 1986, including his hike across the Himalayas and the year he spent marching across a field of cow manure. We made him sit downwind at the Jamba Juice, where he killed a small flock of starlings with the smell.

The panty thief

August 30, 2012 § 19 Comments

I walked in the door, took one look at her face, and knew it was bad. Real bad. Real, real, real bad.

“What are you gonna been doing on my t-shirts drawer?”

“I can explain.”

“Lookit at the this one!” She held up two t-shirts, clean ones, that had been unceremoniously lying on the floor. “And what you gonna say about the that one?” She snatched up another.

“Look, honey, what happened is…”

“I don’ wanna hear no ‘This honey happened is’ poop talk! What are you gonna be saying on the this one? Huh?” Now she had moved to the shorts drawer, and there, spilling out of the drawer and onto the carpet were six or seven pairs of shorts.

“I was finishing up at court, see, and…”

“You ain’t gonna do no up court finishing and come home and dump out onna my shirts and shorts! You ain’t gonna touch on my shirts and shorts! You been marrying on me twenty-five years and you don’ never gone in my clothes drawers!”

“Please calm down! There’s no need to shout.”

There was actually a pretty good reason to shout

“I’m gonna tell you onna shouting! What is THIS? You gonna tell me on THIS? What’s onna THIS?” Now she had moved to the panty drawer. The holy, untouchable, perfectly folded, immaculately organized panty drawer was now the focus of my attention. “What’s a gonna been happening on THIS?”

“It does kind of look like a tornado went through it,” I admitted.

“I’m gonna tell on you about some tornado!” she shouted. “That’s a my panties drawer! Why you goin into my panties drawer? You got no business in my panties drawer! I ever gone into your biker tool box with the wrenchy things you don’ can’t use right and always bustin stuff so you take it to a bike shop for fixing and cost a lotta money? I ever mess with that, no I don’t! Why you messin my panties?”

While she caught her breath to get ready for another round of hollering, I took my chance to explain. “Well, what happened is, Brad and Tink had a bike wreck and got hauled off to the hospital in an ambulance. I was gonna go see if they needed anything.”

“What’s a Bradandtink?”

“Brad and Tink. Tinkerbell. They’re biker friends.”

“Ohhhh,” she rolled her eyes. “Itsa dumb biker story again time getting all run over on the car.”

“No, no car. So I’m on the way to the hospital and G3 calls and says ‘Can you get some clothes for Tink?’ and I say ‘Sure.'”

“This Tinks person’s a girl or a boy?”

“Tink is a girl.”

Mrs. WM’s eyes narrowed, which looked pretty gnarly because they’re already pretty narrow. “How come you a boy gettin’ clothes on a girl? How come she ain’t wearin’ on her own clothes?”

“She was, but they cut ’em off in the ER because she was concussed and shredded with road rash.”

“Why it matters she’s a cussin’?”

“Concussion. Knocked out. Blam-o to the head. So I went to get her a change of clothes so when she got discharged she’d have something to wear. Simple.”

Mrs. WM looked at me. Her eyes widened as it hit her. The color drained from her face.

“Aw fuck,” I thought. “Here it comes.”

Here it did indeed come

She wasn’t angry anymore. She was in a panic. “You gonna gave on my panties to the girl?”

“Now, before you get all excited, honey…”

“Please don’t tell me you gonna gave on my panties to the girl. Please don’ tell me onna that. Please don’ on the Jesus.”

“Honey, I went through the drawer and took out a pair at the bottom. They’re like, practically brand new. They were so clean and sparkly I had to put on my sunglasses when I held ’em in the light.” That part was actually true. Mrs. WM had a thing about panties being clean enough to eat off of. So to speak.

“What’s a color?”

I could tell she was racing through her inventory. “They were kind of gray. Don’t worry, honey. I’d never give her those big granny things or the skinny little thong-dealie with the fadeaway in the center.”

The mental picture clicked. “They were on a kind of gray with a little pattern speckle, isn’t they?”

“Yep. That’s the pair.”

“I don’t ever wore that hardly once or twice.”

“See? I checked, honey. They was clean enough to run up a flagpole, or plop out on the desk at a job interview. You’re golden. She might not have even worn ’em.”

Mrs. WM cracked a sharp glance. “What kina girl ain’t wearing on underwears?”

“Biker chicks. They’re all commando half the time anyway. Trust me.” Oop, I thought. Too heavy on that last one.

“How you gonna know onna biker girls underpants or not?”

“Uh, well, you can kind of see there’s no pantyline when you’re riding behind them.”

“How come you ridin onna girl’s behind? You always tellin’ me about you’re going on the fast and can’t no one stay on your behind. Now you’re tellin’ me about a girls underwear panties line ridin’ on her behind?”

“Here, honey,” I said. “Let me help you pick this stuff up.”

She glowered. “You thinkin’ about touching on my panties again and we’re gonna have to be another big problems.”

“Yes, dear,” I said, and slowly backed away.

The city mouse and the country mouse

August 18, 2012 § 2 Comments

Once upon a time there was a city mouse named Wanky. He was snooty, and he thought that Big City was the best place in the whole world. He was even conceited enough to think that one of his local coffee shops was the center of the known universe. He owned a fancy bicycle and only wore designer bicycle clothing.

Wanky had a poor country cousin mouse from Bakersfield named Lem, who had a cousin named Cletus. Although Lem and Cletus were cousins, like most Bakersfield mice one never inquired too closely as to the consanguinity because it often turned out that “cousin” was a euphemism for “illegal relationship in the lower 48 except Texas.”

Cultural exchange

One day Wanky called up Lem on the Twitter. “Lem, why don’t you come down and do our Donut Ride. You country mice will learn a thing or two about how to ride your bicycles.”

“Why thanky, Wanky,” said Lem the country mouse. “That’s mighty nice of you. Do you mind if I bring Cousin Cletus?”

“Cletus? Is he the one with the saggy tummy and stumpy tail?”

“That’s him,” said Lem. “But he would like to come and see what all that Big City riding is like. He don’t get out much, except for when him and me get over to Fresno ever now and agin for chain lube and clean underwear.”

“How often is that, Cousin Lem?”

“Oncet or twice a year, for sure.”

“That would be fine,” said Wanky. “Be sure to tell him that our Donut Ride is the most glorious and fame-inducing ride in Big City. All the Big City mice will be there, as well as one or two Big City rats. They will more than likely gnaw out his entrails.”

Glory or fitness? Glory.

“Will us’n get a good piece of training on your Big City donut?” asked Lem.

“No,” said Wanky. “My third cousin twice removed on Uncle Theodosius’s sister’s side, Jack from Illinois (not his real name), says that the Donut Ride is the dumbest and worst preenfest of wankers he’s ever seen. And he’s from Illinois, so he knows a thing or two about wankers.”

“Me and Cletus was hopin for some training.”

“We have lots of training in Big City,” Wanky said snootily. “You can train with Roadchamp at 3:00 AM and break every Strava record known to mice and men.”

“I kinda think we’d like to do that ride,” squeaked Lem.

“Only problem is that no one will ever see you. You’ll be invisible, eating your pre-ride cheese at Peet’s Cheeseshop in the dark. You’ll have done a hundred and ten with 8k of climbing by the time we even get started on the Donut Ride.”

“What do mean by ‘glory’?”

“Glory?” Wanky said with a condescending squeak. “When you roll out on the Donut Ride in Big City, you’ll be surrounded by rodentia royalty. The Italian Stallion might even be there.”

“Who’s that?”

“You might as well ask me ‘Who was Ratty?’ in the Wind in the Willows,” Wanky said. “Or ‘Who was Stuart Little?’ Or ‘Who was Mickey?’ Crikey, Lem, the Italian Stallion is the most famous rat in Big City. When he shows up on the Donut Ride, it’s Katie bar the door.”

All aboard for the Pussy Riot

“Katie bar the door?”

“Yep. Katie Donovan, a/k/a Razor, will slice you into thin little ribbons of mouse meat and feed you to the cats. She did the Leadville 100 walking all the descents and still finished in under four hours. She even carries around an ego bag.”

“A what?” Lem’s voice quivered on the other end of the Twitter.

“And ego bag. It’s a giant bag hooked up underneath her saddle. Bigger than Dallas, even.”

“What’s it for?”

“She fills it up with all the broken male mouse egos that get shattered on the Donut Ride. Starts the ride empty, goes home full to busting.”

“But she’s a girl mouse?”

“Not a girl mouse like you have out in the country, Lem. She’s a Big City mouse. She’s pretty, and smart, and well educated, and knows how to use a napkin, and only blows snot out of her nose when there’s no one on her wheel.”

“Holy Gouda!” squeaked Lem admiringly.

“But when the hammer comes down, she’s the one with her fingers wrapped around the handle. And it’s all the little boy mice’s testicles who get smushed.”

Lem squeaked in terror. “Are you sure she’ll be there?”

“Pretty sure. And even if she’s not, Tink will be.”

“Who’s Tink?” Lem’s squeak was so soft that Wanky could hardly hear it.

“She’s the climbingest mouse in the South Bay after Razor. Lots of big tough boy mice have tried to pin her in a trap, but the only way to get Tink’s attention is to finish with her on the top of a climb. And none of the boy mice have been able to do that yet.”

Beware of fools bearing gifts

On the day of the big ride, Lem and Cletus showed up at the Cheese Bean and Cheese Leaf in Big City. Wanky met them and introduced them to much of the Big City royalty. New Mouse was there. Sparkly Mouse was there. Polly Mouse, Douggie Mouse, Jensie Mouse, Gussy Mouse, Junkyard Mouse, Friedrich Mouse, Pilot Mouse, and a host of other rodents assembled to greet the out of towners. The only big rat missing was G$ Rat and Mighty Mouse herself.

Lem reached into his homespun carryall and pulled out a pair of pink unicorn socks. “Here y’go, Cousin Wanky. These here magic unicorn socks will give you extra special riding powers. Plus they are so loud and ugly and bright that I will be able to find you no matter how far back I am.”

Pink unicorn power for Wanky!

Wanky pulled on the magic unicorn socks and felt a special strength surge up into his incisors. “Thank you, Cousin Lem and Cousin Cletus!” His long and greasy and hairless tail quivered in anticipation.

All rats great and small rolled out, an armada of rodents more than one hundred strong. Even the evil and nasty Big City police cats and Deputy Knox cat were afraid to approach the rolling entourage of cheese eaters.

Country mice squeak strongly

On the dreaded Switchbacks, the selection occurred with the Italian Stallion, Razor, Tink, Dentist, Stathis the Wily Greek, John Mouse Hall, and Petey Mouse. Lem lasted for a while and was then fed to the cats. Cletus had his entrails gnawed out. Wanky wanked in no-mouse-land after getting his head caught in the mousetrap after the third turn.

Lem rode well through Homes and Gardens, finished mousefully on the Domes, sprunted well at Hawthorne, and dusted Wanky on the final climb up Zumaya. Cletus was honored at a roadside burial later that afternoon.

Back at the cheese shop in Big City, Lem and Wanky talked over the day’s events. “You Big City mice sure ride hard.”

“You country mice are no slouches.”

“My tail and haunches are pretty sore.”

“Wait ’til tomorrow.”

“What was that big lake thing on the left the first part of our ride? Was it the Big City sewage pond? Only body of water that big in Bakersfield is the sewage pond.”

“It’s called the Pacific Ocean, but China calls it their sewage pond.”

“Well, someday soon we hope you’ll make it up to the country so’s we can return the favor. Big City mice was shore nice to us. That John Mouse Hall feller told me where the turns was. And that Polly Mouse feller did the same thing for Cletus afore he up and died on us.”

“I’d like nothing better, Lem. When’s a good time?”

“In December it gets down to the low hundreds. Which is good because the sewage pond don’t smell so rich.”

“I’ll put it on my calendar.”

“And bring some Big City mice with you. We’d like to see if they ride as quick on our roads as they do on yours.”

How to beat Rich

August 5, 2012 Comments Off on How to beat Rich

Every pre-race team meeting this year by every team in Southern California began with the same question. “How’re we gonna beat Meeker?”

Everyone would then kind of stand around and draw circles in the dust with their big toe. “Uh, let’s attack him early and win out of a break.”

“He always marks those.”

“Let’s take him with us in the break, then.”

“He can outsprint anyone in the break.”

“Let’s chase all the breaks, including his, and lead our guy out for a field sprint.”

“He always wins the field sprint, remember? He’s the fastest guy in the nation for his age group in the crit.”

“Well, let’s let him dangle off the front, then run him down towards the end when he’s all tired from working in the break, and then we’ll crush him in the sprint.”

“We tried that at the states road race, remember? He was off the front for 45 miles, we brought him back, and he still won the sprint.”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea! Let’s send him to London for a few weeks!”

So Rich went off to London to watch the Olympics with his pal Chris Horner, and while he was gone other good riders got to shine. Then he came back.

The secret to beating Rich Meeker in a crit

Today we learned that the secret weapon in stopping Rich from winning is by getting to the guy who glues on his front tire. If you can get to that guy, you’ve suddenly got a chance.

The Brentwood Grand Prix takes place in the global center of hot chicks, fake boobs, guys in Ferraris, Schwarzeneggers, OJ Simpson (before he got life without parole), and the full on West LA vibe. Is your region’s signature event in a place called Hooterville? Is your best crit of the year in an office park?

Brentwood GP happens along a tight, technical little course with a couple of grinding bumps, fast tailwind, hard headwind, and oh-fuckit turns that test your ability to actually handle a bike. Of course, there’s always at least one guy in any crit who is so terrible, jerky, sketchy, twitchy, and unable to control his bike that I’m terrified shitless throughout the race. To make matters worse, that guy is invariably me.

John Hatchitt, our strategy guru, chaired the team pre-race planning session. “We got seven guys. Alan won San Marcos last weekend convincingly. If we play our cards right we can win this one, too.”

“What about Meeker?” I asked.

“Here’s the plan. Wanky, you will get dropped after the first couple of laps, then pulled. So we need to make maximal use of your 150-watts of incredible power. When the gun goes off, hit the front and string it out.”

“Then what?”

“It will give you a chance to crash on the first or second turn before people have gotten too tired to avoid you. Rondash, Frias, Harry, and I will stay towards the front, cover any moves, and keep Alan in position in case Meeker rolls off.”

“How’s he gonna beat Meeker?” I asked.

Several dudes glowered at me. “Then, with two or three to go, we’ll get Taylor up into position for the finish, along with Alan if he’s not off the front.”

“But what about…”

I never finished the question, as my teammates sped off to the line.

Breaking bad. Really, really bad.

The race started at a torrid pace, with everyone hustling to get to the first turn, a 180-degree pivot that went up a little bump and then dove down through a chicane and onto a wide straightaway. As we went through the first turn I heard behind me the grinding, skidding, cursing, smashing, banging, whanging, panic-inducing sound of some wanker falling on his ass.

The sound scared me so badly I jumped hard and raced away, dragging the pack behind me for a solid forty or fifty amazing yards. As I swung over, Meeker came through breathing fire and hand grenades at a speed normally reserved for things with large internal combustion engines.

Fifteen minutes into the 50-minute event I was hauling through the start-finish with Hatchitt in hot pursuit of a $150 prime. Steve Klasna, who needed gas money just as badly as I did, powered by with a hard surge. “Fuck,” I thought. “He can have the money, because I got cheered by Christine Reilly, who distinctly yelled ‘Dig deep, Wanky!’ as I zipped through the turn before the finish.”

I had wanted to tell her that if I dug any deeper I’d be in China, but the recent shortage of oxygen in the Brentwood area made that impossible.

The peloton paused after Klasna took the prime, and I rocketed 75 slots back to check on some of my good friends and make sure they were okay. One of them was a dude in a black kit with a giant red license tag hanging from his seat rails that said “Handicapped.” Some shit even I can’t make up.

Meeker then “rolled off the front,” which is what people say when someone jacks away from the wankoton so hot and hard that you couldn’t catch them with 200-lb. test and a fishhook prime of hookers and blow. It was classic Meeker: you take the prime, I’ll take the vee.

They don’t make Yugos any more

This was the critical moment in every race where the contenders, the wannabes, the couldbeens, the oughtahaves, the shouldacouldas had to either man up, put their heads down, and close the gap in the teeth of a headwind or do what bike racers do best: look at each other and say, “You go!”

To which the other dude says, “Fuck that. You go.”

By which time the 30mph gap means you will have to go 32mph without the cozy protection of all the people whose wheels you’ve been sucking for the entirety of the race.

Alan, never a fan of the Yugo, instead hopped into his Igo, and bridged. Klasna tried, but was winded from his gas money effort. Various other riders tried, but in a flash Hatchitt and Meeker’s teammate Roger Worthington came to the front and began doing “efforts” that were just slower than the break, allowing their teammates to establish and then build on their lead, but going fast enough that no one wanted to chase.

Although the gap yo-yoed, at one point getting down to ten seconds when Frank Schroeder and his merry band of assassins tried to close the gap, the constant teamwork of SPY and Amgen, and the iron legs of Flores and Meeker, meant that the break succeeded.

With five laps to go I knew it was my turn to move to the front so I could help with a last lap lead-out. I sprinted down the straightaway as hard as I could, using my last ounce of power, and in a flash had moved up from 76th to 73rd. So much for that. The only thing that remained was for Meeker to beat Alan in the sprint and for someone else to close the field sprint clusterfuck.

When tires go bad

On the bell lap, however, a miracle happened. The closer, the state road champ, the state crit champ, the national crit champ, the badass who doesn’t just bring home the bacon but brings home the entire pig, Rich Meeker himself came red-hot into the next to last turn and rolled a tire.

Fortunately, although Rich is now five pounds lighter from skin loss, he wasn’t badly hurt. Even more fortunately for team SPY, it meant that our closer, Alan Flores, got to roll across the start-finish first, hands held high for a zillion meters.

Race notes:

1. Suze Sonye cracked out an impressive win in the Pro/1/2/3 race, capping her season with win number 389. Apparently all those beatdowns on the NPR are paying off. Oh, waitaminnit. She’s been one of the winningest chick bike racers in SoCal since she was in kindergarten.

2. Emily Georgeson nailed down an awesome win in the women’s Cat 3 race. What a badass. And a cuteass.

3. Shai Oved, the La Grange dude who discovered all those flying snakes in Austin, got 2nd in his Cat 4 race for two weeks in a row. Props!

4. There’s some club called FFKR Architects Racing. Like, how do they pronounce that? “Yo, we ride for fucker archictets,” or something?

5. Rider Unknown took first in the Cat 3 race. Way to go, Rider!

6. Teammate Tait Campbell got second behind Rider. Nice weekend for SPY!

7. Monster Media snagged four out of the top ten in the 35+. I watched it for a couple of laps but it made me ill to watch, they were going so fast. My buddy Aaron Wimberley got eleventh, after telling me on Thursday, “Dude, your attacks are like watching a big blue bus leave the bus stop. They’re slow as shit and everybody’s on it, including the fat guy with a walker. You need to learn how to accelerate.”

8. My other buddy, Josh Alverson, who normally rides for Bike Palace, raced the 35+ event for team Poor Number Placement. I hope they have a good bro deal or something.

9. Amy Hutner gave me an awesome hug after my race. It’s so wrong that bigamy is illegal in California.

10. Pischon Jones was one of the few big boy sprinters to gut out this tough course in the Cat 3 race. Nice job, even though you were cramping like a dog.

11. Tink learned that when you have no teammates, and the course is relatively flat, you can’t ride fifty good racers off your wheel. She did, however, put on a toughness clinic.

12. Today’s race was marked by the absence of Greg Leibert. If he’d been in the 45+ race, there’s no doubt that he or Klasna would have made the break with Rich and Alan.

13. Greg St. Johns showed up and shot photos. This is like having Picasso show up and sketch the fruitbowl on your dining room table.

14. CyclingIllustrated.com was there in force and with live HD streaming of the race. This will become a standard before long. JB is always on the cutting edge, and not happy unless it’s the best.

15. The people and machines who put on the BWGP did a phenomenal job. If every crit were like this–challenging course, beautiful little village with restaurants and shops so that people could watch the action up close while eating a hamburger gut bomb–cycling would p*wn NASCAR like pole dancing p*wns curling.

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