Monday, July 29, 2013


Whilst the rest of the bike racin' world in Pennsylvania was flying through the W101 on Saturday, I was in similar territory but racing something a little out of the ordinary.

Best part about Adventure Racing in the wilds of Pennsylvania:  Navigating under pressure.

Pardon the clarity of the video.  I'm a little shaky, it turns out, after scrambling up a 35-degree boulder field and coming face to face with a 6+ foot rattler.  As wide as my calf.  Highly pissed off.  Must have just eaten a possom or something.

Up, up, up, and all that.
But watch your step.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

What color are those shorts, exactly?

In the world of competitive bike racing, you have options:
1)  There is bitter, joyless bike racing - interval training in the rain with sore knees, contract squabbles, protests against governing bodies, drugs, suspensions, saddle sores, a cornucopia of banned substances, sponsor cancellations, abandonment, wheel-sucking, ass-kissing, bottle-fetching, dieting, bulimia, cheating, anger, exercise-induced depression, injuries, DNF'ing so your sponsor can't see how far back you were, infected saddle sores, stress fractures, and eventual early retirement.
2)  And then, there is the opposite of all that: Gordon Wadsworth, relentless smiling and good vibes, and the finest podium short-shorts money can buy.  
Bronze in the SS class at nationals
Thanks for representing all that is righteous and good in the world of going really damn fast on two wheels.  We are super proud of you. 

Up, up, up. 

Monday, July 15, 2013

Don't just give up, Piggy.

Don't just give up, Piggy.  It might be summertime, but if you keep acting like this you're going to end up dead.  

Poor choices.  It really comes down to choices, Piggy.  Like, for example, taking a stroll down the middle of markwood rd to eat some trash at 8:30 AM on a Thursday morning.  Not a great decision.  Or stepping on my flip flopped foot when I'm the only person out there in the middle of the road trying to keep you from becoming bacon.  

Interventions aren't easy, no one's saying that, but I'm doing this because I care.  

Look, I know it's summer.  It's hot.  You don't feel like training.  In fact, the only thing you really feel like doing is lying around in your own dung, eating pork rinds (ummmm...), and generally behaving like the rest of the population.  

peanut pops.  not a recovery drink.
Look, maybe you just need some inspiration, Piggy.  This fat funk you're slobbing and dribbling through is probably just boredom.  Maybe you should think about doing something incredible.  

Take, for example, the Chupacabra.  Found himself a 100-mile mtb race to train for, and boom, he's motivated, lean and mean.  
Flattop by 830 AM.  That's tall.
Or Scanlonetti, notorious uphill TT victor on the road, but a mountain biking virgin at the incredulous age of 45.  He found himself a Pivot, deflowered his soul, and up, up, up he went.  
so far, not eaten by bears.  but close.
I'm not saying their wild choices have to be your wild choices.  But for heaven's sake, Piggy, look at yourself.  You're just lying on the couch and bitching about how malnourished Chris Froome looks, and you're not having any fun.  You used to pin it. I don't even know who you are anymore.  

Look, here's my point.  You're not fat yet, and you're still young.  OK, you are pretty fat.  But you're standing on the precipice, piggy, and I'd estimate it's one way or the other.  Find yourself a reason to live!  

How 'bout Walnut?  
Sure, you've only got a week to train for it.  And it could very well be a million degrees on race day.  And the only license you have is your License to Ill cassette tape, which you inadvertently devoured half of in your last traffic-halting, trash-diving suicide attempt.  

Damn, Piggy, you used to rock.  

But what kind of glutton would you be if you weren't, also, a glutton for punishment?
And how many pork rinds can a pig buy with $600?  

Sunday.  Get there.  

Up, up, up.

Monday, July 8, 2013

Welcome to the world, Connor Michael Tevendale

It would appear the handsome bus has arrived at MJH, and it was fully stocked.  Welcome to the world, Connor Michael Tevendale.  
Not much bike content to report here; there will be plenty of that to come, I'm sure.  For now, it's quiet freehubs only around the rancho relaxo, and I'm putting a ban on avid brakes.  

It's a sleepy world, little Connor.  Live it up, up, up.  

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Don't mess with Pantani's Mom

A brief, non-exclusive list of dead guys' moms that I'd advise not messing with:
Jimmy Hoffa
And now, add Marco Pantani to that list.

That's right, Tour De France.  If you name Marco on your newfound list of 44 dopers from the 1998 Tour which Marco won fair and square (and likely doped to the very lid), Marco's mom will fucking cut you.

Also worth nothing, within the linkage to that article, you can find yourself one of these:

It doesn't really look gravel worthy, and I don't think I see a triple crankset on there, but given the name I guess I must be mistaken.  Note to self: add Gravel Bike with Aero-Seatpost Mast to the gigantic list of things I'll need to buy to someday win the Pantani Ride.
Dig it or don't, but here it is:

Interesting sidenote, I dug as hard as I could in Google Images for about 3 minutes to find a damning picture of Pantani's mom, and I came up with nothing.  That's really saying something these days, and I'll have to assume if I want a controversial picture of Pantani's mom, I'll need to photoshop something on my own (maybe a mashup of Metro, Sheera, and a centaur).  But I did find this:

Which makes me extremely happy, and it also reminds me there's still a title to be claimed.  The clock might currently read 147 days, 17 hours, and 45 minutes, but it is, technically, still ticking.

Also noteworthy in that image search, I found the current holder of the socks him...err, herself.
Probably not Marco Pantani's mom.  
Which should serve as a lesson to all of us: limit your Google Image Searches to your personal devices, and do so alone.

I'm getting a little choked up here.  If you want the socks, which I know you do, get out there and do something terrible to yourself.

Up, up, up.