A grassroots racing team from Charlottesville, VA.
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
Sometimes the clothes do not make the man.
Am I the only one that turned this magic little corner of pop history up to 11 on the day after Christmas, locked all the doors, and sing-cried his eyes out in the shower?
Then I made some tea.
If the Death of George Michael doesn't mark the aging process for you with another huge black line, consider this - was Will Leet even born yet in 1990?
I don't think he was.
The whole thing hurts me.
Most things do now, I've noticed. I walked with my kids around D.C. for the better part of the day yesterday, touring the History of Space Travel and Mankind and so forth, and though my mind is blown by the progress and destruction of our species in such a short span of time, today it feels like someone beat my legs with a Saturn V Space Rocket.
Foot travel, misery. New Years Resolution #314,098: make better choices.
As the relevance of that dialog you've been having in your head for the last however many years about the existence of Heaven and Hell becomes only more relevant as the time draws nearer and, indeed, your idols pass on to find out for themselves, one thing comes ever clearer into focus: Enjoy Today.
Ride your bike before it's laughably outdated, and so are you. 1990, where did even you go?
To win the race, a prettier face.
Brand new clothes and a big fat place on your rock 'n roll TV.
Up, up, up.
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Only a fool would complain
Oh, Canada. A little piece of rock n roll history. Eat shit, cancer.
Only a Canadian could write such a ballad about freezing to death. Which brings me straight to the subject of Il Pantani Ride in what is certain to be the weirdest year of our Lord, ever, 2017. BE CAREFUL UP THERE. I know you gotta get your train on - I dig that most of all. But going up there in shorts at 3 PM, because you know, climbing, is a good recipe for not coming back down. So be smart and wear some wool or something. With that said, train away. And if you want to start from here at the Rancho Relaxo, contact Shawn at BRC and he'll get you the quick and dirty approval to park your Subaru right on the official start line. It's helpful for us to know whose car that is, still parked there 24 hours later, for when we have to start searching for your dead body. We'll at least know what bike you were riding. It's 50 miles, which if you're Dave Flatten, is just a shade under 3 hours of beating your subconscious (and Jeremiah Bishop) into submission. The rest of us, it takes a long time. So be prepared, and a badass.
Also, can we talk about how in the name of Trump people are doing this loop in under 3 hours? I'm just hoping to get back under 4 this year. And finish. Finishing before dark would be a tremendous achievement from where I'm sitting right now, which is directly on my huge ass.
No one. And that's the beauty of it. It's December, and from here you can dream your own reality, maybe even steer a little for a change. Free will vs. Destiny. No matter how much time you spend considering those things, you're the only one to blame on Feb 10th and, conveniently, I'll blame you too.
So we've got that, whatever it is.
Anyway, if you wanna get down, you gotta get up first.
And up, and up, and up.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
PANTANI 2017 - February 12th, 10 AM.
Pantani 2017 will be February 12th, 2017, which if you're doing the math, is 2 months from yesterday.
Meaning that if you're on a 2-month training plan to try to pull your pie-loving fat ass together before game time, you're already 1 day behind. 1 day behind AND COUNTING.
At this rate, I'm going to suck it, badly, at Pantani this year. Maybe, indeed, the first year I'll DNF, or at least my slowest loop ever - and that's really saying something since last year I managed to finish it with a foul, oozy case of Shingles.
Because Shingles is one thing; obesity is quite another, and I'm soft right now. Soft as that gelatinous stuff that seems to pour out of the bottom of the creamed turkey leftovers when you leave them in the fridge too long and then eat them anyway. Soft like that part-timer, has-been Gordon Wadsworth's 42-tooth cog on his 11-speed cassette that he hasn't had the balls to bring to Pantani in 3 years. Soft like a tater tot, which, no bullshit, I am eating right now at 10:45 in the morning. This is not good.
Like everything I don't dig about myself, this valley of non-fitness I'm currently wallowing in is only accentuated by the reality that there are so many truly hard people out there right now, already training, already having cranked out Pantani or a fragment of it before the first flake of snow has even brushed the top of Brokenback. Social media, or at least all the text messages I get from McCardell, are a healthy way for me to see what other people are riding, how fast they're doing it, and loathe myself.
You people disgust me. And by "you people" I mean the me that I see in the mirror after I look at your strava data.
And maybe that's ok. Someone around here needs a serious, hard kick in the ass, and it's not the dog.
I've got to get my shit together. I've got to get focused. We all know how this one ends - one day, you're just puttering along, junk miles and pudgy and content to not give a shit about it, and the next day you're diagnosed with Diabietes, Hyptertension, Manic Depression, Gout, and you get dropped on the way up Mechums hill on a pretty Tuesday evening, landing you straight in the hospital with a laundry list of shit that needs fixed, pronto, and no health insurance. The speed with which you can smack into the bottom of the barrel of life is directly disproportionate to your actual speed on the bike. Just look at yourself.
What would Pantani say if he could see you now?
What did Pantani actually say, for that matter, when he locked himself in a hotel room by the sea, broke all the furniture, and drank all of that cocaine?
You read that right. He DRANK it. And he looked in the mirror, gave it a half-smile through the tears, and said out loud to whoever that was who he'd become that he couldn't recognize anymore:
MOTHER OF GOD. Am I too late?
Up up up.
Meaning that if you're on a 2-month training plan to try to pull your pie-loving fat ass together before game time, you're already 1 day behind. 1 day behind AND COUNTING.
At this rate, I'm going to suck it, badly, at Pantani this year. Maybe, indeed, the first year I'll DNF, or at least my slowest loop ever - and that's really saying something since last year I managed to finish it with a foul, oozy case of Shingles.
Because Shingles is one thing; obesity is quite another, and I'm soft right now. Soft as that gelatinous stuff that seems to pour out of the bottom of the creamed turkey leftovers when you leave them in the fridge too long and then eat them anyway. Soft like that part-timer, has-been Gordon Wadsworth's 42-tooth cog on his 11-speed cassette that he hasn't had the balls to bring to Pantani in 3 years. Soft like a tater tot, which, no bullshit, I am eating right now at 10:45 in the morning. This is not good.
Like everything I don't dig about myself, this valley of non-fitness I'm currently wallowing in is only accentuated by the reality that there are so many truly hard people out there right now, already training, already having cranked out Pantani or a fragment of it before the first flake of snow has even brushed the top of Brokenback. Social media, or at least all the text messages I get from McCardell, are a healthy way for me to see what other people are riding, how fast they're doing it, and loathe myself.
You people disgust me. And by "you people" I mean the me that I see in the mirror after I look at your strava data.
And maybe that's ok. Someone around here needs a serious, hard kick in the ass, and it's not the dog.
I've got to get my shit together. I've got to get focused. We all know how this one ends - one day, you're just puttering along, junk miles and pudgy and content to not give a shit about it, and the next day you're diagnosed with Diabietes, Hyptertension, Manic Depression, Gout, and you get dropped on the way up Mechums hill on a pretty Tuesday evening, landing you straight in the hospital with a laundry list of shit that needs fixed, pronto, and no health insurance. The speed with which you can smack into the bottom of the barrel of life is directly disproportionate to your actual speed on the bike. Just look at yourself.
What would Pantani say if he could see you now?
What did Pantani actually say, for that matter, when he locked himself in a hotel room by the sea, broke all the furniture, and drank all of that cocaine?
You read that right. He DRANK it. And he looked in the mirror, gave it a half-smile through the tears, and said out loud to whoever that was who he'd become that he couldn't recognize anymore:
MOTHER OF GOD. Am I too late?
Up up up.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Eject Button
I quit Facebook on November 9th.
Maybe "quit" isn't the right word. I ejected from Facebook. Quitting sort of implies that I removed something from my life - some outside, unwanted thing like plastic cutlery, or tobacco products, or domestic canned beer. Like it was an unwanted add-on that could be pulled away from me, the main subject, with just a little effort. That's not what I did.
On the other hand, ejecting means that rather than removing it from your life, you remove yourself from its life, understanding full well that Facebook is a living, breathing organism unto itself, and it's much, much bigger than any of us, and maybe somehow that skewed proportional relevance has become a part of the problem, whatever the problem actually is. I never quite figured that part out.
But anyway, just like that, I was out.
As a person that works from home, lives at home, generally stays home most of the time, rides here, eats and drinks here, sleeps here, etc, one interesting aspect of ejecting from Facebook is that I have absolutely no idea what's going on now. No more Facebook, coupled with a sudden and decisive reduction in the amount of bad news I'm willing to read online, has created an enormous gap between the world and the things happening in it, and me, on a sort of singletrack island here in E-Rallysville.
And I guess that was sort of the point anyway. Reality vs. Singletrack island. I'll take Singletrack Island every time, at least until Reality gets its shit together.
Not everyone has that choice, of course. Plenty of people work in a social-media driven world, or are required to monitor their corporate social media profile, or otherwise don't have the professional ability to just drop back and punt social media on 3rd down before it gets any worse. I get that.
But you still have the choice, the same choice we all have at the end of the day, every day, when the next thing you do - your own version of reality, not the enormous social one that has been created for you, but your ACTUAL LIFE, reaches a final, rapidly diminishing hour before it's time to pass out:
Ride your bike or surf big blue.
One of these things - only one - will help you, 2 months from now, when the Ghost of Marco Pantani is mocking you as you trudge up Brokenback.
Up to you.
Up, up, up.
Maybe "quit" isn't the right word. I ejected from Facebook. Quitting sort of implies that I removed something from my life - some outside, unwanted thing like plastic cutlery, or tobacco products, or domestic canned beer. Like it was an unwanted add-on that could be pulled away from me, the main subject, with just a little effort. That's not what I did.
On the other hand, ejecting means that rather than removing it from your life, you remove yourself from its life, understanding full well that Facebook is a living, breathing organism unto itself, and it's much, much bigger than any of us, and maybe somehow that skewed proportional relevance has become a part of the problem, whatever the problem actually is. I never quite figured that part out.
But anyway, just like that, I was out.
As a person that works from home, lives at home, generally stays home most of the time, rides here, eats and drinks here, sleeps here, etc, one interesting aspect of ejecting from Facebook is that I have absolutely no idea what's going on now. No more Facebook, coupled with a sudden and decisive reduction in the amount of bad news I'm willing to read online, has created an enormous gap between the world and the things happening in it, and me, on a sort of singletrack island here in E-Rallysville.
And I guess that was sort of the point anyway. Reality vs. Singletrack island. I'll take Singletrack Island every time, at least until Reality gets its shit together.
Not everyone has that choice, of course. Plenty of people work in a social-media driven world, or are required to monitor their corporate social media profile, or otherwise don't have the professional ability to just drop back and punt social media on 3rd down before it gets any worse. I get that.
But you still have the choice, the same choice we all have at the end of the day, every day, when the next thing you do - your own version of reality, not the enormous social one that has been created for you, but your ACTUAL LIFE, reaches a final, rapidly diminishing hour before it's time to pass out:
Ride your bike or surf big blue.
 |
| it's enough to drive you crazy |
Up to you.
Up, up, up.
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
This Just In...
Even Georgia kicks a little ass, if you'll let it.
Like my iPhone keeps telling me, there is a delay in the road ahead, because, you know, that's life man - but you are still on the best route.
Carry on.
Up, up, up.
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
Dear Avery
Dear Avery,
My only daughter, I love you, and I'm so sorry for what we've done. Two months ago, you turned 5, and today we have given you President Donald Trump.
I don't know what to say really. I tried. Many, many of us tried very hard to prevent this from happening, but the tide that came in was pretty strong this time, for whatever reason, and when it rolled back Donald Trump and 60 million Americans with the right to vote their mind, whatever that might be, were the only ones left standing. I disagree with them emphatically, Avery, but I will say this for them; they were very, very angry.
You know how mad you get when you get left out of games? Sometimes you're not old enough, or not tall enough, or you're not a boy, and you don't get to play. You know that deep angry sense of wrong you feel when you sit with daddy and we watch the boys race their bikes in France on TV, and there aren't any girls, save for the ones that have to kiss the boy who wins when he wins? I imagine, to a certain degree, that's how those people who voted for Donald Trump feel and have felt for a while now. Left out. Left behind. Wronged. I try to put myself in their shoes, and though I disagree, I think I understand - at least I understand where they started.
The hard part for me - and certainly the hard part for you, my daughter, is all the other things that their anger carries with it. I don't see how you'll have any way of not taking from this the hard lessons, that men are somehow better than women, that a girl can't be president, that if a man with enough money forces himself on you someday, you'll have to just take it. You have little choice but to accept the truth, the awful truth, that women are not yet equal to men in this country. We are not yet ready. We have not had enough strong, competent women lead us yet to vote one into the highest office in the world. Hidden behind all the veiled accusations that we hurled at Hillary Clinton, about her emails and her health and her wealth and her pantsuits, right there just below the surface, there was one word: woman. I am so sorry and ashamed that we have to raise you in a country and a world where that is true, but it is.
I promise you, my love, that we are wrong.
I promise that we will someday be better than this, and you'll be able to walk down the street with your head held high, confident, equal, and assured that no one, regardless of their social status or office, can ever touch you without your consent. I promise you that you can race bikes too. That you can run faster than the boys. That there is literally nothing, NOTHING, that they have a right to do that you can't do too, do better, do more, do however you want, and that someday - not today, but someday - no one will be able to take that away from you. I promise you that this is all a big mistake, that eventually cooler heads will prevail, that next time around the 100,000,000 Americans that had the right to vote, the responsibility to vote and send the right message to our daughters about right and wrong - but didn't - I promise you that they'll turn up and vote for you someday if you want them to.
Be strong, be tough my little one. You will need it.
Up, up, up.
My only daughter, I love you, and I'm so sorry for what we've done. Two months ago, you turned 5, and today we have given you President Donald Trump.
I don't know what to say really. I tried. Many, many of us tried very hard to prevent this from happening, but the tide that came in was pretty strong this time, for whatever reason, and when it rolled back Donald Trump and 60 million Americans with the right to vote their mind, whatever that might be, were the only ones left standing. I disagree with them emphatically, Avery, but I will say this for them; they were very, very angry.
You know how mad you get when you get left out of games? Sometimes you're not old enough, or not tall enough, or you're not a boy, and you don't get to play. You know that deep angry sense of wrong you feel when you sit with daddy and we watch the boys race their bikes in France on TV, and there aren't any girls, save for the ones that have to kiss the boy who wins when he wins? I imagine, to a certain degree, that's how those people who voted for Donald Trump feel and have felt for a while now. Left out. Left behind. Wronged. I try to put myself in their shoes, and though I disagree, I think I understand - at least I understand where they started.
The hard part for me - and certainly the hard part for you, my daughter, is all the other things that their anger carries with it. I don't see how you'll have any way of not taking from this the hard lessons, that men are somehow better than women, that a girl can't be president, that if a man with enough money forces himself on you someday, you'll have to just take it. You have little choice but to accept the truth, the awful truth, that women are not yet equal to men in this country. We are not yet ready. We have not had enough strong, competent women lead us yet to vote one into the highest office in the world. Hidden behind all the veiled accusations that we hurled at Hillary Clinton, about her emails and her health and her wealth and her pantsuits, right there just below the surface, there was one word: woman. I am so sorry and ashamed that we have to raise you in a country and a world where that is true, but it is.
I promise you, my love, that we are wrong.
I promise that we will someday be better than this, and you'll be able to walk down the street with your head held high, confident, equal, and assured that no one, regardless of their social status or office, can ever touch you without your consent. I promise you that you can race bikes too. That you can run faster than the boys. That there is literally nothing, NOTHING, that they have a right to do that you can't do too, do better, do more, do however you want, and that someday - not today, but someday - no one will be able to take that away from you. I promise you that this is all a big mistake, that eventually cooler heads will prevail, that next time around the 100,000,000 Americans that had the right to vote, the responsibility to vote and send the right message to our daughters about right and wrong - but didn't - I promise you that they'll turn up and vote for you someday if you want them to.
Be strong, be tough my little one. You will need it.
Up, up, up.
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
Make America Late Again
On a 60 minute lunch break, it took me 40 minutes to ride my bike to the local elementary school, stand in line, vote the shit out of that place, and ride home. Leaving me only 20 minutes to shred the local goods along the way.
I made the sacrifice. The shredding, that is, not the voting. The voting part is not an option.
20 minutes of trail, though, and nothing mattered any more.
Puts me together every time. I even stretched it, took a bonus 10 minutes, just to savor the effect.
Whoever we elected president today has a big job in front of them - putting these two enormous, divided shitpiles of a population back together again.
It occurs to me that a requisite, daily, 20 minute shred might go a long way.
Make your kids late to practice. Make your customer wait for the meeting. Eat dinner cold. Do what you have to do.
Make America Late Again. But get that shit out of your system.
Heal up, Country. We need us.
Up, up, up.
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
El Chupacabra
For a little Halloween giggle, I went out and bought myself a monster on Oct 31.
EL CHUPACABRA.
3 full inches of new Bontrager rubber.
Slayer of Goats? Or slayer of Goat Trails? The truth is out there.
For those curious about such things, El Chupacabra fits in a Surly Karate Monkey fork with gobs of room to spare. I set it up on a Bontrager Rhythm PRO Scandium 29er rim, that rim being 28 mm, not the recommended 35mm, but it beaded up just fine on the first try using just a floor pump and not a drop of sealant. So if the set up process means anything, fat life is gonna be easy.
Come at me, leaves. I'm ready.
Up, up, up.
EL CHUPACABRA.
3 full inches of new Bontrager rubber.
Slayer of Goats? Or slayer of Goat Trails? The truth is out there.
For those curious about such things, El Chupacabra fits in a Surly Karate Monkey fork with gobs of room to spare. I set it up on a Bontrager Rhythm PRO Scandium 29er rim, that rim being 28 mm, not the recommended 35mm, but it beaded up just fine on the first try using just a floor pump and not a drop of sealant. So if the set up process means anything, fat life is gonna be easy.
Come at me, leaves. I'm ready.
Up, up, up.
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Costumes, Costumes, Costumes
Paranormality will kick into overdrive in 2 short days, assuming that you're the kind of person who likes to put on your costume Friday night, imbibe enough Ninja Porters to sleep soundly in it, wake up Saturday conveniently dressed for the day, and roll straight to the Northside for The Paranormal.
Costume reports from near and far:Cookie Monster
Birder with petition to ban bikes from Ragged Mountain
Brian Silva
Obama's half brother, Malik
Drunk Ken Bone
Religiously Offensive Public Servant
Soyuz Space Rocket and the ISS
Cattle Rustler
I advised one individual that it was too soon for a Zombie Dave Mirra costume, though something tells me Dave Mirra would disagree with me about that. So, whatever, do what you will.
Anyway, the weather looks absolutely splitter. Some rain Friday morning will tamp the dust down a little, and we'll be left with HUGE blue skies, cool temps, and hero dirt for one and all. If someone dresses as Grothar, God of Weather, please make it a point to give that person a high five.
Feeling the need to pre-ride? The course should be 100% marked, leaf blown, and dialed to perfection by Saturday AM. So show up early Saturday and you'll get first tracks on what I believe it our finest Paranormal track yet. If you feel the need to pre-ride BEFORE Saturday, get in touch with me directly and I'll make that happen for you.
Tune in, dress up, and be here Saturday.
Up up up.
Monday, October 17, 2016
Paranormal Predictions 2016
You know the story.
No guts no glory.
Not much can compare to that, but anyway, I give you my Paranormal Predictions of Greatness (and not so) for this bizarre election year of our lawd, 2016.
First, The Weather:
HERO Dirt is the forecast. A wee bit of rain on Friday will leave the track tacky, but not sloppy. Skidding and yipping with joy. Also , it'll be a tad cooler, which will be nice considering all the sweating and cursing the bugs we'll be doing this week to prep the course for your reaping.
Second, Costumes:
There's usually very little reason to doubt the offensiveness, tastelessness, and filth of Scott Ramsey's costume. So he's a tough man to bet against when it comes to the costume contest, except that he's so very often DQ'ed for the sheer raunch of it. But this year I received a murky text from someone else - who shall remain nameless - days ago, that eluded to the fact that his significant other came back from a business trip, spied his costume still mid-creation on the workbench, and instantly assumed it was a sex toy. So that person shall remain my nameless pick for Costume champion - but I have a feeling we will all know it when we see it.
Onto the Categories, quick and dirty. Emphasis on QUICK.
Solo Women: Laura Hamm, should she turn up, will have to pry the solo winner's check out of Anne Pike's cold, dead fingers. But will she?
Solo Men: Petrylak. I'm falling asleep here. By a full lap or two? Until someone, ANYONE, shows me something, ANYTHING, that halfway resembles EITHER the engine to out-pedal or the stones to out-handle Petrylak in the single at night, I think it's Petrylak AHEAD BY A CENTURY. But I'll accept any and all applications to the contrary, because quite frankly, watching Petrylak kick every one of your asses by 10+ miles every year is a straight yawner. Get your shit together, Richard Serton.
Solo SS: Iron Mike Coco. He officially signed up, he runs about 39 X14 or so, and he slugs the High Life like it's G2 gatorade. I think Kesecker, having just come off a training camp in the hills and hollers of North Carolina with that part timer has-been Gordon Qwasdsworth, will at least give Coco a scare or two. But it's 6+ hours of Singlespeeding. I think it takes a lifetime of SS commitment - along with a healthy dose of not actually caring about your knees - to really do that to yourself for that long at top speed, and Coco has made that commitment. Unless Dicky hitchhikes to E-Rallys-ville to show off his costume? Headquarters to Dicky, over...Duo Categories - all of them - lumped together: Look, let's be honest - you people don't count. We all know damn well that the sun goes down, the kegs get tapped, and whichever one of you is out on a lap comes back into the transition super hot to find a drunk teammate with a burger and a beer in their hand as a peace offering/bribe not to be sent back out for another beating, and you take it, the capes come off, and you get down to the business of eating, drinking, and talking shit about you partner by the fire whilst funding CAMBC's heretofore unbuilt Preddy Creek pump track. I'm not judging. Far from it - I am ONE of you. So bring cash, and let's get that thing built.
TRIO: OK, it's the first time out for this thing, and so it's tough to get my head around just what is possible here. I think this could be a legit, fast race for glory - knocking down maybe 8 laps? Is 8 possible? We shall find out, I think. Especially if Bryan Lewis, Ben King, Jake King, or some other similar underfunded yet still very pro assembly shows up in costume with business to be done.
But back to my earlier point, they still might not beat Petrylak.
You know what's up:
sign up
dress up
show up up UP.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Paranormal Costume #389,114: Hoverbiker
HOVERBIKES.
Never mind, for the time being, the implications of this. What such machines will mean for the bike industry, capitalism, road legality, trail access, trail building, shit - trails AT ALL. Because who will need an actual trail when you don't really touch it anyway.
Never mind the fleeting concept of dirt jumps when technically EVERYTHING is a jump, with or without a man-made launchpad.
Never mind how exactly street legality will be assessed, and how much maintenance will be required, and whether there will be a single speed version. Will we race them. Will there need to be mens and womens divisions. Will they have parachutes.
Never mind if there will be a fat-hover-bike. Will there be an off road vs on-road set of product details? Seat belts. Will we wear the helmets that Luke and Leia wore in speeder chase scene in Return of The Jedi that sorta look like POC helmets anyway?
Never mind what sprinting will look like, or how much it will cost, sum total, when the pro hover bike peloton crashes in the nasty, reduced bunch, hover-sprint finale at Amstel Gold. (Probably upwards of $1 billion.)
Death Star? Do you even Enduro, brah?
Never mind all that for now. Focus, for the time being, on what matters:
How are you going to costume yourself as any/all of the above for The Paranormal?
You've got 10 days.
But also, a whole lifetime.
Hoverbikes, too, go up up up.
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
Costume is French for Costume
Someone told me a few days ago they didn't have any good costume ideas for the Paranormal.
Naturally, I told them that was a complete and total crock of shit.
You see, when you were growing up, and your parents told you that you could be anything you want, they weren't talking about real life. Don't be silly. They were talking about Halloween. But yes, ANYTHING.
Exhibit A.
ANYTHING.
Plus, if you take a header into the pond because that single track below my house has gotten a little, shall we say, "natural" - at least you will float.
In my experience, of which I have a great deal, finding and putting on your Halloween costume is rarely the problem. It's keeping it on. That's where bad decision get made.
OK, I'm short on time, and long on the odds that my Paranormal predictions will be right anyway, so I'll trail off here and allow you to ruminate on the concept of Team Wonder Sauna Hot Pants. (long.)
UP!
Naturally, I told them that was a complete and total crock of shit.
You see, when you were growing up, and your parents told you that you could be anything you want, they weren't talking about real life. Don't be silly. They were talking about Halloween. But yes, ANYTHING.
Exhibit A.
Plus, if you take a header into the pond because that single track below my house has gotten a little, shall we say, "natural" - at least you will float.
In my experience, of which I have a great deal, finding and putting on your Halloween costume is rarely the problem. It's keeping it on. That's where bad decision get made.
OK, I'm short on time, and long on the odds that my Paranormal predictions will be right anyway, so I'll trail off here and allow you to ruminate on the concept of Team Wonder Sauna Hot Pants. (long.)
UP!
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Trio category costume ideas for The Paranormal
With the unleashing of the much-acclaimed, always-requested, now-available TRIO CATEGORY at the Paranormal this year, I figured it would be worth a brain dump of all the Trio costume ideas I've had floating around in my grey matter (urine) for all these years - years that the Trio Cat has been oppressed.
Bel Biv Devoe
Ivana, Marla, and Melania Trump
The father, the son, and the whole wheat ghost*
Centipede
Paper Rock Scissors
MarioKart
And, of course, our own Breaking Bad
Three's Company
Knife, Fork, and Spoon
The Three Bears who ate Goldilocks
Three Notch'd Brewery
The Three Little Pigs
Love Triangle
*Also available on a gluten free bun
That list goes on and on and, of course,
Up Up Up.
Bel Biv Devoe
Ivana, Marla, and Melania Trump
The father, the son, and the whole wheat ghost*
Centipede
Paper Rock Scissors
MarioKart
And, of course, our own Breaking Bad
Three's Company
Knife, Fork, and Spoon
The Three Bears who ate Goldilocks
Three Notch'd Brewery
The Three Little Pigs
Love Triangle
*Also available on a gluten free bun
That list goes on and on and, of course,
Up Up Up.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
This just in...
West Virginia kicks ass.
Also, pro tip - if you are easily disoriented and kinda scuzzy looking, marry a lady who can take up the slack for you.
Also, pro tip - if you are easily disoriented and kinda scuzzy looking, marry a lady who can take up the slack for you.
You Are Here.
This is what they call marrying UP.
And up, and up, and up.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
In Triplicate
BikeReg, FaceBook, and whatever other social technology the kids are into these days are all live.
If you're new to this little scene, you're in for a treat. If you're a 15-year Paranormal Veteran like Iron Mike Walling, here are a few things you might notice are different this year:
1) There's a TRIO category. That's right...not one, not two, but three of you can race as one team for the low low price of $100. And conveniently, if you play your cards just right, start third, and plod around the course with a maximum amount of socializing, costume malfunctioning, and other mechancal failures, you might be able to get away with doing only a single lap. It'll take commitment, but it's out there for the taking.
The flip side of that, for those super fast individuals who want to know just how many laps could be commenced in a 6 hour window, I think you might be able to log 9 laps total. And Petrylak will still beat all 3 of you. By himself. Added bonus that if your light fails in the woods, you'll be letting down not one, but two of your friends, creating awkward exchanges with both of them for months to come.
2) Firepower. If you've been watching the bike news, you'll have seen many pros didn't get contracts for 2017, because, you know, that shit is dying or whatever. But their loss is our gain, as maybe some of them (former champs, KOM holders, and the like) will turn up and throw down some fast laps with the dregs of the rest of us. Which, they'll maybe realize, is way, way better anyway. Welcome home, boys and girls.
3) COW COSTUMES. My hope is that this will be the year of the Cow Costume, in all it's various shapes, colors, sizes, and smells. Does a steak costume count as a cow costume? Get well soon, Dad, there's a contest to judge.
Oct 22, the gun goes off at 4 PM.
There's one way to the top, and it's up, up, up.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
I'm gonna pop some tags
For every thing that's wrong with cycling at the professional level, there are a thousand things at the grassroots level that are absolutely, 100% right.
DirtShit talking
Crisp fall weather
Groomed ribbons of life-affirming single track
Wide-open racing
Drink--night riding
Night-drink riding
Night-Ride Drinking? I'm not sure. (But, please, save the kegs for the post-ride, and use your cupholders).
DJ'ed neutral support pits
Our community coming together as further evidence that, if anything, God loves costumes.
The list of what is right and good goes on and on. Which, as you might guess, is just me starting to talk about The Paranormal.
Saturday, Oct 22 from 4 pm until 10 PM.
I'll wear your granddad's clothes. I look incredible.
Again, that date is Saturday Oct 22. Race starts at 4, but those in the know know that it's an all day affair. So start getting your costume together now, while the racks are still full and the pumpkin beer hasn't clouded your good judgement.
 |
| Smells like R Kelly's Sheets. |
Here's to taking back our sport. It'll be easy. I'll just need to get my leopard mink cape out of my rear wheel first.
Sometimes racing means you gotta dress up, up, up.
Friday, September 9, 2016
Hey Francisco, Fuck You.
 |
| Up your ass, Canada. |
On Wednesday, Team Jamis-Sutter home - a longtime stalwart of domestic pro racing here in the USA - folded because of a lack of funding.
Well, no shit.
If I were Jamis, or Sutter Home, or any company here in the USA that was looking to invest my advertising dollars in such a way as to make product look better to my target market, I wouldn't pay for this shit either.
WHY THE FUCK IS FRANCISCO MANCEBO RACING IN NORTH AMERICA?
Mancebo still has 20 bags of his own blood leftover in Spain, waiting for him to drop by and pick it up from Operation Puerto. Mind boggling. It's hard to continue to try to be a fan of a sport that just can't stop kicking itself in the dick.
There's simply not enough money to pay clean athletes. Ben King still doesn't have a contract to race in 2017. Jake King, a stagiare with the now-defunct Team Jamis, might come up with zilch himself. Clean, strong, good guys like the King brothers were supposed to be the future of cycling after Operation Puerto, the advent of the biological passport, Lance Armstrong's testimony, and all the other "we're cleaning up our sport" bullshit that the UCI sold us over the past 12 years.
But where are we instead? Manchebo is still somehow winning races. Valverde has raced all 3 grand tours in Europe this year. Ryder Hesjedal is riding a farewell tour across the autumn races in Canada like some kind of goddamn national hero. But the actual good guys don't have jobs.
I don't get it. Never have, actually, but this one hits a little closer to home this time (like, literally in my house.) Team Jamis-Sutter home has stayed here with me at the Rancho Relaxo the last two seasons for a week while in transit between East Coast races. To a man, left to right, they're great guys. The racers, the staff, all of them. We ate dinners together. Sebastian Haedo borrowed my fishing gear and caught some bass. Luis Amaran and I watched The Revenant in Spanish. Felix, their soigneur, read books to my kids. Most of us who ride Tuesday Night Worlds from the 22936 every week have had the privilege of watching Jake King's progress as he matured, much like we did Ben's. For me, Team Jamis folding is personal, and the lack of funding is representative of our sports' failure in general.
I wonder what 20 bags of blood even looks like? What do you carry that around in? How do you get that much blood out of a person in the first place? Clearly, Mancebo understood the benefit and was 100% committed to the process. I imagine it took months. Shame on us, the paying public, for allowing it to work for him.
There's a commonality at work here, a close parallel that you might draw between Mancebo and Donald Trump, and our own unwillingness as a population to stand up for what is right. This is way bigger than bikes. The larger picture, as always, is about us, We The People. It's like we've been desensitized to villainy somehow, by the movies, social media, drugs, the liberal media, or whatever you want to believe has brought us to where we are; but the result is simple apathy.
This is not the movies.
The bad guys win if we let them.
Up, up, up.
Monday, August 29, 2016
WHOEVER STOLE MCCARDELL'S PUMP
I WILL FIND YOU.
As you can see below, I'm already way ahead of you.
Might as well turn yourself in now.
As you can see below, I'm already way ahead of you.
Might as well turn yourself in now.
David Tevendale:
Hey did you find pump?
Mark McCardell:
Lolol
No. I went to the field to see if it was there
David Tevendale:
Mysterious.
Do you have any suspects?
Gotta be someone you'd never expect.
I'd personally like to go ahead and blindly accuse Will Leet.
Mark McCardell:
Bill said he has seen this happen so many times with his boys. Some teen picks up an item and throw it in the hatchback and the parents are unaware.
David Tevendale:
SCANLON.
Totally.
Trying to throw you off his trail.
That nogood sonofabitch.
Hes a great suspect.
He's got it all...motive, access, ability. I like where you're going with this.
Have you confronted him yet? I think you should go in super hot.
Mark McCardell:
I should publicly shame him on Facebooks. 😂
David Tevendale:
Also, NED ORMSBY. I'm not buying that whole niceguy act.
No one can possibly be that good. I'm calling bs.
Also, also, CHARLIE ORMSBY. accomplice or sole perpetrator?
Did Ned cover it up to save his son?
Will he take the fall?
No way. We will put the heat on him and he'll sing.
Facebook heat that is.
Faceheat.
Mark McCardell:
Faceheat. Trademark it now.
David Tevendale:
I just made that up.
It's the new waterboarding. Ever since Obama ruined waterboarding.
OBAMA. It was the POTUS!
This thing goes all the way to the top.
Mark McCardell:
Ok i almost pissed myself with the new waterboarding
David Tevendale:
Answer me this! What reason did Obama have NOT to steal your pump?
Amiright?
SCOTT RAMSEY.
ALL THE COMPTONS.
SHAWN TEVENDALE.
Mark McCardell:
That dude...shifty character if I ever saw one.
David Tevendale:
I'd classify Shawn as a moderately strong suspect at this point.
Proximity, etc is easy. But we might struggle to establish a motive.
But know this: no one is above the law.
I will leave no stone unturned.
I, for one, am sick and tired of the low caliber of people we have riding around here.
Mark McCardell:
Steven Segal is above the law
David Tevendale:
Dude.
Why the fuck would Steven Segal steal your pump?
Don't be an idiot.
I need you locked in here.
Not just randomly accusing people.
Friday, August 26, 2016
SWAPPAGE
Veloswap kicks off tomorrow. 9 AM, preston ave.
I've actually never been to Veloswap for the opening bell before. Also, I've never witnessed a human crush. So this is my big chance to check off two bucket list items in one morning, which will be saaa-weet.
I've got a mission from a relative, sharp elbows, and $1,000 cash to back it up.
So you can surf on over here to see a few photos of all the things I'm going to elbow my way in front of you for. Enjoy that.
Hydrate bitches. Show up early.
But that's MY holeshot.
Up, up, up.
I've actually never been to Veloswap for the opening bell before. Also, I've never witnessed a human crush. So this is my big chance to check off two bucket list items in one morning, which will be saaa-weet.
I've got a mission from a relative, sharp elbows, and $1,000 cash to back it up.
So you can surf on over here to see a few photos of all the things I'm going to elbow my way in front of you for. Enjoy that.
Hydrate bitches. Show up early.
But that's MY holeshot.
Up, up, up.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Why can't I just hate Floyd Landis?
Why can't I just hate Floyd Landis?
Because I don't. But that doesn't make much sense.
This is a pretty average doper, cheater, liar, in the same spirit as Lance Armstrong, Tom Danielson, Ryder Hesjedal, Tyler Hamilton, and on and on and on. All cheaters. And somehow - Floyd is even worse - despite all of that - he's on the cusp of enormous financial gain because of his role in the whistleblower lawsuit against Lance Armstrong, as if he was only a tangential part of the problem when it was happening to USPS back in the early 2000s. A victim. A witness.
Plus, slap in the face number 7 or 8, I've lost count, Floyd went on to race MTB's in the 100 mile local scene after he got tossed from the Road, thus sullying the waters, once again, for honest guys like Jeremiah Bishop, Todd Wells, and other domestic pros who didn't take drugs and turn pro on the road back in the 90s.
And now he owns a headshop, funded, at least in part, by the Floyd Freedom Fund, which also turned out to be a farce. If you donated to the FFF, do you at least get free pot when you're in Leadville? Pretty soon, the Federal Government will, despite their best intentions, play a large role in funding Floyd's drug store as well.
The irony of it all, Floyd.
No bullshit, your target market is the same people you cheated back in 2007 when you raced 100 mile MTB's after years of PED use and all of the implied, longterm benefits you gained from EPO, Testosterone, blood doping, and now you want sell them...drugs?
I don't see this working out, Floyd. But somehow, still, here you are. And more to the point, here WE are. The same people you lied to and cheated. We are buying your product, and we love your stoned, hillbilly smile.
FREEZE YOUR BLOOD AND THEN STAB IT INTO ME...
One can ask this question on a larger scale of course...why do we, cycling fans, buy the brands founded by the same athletes who lied to us about how clean they were and then embarrassed us on a global stage? See DZ nuts. See also, Hincapie Sportswear. I think the answer, if you can find it, probably gets right to the core of our complicated sentiments for the American riders who used drugs but also put cycling on the map for us.
Something about Floyd, though, I don't know. Despite all the same transgressions, no one seems to despise him quite like they do Lance, or Ryder, or Tom Danielson. Maybe it's the new look - some kind of fratboy, budweiser swilling, hillbilly harmless appeal, who is clearly stoned well past the point of giving a shit what we think about him.
Is he too stoned to realize that I want to dislike him but I can't? Neither of us could explain why, I don't guess, but clearly I'm the only one that cares.
Eat the world, Floyd.
Up, Up, Up.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Harmony is restored to the Universe
C-ham, back on the bike.
The very small possibility of an achilles re-rupture notwithstanding, the world can now resume spinning in the right direction. Basic shit can now be sorted out and dealt with. Trump, for example, but also Russia, China, the Zika virus, and all the stuff on the top shelf in my kitchen that I can't reach.
Rest easy, world. Things are going to be OK.
Go forth this weekend, but never lose sight of the simple, hard truth that it can all get popped out from under you in an instant.
Its a long road back, and it's all up, up, up.
The very small possibility of an achilles re-rupture notwithstanding, the world can now resume spinning in the right direction. Basic shit can now be sorted out and dealt with. Trump, for example, but also Russia, China, the Zika virus, and all the stuff on the top shelf in my kitchen that I can't reach.
Rest easy, world. Things are going to be OK.
Go forth this weekend, but never lose sight of the simple, hard truth that it can all get popped out from under you in an instant.
Its a long road back, and it's all up, up, up.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Death Star
As if training for the Hundo wasn't challenging enough, sometimes you also have to FIND training for the Hundo.
Pack a lunch. Gonna' be late.
Up, up, up.
Pack a lunch. Gonna' be late.
Up, up, up.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Ryder Hesjedal to retire at the end of season
Good riddance.
I can't say I feel considerably better or worse about the whole situation.
It's not all the money he stole that bothers me. Not dollars, or loonies, or Euros, or Yen.
It's the dreams of honest people, no longer in circulation.
We can never go back, only up, up, up.
I can't say I feel considerably better or worse about the whole situation.
It's not all the money he stole that bothers me. Not dollars, or loonies, or Euros, or Yen.
It's the dreams of honest people, no longer in circulation.
We can never go back, only up, up, up.
Friday, July 29, 2016
10 years of love and suspension forks
When I was 14, my cousin Adam was married and I went with my family down to Richmond to attend his wedding. As a 14 year-old boy, I was just starting to evaluate the whole concept of marriage - weighing the pros and cons. Already, I'd seen plenty of divorces (this was the early 90s.)
But for their first dance, Adam and his bride chose Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" - and for me, it was a formative moment.
Marriage could, in fact, rock. I was in.
Fast forward, sweet jesus, 24 years. I'm 38 now. Me and the love of my life, we got together nearly 10 years ago, and this year will be our 7th year of marriage. I've already written about that week, 10 years ago, and how finding love for me was so closely intertwined with racing SM100 for the first time, so I won't rehash too much of that. Also, I'm not one to dispense advice on the subject of love, given that I've only ever succeeded once, and paradoxically, once is exactly the right amount of times to be right about it, but it sure doesn't make a person an expert.
But I will tell you this much:
though they might seem very much alike at times, love is not a suspension fork.
Let me explain.
Not sure if you've noticed, but suspension is difficult these days. Sag, air pressure, 2 month service intervals, leaky seals, messy oils, a lack of sex, money problems and... maybe most dangerously OPTIONS. Everywhere you look: Options. New shit to replace your old shit. New standards. Thru Axles. Boost. 29er upgrade to your 26er. 27.5 downgrade from your 29er. Tapered steerers to replace your straight ones. Plus-sized options for those inclined to go that way, just in case your beautiful, normal sized fork-bride isn't doing it for you anymore. You see where this metaphor is going...we are bombarded, everywhere we look and read, by an industry that is thrusting more and more options and "standards" upon us.
To compound this problem, the fork you have starts giving you a bunch of shit.
Spewing oil. Leaking air. Bitching at you for leaving the toilet seat up. Just sorta making you feel like shit all the time, and you don't even want to ride it. It's like, you never really noticed it at first, but one day you looked down and that fork you loved so much when you married it has changed so much, you barely recognize it.
Divorce rates, of course, remain staggeringly high. Given the predicaments above, of course they do.
To fix the suspension fork you have, it takes time...plus new seals, fresh oil, new dampers, labor, and a set of fresh stanchions is going to cost you about $400 these days. There's a sign just up the street from where I drop my kids off at school that reads: DIVORCE, $159.
Do the math. You can get 2 divorces for less than the price of just fixing the fork you have. For many people, that's a no-brainer. They've been looking at a plus-sized bike anyway. Fuck it. Nothing like a new fork. The new one, too, is a disposable part, just like everything else on your bike, frame included. Every piece of that bike will, eventually, fall apart.
As a side note, for the rare few, they simply throw away their existing fork and go rigid. I've actually been running a rigid fork on my Singlespeed for almost a year now, and it's rough but somewhat rewarding for short rides. As a continuance of this little metaphor we've got going here, Rigid Forks are the relationship-equivalent to celibacy. Those that can, by all means, go for it. But for most of us it's just not an option for very long.
I've got some advice for you, here, kids. And I don't do this very often, but 10 years in with the Love of My Life, and I think I'm entitled to it just a little this one time.
Love is not a suspension fork.
Take care of the Love you have.
Do something nice for it. Take it on vacation with you. Do the hard, expensive work to make it like new again. Along the way, give it some new oil. Draw a hot bath for it. Write it an honest note to tell it you love it and how much it means to you and how truly and fully fucked your life would be if anything ever happened to it, so please be careful out there. Write a bizarre metaphorical blog post about her for the world to read that compares her to a bicycle component and barely makes any sense, but however you do it, show her you love her.
Cycling is a throw-away sub-culture in an already throw-away world. That's fine.
But take care of the things that matter.
Up, up, up.
But for their first dance, Adam and his bride chose Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" - and for me, it was a formative moment.
Marriage could, in fact, rock. I was in.
Fast forward, sweet jesus, 24 years. I'm 38 now. Me and the love of my life, we got together nearly 10 years ago, and this year will be our 7th year of marriage. I've already written about that week, 10 years ago, and how finding love for me was so closely intertwined with racing SM100 for the first time, so I won't rehash too much of that. Also, I'm not one to dispense advice on the subject of love, given that I've only ever succeeded once, and paradoxically, once is exactly the right amount of times to be right about it, but it sure doesn't make a person an expert.
But I will tell you this much:
though they might seem very much alike at times, love is not a suspension fork.
Let me explain.
 |
| wild lovers I have blown |
To compound this problem, the fork you have starts giving you a bunch of shit.
Spewing oil. Leaking air. Bitching at you for leaving the toilet seat up. Just sorta making you feel like shit all the time, and you don't even want to ride it. It's like, you never really noticed it at first, but one day you looked down and that fork you loved so much when you married it has changed so much, you barely recognize it.
Divorce rates, of course, remain staggeringly high. Given the predicaments above, of course they do.
To fix the suspension fork you have, it takes time...plus new seals, fresh oil, new dampers, labor, and a set of fresh stanchions is going to cost you about $400 these days. There's a sign just up the street from where I drop my kids off at school that reads: DIVORCE, $159.
Do the math. You can get 2 divorces for less than the price of just fixing the fork you have. For many people, that's a no-brainer. They've been looking at a plus-sized bike anyway. Fuck it. Nothing like a new fork. The new one, too, is a disposable part, just like everything else on your bike, frame included. Every piece of that bike will, eventually, fall apart.
As a side note, for the rare few, they simply throw away their existing fork and go rigid. I've actually been running a rigid fork on my Singlespeed for almost a year now, and it's rough but somewhat rewarding for short rides. As a continuance of this little metaphor we've got going here, Rigid Forks are the relationship-equivalent to celibacy. Those that can, by all means, go for it. But for most of us it's just not an option for very long.
I've got some advice for you, here, kids. And I don't do this very often, but 10 years in with the Love of My Life, and I think I'm entitled to it just a little this one time.
Love is not a suspension fork.
Take care of the Love you have.
Do something nice for it. Take it on vacation with you. Do the hard, expensive work to make it like new again. Along the way, give it some new oil. Draw a hot bath for it. Write it an honest note to tell it you love it and how much it means to you and how truly and fully fucked your life would be if anything ever happened to it, so please be careful out there. Write a bizarre metaphorical blog post about her for the world to read that compares her to a bicycle component and barely makes any sense, but however you do it, show her you love her.
Cycling is a throw-away sub-culture in an already throw-away world. That's fine.
But take care of the things that matter.
Up, up, up.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Ragged Mountain Access Meeting - THIS Wednesday.
I've written already about Ragged Mountain, and the nature of public land, and the concept of shared use trail access, and the struggle that our local brass has been battling to try to get reasonable, common-sense, shared-use policies for trail access applied there. The kind of lesson about sharing that you'd teach your 4 year old.
And it would seem that situation is coming to its necessary and mysterious finale.
You gotta get there.
There being here.
SHOWING UP.
That's half of loving something.
Probably the hardest half.
After that, most things tend to fall into place. Or sometimes they don't. But the only part of the equation that you can control, you must.
For me and mine, I'll abandon the lectern here, turn the mic over to my beautiful, well-spoken, kind, forward-thinking, calm-yet-firm, love of my life to represent the family while I manage the kids and try to explain to them the same concept of sharing that Shannon will try to explain to grown-ass adults. Hopefully at least one of us will be successful.
And as long as you do the same, and so does your neighbor, and so does your riding buddy, and so even do the people who oppose shared-use access to Ragged Mountain, and as long as we're all there as voices of reason and sanity, even if those voices disagree on some of the specifics, I'm pretty sure we'll get a deal done.
Here's the good word, straight from the tippy top of CAMBC, and I'll sign off:
And it would seem that situation is coming to its necessary and mysterious finale.
You gotta get there.
There being here.
5:30 PM, Wednesday, July 20Jefferson School, African American Heritage Center233 4th st nw, 2nd floorCharlottesville va 22903
SHOWING UP.
That's half of loving something.
Probably the hardest half.
After that, most things tend to fall into place. Or sometimes they don't. But the only part of the equation that you can control, you must.
For me and mine, I'll abandon the lectern here, turn the mic over to my beautiful, well-spoken, kind, forward-thinking, calm-yet-firm, love of my life to represent the family while I manage the kids and try to explain to them the same concept of sharing that Shannon will try to explain to grown-ass adults. Hopefully at least one of us will be successful.
And as long as you do the same, and so does your neighbor, and so does your riding buddy, and so even do the people who oppose shared-use access to Ragged Mountain, and as long as we're all there as voices of reason and sanity, even if those voices disagree on some of the specifics, I'm pretty sure we'll get a deal done.
Here's the good word, straight from the tippy top of CAMBC, and I'll sign off:
|
Friday, July 15, 2016
All the dirt you wander through
Married White Male seeking reality-altering, mind-bending, enormous, terrible bike ride.
Tomorrow.
Late notice, I know, and I can't leave until noon, because, you know, MWM and all.
But still, world-distorting, life-affirming, massive, and wonderful, and awful bike ride sought.
Until there's progress, at least there's this.
Will pay gas.
Up, up, up?
Monday, July 11, 2016
Enterpainment
Enterpainment. The word of the week. Use it in a sentence. Be cool.
Allow me to generalize. It's the only thing holding us together:
As humans that are existing in an often monotonus and repetitive daily grind, it's natural to seek out a project - something to remind yourself that you are actually alive and capable of dealing with real, genuine adversity.
As cyclists, this is sometimes where riding your bike and trying to ride your bike faster meet. Training. Where fist meets the tree, and skin meets the road. Going faster is pretty uncomfortable; this thing we call fun, it hurts sometimes.
We tend to forget the pain, of course. That's the nature of the human psyche, and an important component in the forward propagation of our species - we have a tendency not to recall just how bad it felt. Childbirth. Heartbreak. Intervals. These are the things we tend to block out, and thankfully so. Otherwise, there wouldn't be races, or love, or a reproducing population in general.
On that same topic, Pokemon Go is taking the fuck over.
Consider this situation: you're out there riding intervals, up on the parkway somewhere, head down, hammer down, swerving a little, doing your usual thing which is basically augmenting the monotony of your reality with a little adversity. Enterpainment, as you know.
And behind you on the same road, here come a couple of 17-year olds in their Mom's honda, staring at some bizarre, virtual reality world of Nintendo-based genius that only exists in their phones and their heads. Head down, hammer down, swerving a little. Sound familiar? It should. They are, without a doubt, augmenting their own reality with some man-made adversity themselves, fully distracted from the monotony of their lives. Not so different than you are right at that moment, except they're about to run you over.
We have way, way more in common than not. Sure, we are going about self-imposing our respective forms of challenge in different ways, but we're all on the same road, and that's actually the problem.
It's your right to forget how to deal with adversity, but do so at your own risk - lest you lose the ability to actually deal with trauma when it finally comes knocking at your door. It will. Same goes for hunters, hikers, street racers, naturalists, and even triathletes, and all the other people and their forms of entertainment that we find bizarre but have to share the world and the road with anyway. It's either infuriating, or it's like looking in the mirror at a brick wall. Or more than likely, it's both.
We live in a Brave New Weird World, getting weirder all the time.
In fact, sometimes it's not even a world at all - just a virtual reality version of the world that is indistinguishable from the actual world. But no less weird, or new, or brave.
Have caution: get used to it.
Up, up, up.
Allow me to generalize. It's the only thing holding us together:
As humans that are existing in an often monotonus and repetitive daily grind, it's natural to seek out a project - something to remind yourself that you are actually alive and capable of dealing with real, genuine adversity.
As cyclists, this is sometimes where riding your bike and trying to ride your bike faster meet. Training. Where fist meets the tree, and skin meets the road. Going faster is pretty uncomfortable; this thing we call fun, it hurts sometimes.
We tend to forget the pain, of course. That's the nature of the human psyche, and an important component in the forward propagation of our species - we have a tendency not to recall just how bad it felt. Childbirth. Heartbreak. Intervals. These are the things we tend to block out, and thankfully so. Otherwise, there wouldn't be races, or love, or a reproducing population in general.
 |
| nameless, faceless road rash. OUCH. |
Consider this situation: you're out there riding intervals, up on the parkway somewhere, head down, hammer down, swerving a little, doing your usual thing which is basically augmenting the monotony of your reality with a little adversity. Enterpainment, as you know.
And behind you on the same road, here come a couple of 17-year olds in their Mom's honda, staring at some bizarre, virtual reality world of Nintendo-based genius that only exists in their phones and their heads. Head down, hammer down, swerving a little. Sound familiar? It should. They are, without a doubt, augmenting their own reality with some man-made adversity themselves, fully distracted from the monotony of their lives. Not so different than you are right at that moment, except they're about to run you over.
We have way, way more in common than not. Sure, we are going about self-imposing our respective forms of challenge in different ways, but we're all on the same road, and that's actually the problem.
It's your right to forget how to deal with adversity, but do so at your own risk - lest you lose the ability to actually deal with trauma when it finally comes knocking at your door. It will. Same goes for hunters, hikers, street racers, naturalists, and even triathletes, and all the other people and their forms of entertainment that we find bizarre but have to share the world and the road with anyway. It's either infuriating, or it's like looking in the mirror at a brick wall. Or more than likely, it's both.
We live in a Brave New Weird World, getting weirder all the time.
In fact, sometimes it's not even a world at all - just a virtual reality version of the world that is indistinguishable from the actual world. But no less weird, or new, or brave.
Have caution: get used to it.
Up, up, up.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Will Leet on a farm
Proof that Will Leet will show up anywhere, at any time, and whoop up on anyone.
No one is ever safe.
Who takin' care of my farm?
Up, up, up.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Cycling-Relevant Information about getting a Vasectomy
I've tried to keep this off the blog a bit, because hey, these are my nuts I'm about to tell you about. But given just how many bike rider fellas have heard about me getting a vasectomy and contacted me for more information, I figure I'll just come right out with the splendid details and allow the masses to pore over this and, quite possibly, set your troubled minds at ease.
Things you, Mr. Cyclist in your spermal prime, might be wondering about getting a Vasectomy.
1) Is it going to hurt? I'm super scared of this for some reason.
The answer for most people is no, it doesn't really hurt. And for you, My Cyclist in your prime who weighs all of 145 lbs if you've stuffed your pockets with hammer gels, the answer is 10 times no. The reason for that is, these days, they give fellas like us a 2 MG Xanax to take 45 minutes before you go to surgery. I'm no expert on dosing, but I can tell you that a 2 MG Xanax for those of us who pursue endurance sports and get a little tipsy off the first beer, is enough to render you worthless for about 12 hours. I'm talking black out drunk. Think Jeff Cup and then went straight to Foxfield without eating lunch kind of shitfaced. In my case, I took the little xanax right on time, and my wife drove me to the procedure. It's an outpatient deal, takes about 20 minutes, and you're out of there. And by "out of there" I mean, they're going to wheel you to the car in a chair while you laugh and sing the wrong words to Fiona Apple. Just shitfaced. So my wife drives me to the doc, and I'm a little sleepy on the way there, but OK, and then we get out of the car in the parking lot, and I'm a little shaky, but again, fine, and I straighten up, pull it together, straight faced walk to the greeting desk at the doctor and the nurse says, "OK, clearly you've taken the Xanax." And, quite surprised, what I try to say back is, "How did you know I took the Xanax?" But what comes out of my mouth is pure gibberish. I'm shocked by how drugged I am, like, walking into walls and unable to speak or focus on anything. And I'm basically having a great time. So the nurse walks me back to the surgery room, which looks basically like the dentist office, chair and everything, and the instructions from here are super basic: take off your pants and underwear, cover up with this sheet, and the doctor will be right in. Unable to articulate that I don't understand her or follow instructions in general, I completely blow it. I take all my clothes off, lie down on the dentist chair buck naked, and sort of half way cover up with the sheet, but it's still folded up and doesn't really cover up anything, and I can't stop laughing until I pass out.
That's it. Procedure over.
Again, I'm sort of a lightweight, but as a cyclist, generally speaking our tolerance for pharmies is low, and for a procedure that so many of us have so much trepidation about, it was like I was barely even there. Just the easiest thing you could do.
I guess I sort of remember the doctor coming in and laughing at me. Then I think I might recall some poking or prodding, and maybe I said ouch one time, but I don't know. Eventually, they wheel me out to the car, and my wife drove me home, and gave me a Tylenol with codeine, and I slept for about 15 hours. Woke up the next day, used some ice, but it was basically fine.
Anyway, to directly address the question: why am I so scared of this? I think that's a natural human male reaction to someone cutting and pilfering around at sack level. And this is especially true for cyclist who spend an inordinate amount of time avoiding saddle-related pain on long rides.
But really, take that Xanax, and everything from there happens just fine. Enjoy the ride.
2) How long am I going to be off the bike for? - OK, so this is a subject you can split rooms on. The literature says you should give it a week at least. I know guys who said they rode 2 days later. My dad went duck hunting the next day. Other guys had a lot more swelling and were off the bike for 3 weeks. So it really varies. I can tell you that running is probably out for longer than riding. You're going to have a strict "No flopping around" policy for a while. But the pain really isn't bad. Maybe a 2 or 3 out of 10, that just sort of hangs around for a while. I guess I went for a ride exactly 7 days later, and it was OK. Now, close to 1 month out, I'm basically back to normal, just minus a little fitness that I lost along the way. Every now and then, getting on or off the bike, I'll sit on them though, which never used to happen, and sucks a whole lot, but I'm told that goes away.
3) What if I have a saddle sore? No problem. They do ask that you shower first. But the procedure is more directly on your balls than on your taint. So your saddle sore can heal as a part of the team.
4) Who was your Doctor? - This question has come up a lot. It would seem that this sort of procedure happens quite a lot based upon referral, which makes sense. Dr. Frazier Fortenberry here in the Foof has vasectomized probably half of town. Good guy. 10 out of 10, would get vasectomized again.
5) When should I get the procedure done? - I guess the off-season is what most people would recommend, but here in VA that doesn't really exist. The Friday before the Tour De France start would give you a good excuse to sit around, ice your haunches, and watch the Grand Depart. I guess a lot of doctors are booked the week of March Madness and the first round of the NFL playoffs. So consult your local listing.
Anyway, that's about it. I'll trail off here, but assuming you've read this far I imagine you're a cyclist local who is slowly resigning himself to the fact you're going to have this done. Feel free to reach out and we can rap about it.
For me, there's one way back, and it's up, up, up.
Things you, Mr. Cyclist in your spermal prime, might be wondering about getting a Vasectomy.
1) Is it going to hurt? I'm super scared of this for some reason.
The answer for most people is no, it doesn't really hurt. And for you, My Cyclist in your prime who weighs all of 145 lbs if you've stuffed your pockets with hammer gels, the answer is 10 times no. The reason for that is, these days, they give fellas like us a 2 MG Xanax to take 45 minutes before you go to surgery. I'm no expert on dosing, but I can tell you that a 2 MG Xanax for those of us who pursue endurance sports and get a little tipsy off the first beer, is enough to render you worthless for about 12 hours. I'm talking black out drunk. Think Jeff Cup and then went straight to Foxfield without eating lunch kind of shitfaced. In my case, I took the little xanax right on time, and my wife drove me to the procedure. It's an outpatient deal, takes about 20 minutes, and you're out of there. And by "out of there" I mean, they're going to wheel you to the car in a chair while you laugh and sing the wrong words to Fiona Apple. Just shitfaced. So my wife drives me to the doc, and I'm a little sleepy on the way there, but OK, and then we get out of the car in the parking lot, and I'm a little shaky, but again, fine, and I straighten up, pull it together, straight faced walk to the greeting desk at the doctor and the nurse says, "OK, clearly you've taken the Xanax." And, quite surprised, what I try to say back is, "How did you know I took the Xanax?" But what comes out of my mouth is pure gibberish. I'm shocked by how drugged I am, like, walking into walls and unable to speak or focus on anything. And I'm basically having a great time. So the nurse walks me back to the surgery room, which looks basically like the dentist office, chair and everything, and the instructions from here are super basic: take off your pants and underwear, cover up with this sheet, and the doctor will be right in. Unable to articulate that I don't understand her or follow instructions in general, I completely blow it. I take all my clothes off, lie down on the dentist chair buck naked, and sort of half way cover up with the sheet, but it's still folded up and doesn't really cover up anything, and I can't stop laughing until I pass out.
That's it. Procedure over.
Again, I'm sort of a lightweight, but as a cyclist, generally speaking our tolerance for pharmies is low, and for a procedure that so many of us have so much trepidation about, it was like I was barely even there. Just the easiest thing you could do.
I guess I sort of remember the doctor coming in and laughing at me. Then I think I might recall some poking or prodding, and maybe I said ouch one time, but I don't know. Eventually, they wheel me out to the car, and my wife drove me home, and gave me a Tylenol with codeine, and I slept for about 15 hours. Woke up the next day, used some ice, but it was basically fine.
Anyway, to directly address the question: why am I so scared of this? I think that's a natural human male reaction to someone cutting and pilfering around at sack level. And this is especially true for cyclist who spend an inordinate amount of time avoiding saddle-related pain on long rides.
But really, take that Xanax, and everything from there happens just fine. Enjoy the ride.
2) How long am I going to be off the bike for? - OK, so this is a subject you can split rooms on. The literature says you should give it a week at least. I know guys who said they rode 2 days later. My dad went duck hunting the next day. Other guys had a lot more swelling and were off the bike for 3 weeks. So it really varies. I can tell you that running is probably out for longer than riding. You're going to have a strict "No flopping around" policy for a while. But the pain really isn't bad. Maybe a 2 or 3 out of 10, that just sort of hangs around for a while. I guess I went for a ride exactly 7 days later, and it was OK. Now, close to 1 month out, I'm basically back to normal, just minus a little fitness that I lost along the way. Every now and then, getting on or off the bike, I'll sit on them though, which never used to happen, and sucks a whole lot, but I'm told that goes away.
3) What if I have a saddle sore? No problem. They do ask that you shower first. But the procedure is more directly on your balls than on your taint. So your saddle sore can heal as a part of the team.
4) Who was your Doctor? - This question has come up a lot. It would seem that this sort of procedure happens quite a lot based upon referral, which makes sense. Dr. Frazier Fortenberry here in the Foof has vasectomized probably half of town. Good guy. 10 out of 10, would get vasectomized again.
5) When should I get the procedure done? - I guess the off-season is what most people would recommend, but here in VA that doesn't really exist. The Friday before the Tour De France start would give you a good excuse to sit around, ice your haunches, and watch the Grand Depart. I guess a lot of doctors are booked the week of March Madness and the first round of the NFL playoffs. So consult your local listing.
Anyway, that's about it. I'll trail off here, but assuming you've read this far I imagine you're a cyclist local who is slowly resigning himself to the fact you're going to have this done. Feel free to reach out and we can rap about it.
For me, there's one way back, and it's up, up, up.