I know it might seem early...

But it's never actually too early to start thinking about the Pantani ride.

Plan your attack wisely, Avery.

Hell hath no fury like a jersey scorned

Like any responsible member of the press, here at BRC news headquarters we pride ourselves on intercepting correspondence that we were never intended to see and posting it on the public Internet without any sort of verification of its authenticity.  I'm like Wolf Blitzer, but teal.

As such, below is an open letter of admonishment to Gordon Wadsworth from the very jilted Maillot Pistachio.  It's all true.  And very, very sad. 

Dear Gordon -

Sometimes I wish you were just the kind of man who would drink too much, yell at me about how wrinkled I've become, then pee on me on the family room floor and pass out.  My life then would be simpler at the very least.  Alas, your vices are different, and you go into the mountains to ride your silly bicycle, flashing your supple, creamy hamstrings all over the podiums of the Internet, then stuff your gigantic pectorals into other jerseys that are not me.  And it makes me sad.   



creamy



The disdain I feel when staring at this picture defies words.  And yet, I stare on. 

Look, I just want to have your babies.  My ruffles, once magnificent, are drying up inside, and I can't just weep away these last few good years at home, lonesome, burning and reburning the ashes of your pictures while you cavort your pretty little tush around the country, winning, smiling, always smiling. 

One time?  Couldn't you just wear me up on the podium one lousy time?  Let the world see how you really care?  That glorious day atop brokenback when we stuck it to the Manimal and soloed in for victory - that was us, sugarbritches.  Those nights we spent together in the Berkshires while it snowed outside; the summer afternoons in Aspen...have you forgotten all of those precious moments?  YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME!

I knew I should have gone with the Manimal.  Sure, he smells like cheese, but he at least looks stylish in his KOM chapeau.  Or perhaps I should have waited for David Reid, a responsible man, fine father, hell of a racer, and the kind of man that would have treated me like a real lady.  But no, I had to chase you, like chasing dynamite.  Is it just the danger I love? Really, I'm so ashamed. 

But here's what you don't know about you, Gordon:  I'll fucking kill you.  You can turn your back on a lover.  But you can never turn your back on a jersey.  Especially when that jersey is Italian.  In February, when you waltz into the Pantani ride, late, unkempt, a little pudgy from your winter of watching cricket and eating chocolate truffles, you'll be in for a Valentine's reckoning that will knock your pretty little green short shorts all the way up to your kidneys you lousy, cheating, heartbreaking piece of man meat.  You will know pain. 

Until then, I remain.

Yours truly,

The Maillot Pistachio

My personal Chick Fil A manifesto

Say what you want to about Chick Fil A's recent outlash against homosexual marriage, but know one thing for certain: their chicken, though perhaps fueled by cruelty, hate, and roughly managed elephants,  is downright delicious. And, for me, I think that's what's really at the root of this whole Chick Fil A media madness, the awful truth I have been hiding from myself for a long, long time, that despite unlikely customer service and amazing taste, they don't have the right to deny me fried chicken just because it's Sunday; that's a hate crime. 
I don't mean to gloss over the seriousness of the issue at hand.  But look, I'm a mountain biker and a working dad.  So I do trailwork on the weekends.  Sometimes it takes a media blitz to spark the sort of personal reckoning I've been meaning to have with myself for a while. Not on their terms though, I have no need to face this dilemma alongside the mainstream media. Instead, and way more importantly, I've got a mouth to feed on Sunday after hacking through rootballs and downed trees - my own.

well, mine and Bender's also. 

Strong news has the ability to be about more than just the news. Strong news, like the death of an icon, becomes the logical jumping off point for introspection that probably needs done anyway.

Ever weigh yourself, frown, then begrudgingly increase the psi in your rear suspension? Ever go up a jersey size and still not fit? These are disconcerting moments. It's easy to skip the brutally honest self-talk that should naturally follow these discoveries and, instead, have another hand spun milkshake (your rear shock was probably just leaking air and those race-cut jerseys are all bullshit Euro sizes which don't count.) That's fine; we do what makes us happy, and as a participant in this whole capitalism thing, I'm all for that. Just don't be fooled by why you can't breathe when you buckle your $350 carbon sidis that shaved 15 grams off your race kit.

I don't care if you're fat.
I don't care if you're gay.
I don't care if you're Christian.
I don't care if you're married.
I don't wonder about whether our government should redefine traditional marriage
I don't bother to find out if the recipe for fried chicken is written somewhere in the back of the old testament. 

I care that the 47 grams of healing, wonderful lard in a #1 value meal are not available to me when I need them the most: Sunday at noon. 
So I'm moooovin' on.  I've got a race course to refine. 

Up, up, up. 

Night Rider

Toph. Self Portrait.

When I was about 10 my parents took me to Breckenridge for the day.  It’s quite a drive.  You basically head west on a Colorado interstate that is either in constant descent or is constantly climbing up the sides of mountains. Most people feel that 70mph is still an acceptable rate of speed for this highway.  It’s a bit unnerving.  The best, no probably the worst, part is when the road heads directly at mountain and from the backseat you see no road going to the left of it, or to the right. The massive slab of granite is looming and you have no alternative but to sit anxiously and just head straight for it.  Are we going to die? Do the other cars know the road is gone? We are driving a bit fast, dad.  Suddenly, at that last moment you crest the road and the Eisenhower tunnel comes into view.  Untimely death avoided.  The future starting second baseman for the Chicago Cubs life has been spared.  Once you break daylight again you’ve arrived in Summit County.  You are surrounded by mountains on all sides.  Beautiful.  So we park the family truckster in “Brek” and start walking down the main drag. No sooner had we being walking for a minute or two, my dad, who was a little older than I am now, gives me the elbow bump and head nod to look up ahead.  Universally, this is the sign that something is aloof.  Something is ahead, but you should not speak yet cautiously avert your attention.  And there, coming down the sidewalk was a man.  He had to be seven feet tall.  Five of those feet, was leg wrapped in super tight denim.  He had a presence.  He had a hot girl, for the late eighties, on his arm. And this girl, she knew who he was. And I knew who he was. And my dad knew he was. And the man we all stared at, well he sure as shit knew who he was. David. Fucking. Hasselhoff.  I swear he was dressed as if he had just walked off set. The perm, the black leather jacket.  The furrowed brow.  We didn’t speak as he passed. He was gone in only a few seconds.  He was probably heading for the kitt car.  Some bad guy probably had to be dealt with, and the Hoff, he took no prisioners.  Especially in Brekenridge.  Little did I know at that time his next show would put him in a ridiculous matching red bathing suit and life preserver.  Oh well, I will always remember him this way.  The Knight Rider.

 Now I know what you’re thinking…what does this have to do with mountain biking? What’s the connection? Why is this on the blog? No connection.  It’s just a good story.  Were you listening to the dude’s story?   And to tell you the truth, I probably shouldn’t be writing about last night’s ride.  That’s another story all together.  And my kids will probably read this someday.  And the guys, well their kids will read this someday.  And Nolan will probably run some crazy outdoor adventure school.  And I might wanna work there too.  And we just don’t want to go ruinning people's futures like that around here.

This is league play, Smokey.  Mark it zero.

Flip Mode Squad out.