The whole team was amped up as they got ready for Day Two. Everyone was still buzzing from the victory of the first day and the fact that none of the ten thousand Tulsa drunks had staggered onto the course in the final 200m or started shooting their automatic weapons for fun and good times. Huge sweaty Tulsanians lumbered through the streets with manure shovels as they cleared out the neatly piled mounds of partially digested pizza, beer, sausage, tequila, and tenderized stomach linings.
Our hero and eventual champion Daniel Holloway sat down in the war room with his team of chieftains to plot out the plan of mayhem and slaughter. Everyone was assigned a particular and especial role for the day, which was this:
- Don’t fuggin’ crash.
- Take Holloway through the last corner at 40.
- Get the fugg’ out of the way.
The team headed over to the start of the race. As they warmed up, Holloway saw that his family had driven up from prison in Texas to watch him obliterate the field. He enjoyed seeing them not wearing orange jumpsuits and manacles and to have a quick catch-up on the status of their death row appeals before finishing his race prep.
At the neutral service tent he dialed in air pressure for the race, as the final corner would be the key to success or death on this day’s course. Rain was predicted, but this was Oklahoma, where weather forecasting is more an illusion than a science, and where you can always be right at some point in the day if you predict “withering heat, gale force winds, heat prostration, death for the elderly, and another year of failed crops and dead livestock.”
The radar showed rain for the first thirty minutes, but in Tulsa in June the ambient air temperature is so scalding that any rainfall for less than an hour turns to steam before it ever hits the ground.
The pro men’s field finally lined up to race. The roads were soaked from the twelve raindrops in the downpour that hadn’t evaporated. Holloway started on the front row due to the previous day’s win, which was a great advantage as any fool could see that wet roads, Oklahoma bike racers, and more than five cash dollars at stake would mean bodies stacked up higher than a woodpile in the first turn.
The riders who didn’t fully understand tire pressure and whose bike handling on slick roads was sub-par were about to get what is known as “on the job training,” kind of like they did in World War I when you got your first practice with live fire the first time you got shoved over the lip of a trench into the mouth of a machine gun.
On the third lap a rider slid out in front of Holloway, practicing his best ballet pointe upside down on his head. Cued by the shrieks and shattering carbon, Holloway ramped it up to thin the herd and give the medic tent something serious to work on.
A small break of seven formed formed with the acceleration, but one of the members who was racing without a team decided to “pull an Alverson” and quit working in the break. This was greeted by the other breakaway riders with the same enthusiasm as when one member of a group dying from thirst in the desert seizes the last bit of water and uses it to wash his hair.
The sit-in-wanker could have simply rotated through and kept up appearances, which would have let the smoothly functioning break lap the field. SIW, who was a good bike handler and fast sprinter, could easily have wound up on the podium. However, having washed his nasty scalp with the last cupful of water, his dying mates decided to rip out his throat and drink his blood as they eased up and let the pack devour the break.
With twelve laps to go, Holloway’s teammates Murderella and Despot adjusted the rhythm of the field so he could rest. They stayed patient, let the other teams who wanted facetime and bragtime do the work, and saved their legs. Murderella hit the wind with three to go and strung out the field for three straight laps like a good pole dancer stretches out a g-string. Despot again kept Holloway hidden from the wind until the perfect moment.
Just after the second to last corner Despot turned on the gas, giving Holloway a major panic attack as he tried to stay on Despot’s rapidly accelerating wheel. As with the day before, Despot let Holloway slide slightly inside to deter anyone from sneaking under for the win, and left the ideal and fast line just outside for his captain. Holloway had a good gap at the start of the sprint and held it until the line, with enough time to prepare a twelve-course Japanese kaiseki meal, change clothes, and overhaul his car’s transmission before second place crossed the line.
Day 3: The Day that Holloway Cried on Cry Baby Hill
Overcome with excitement and nerves as he awoke on the final day, Holloway was thrilled to be leading the race and to have had two wins. Cry Baby Hill is tough and would be made tougher by the throngs of screaming, puking, collapsing, tit-baring, grabassing, cycling-crazed fans who were lining the road like jackals on meth fighting over the entrails of a dead wildebeest.
The team’s plan was somewhat complicated, but boiled down to this:
- Don’t fuggin’ crash.
- Keep Holloway from getting shelled on the climb.
- Drag Holloway over the line dead or alive, preferably alive.
Everyone got a good spot on the starting line to control the race and keep an eye on things, “things” being Holloway, who was rapidly falling apart at the seams.
The first time up the hill he knew something wasn’t right. Was it the 250-lb. guy on Team Lasagna and Meatballs who passed him like he was tied to a stump? Was it his knee, which had swollen to the size of a grapefruit? Or was it the moan of pain he was uttering even though it was only Lap One and no one was going hard yet?
His legs were off, his body was off, and no matter how he tried, Lasagna and Meatballs Guy kept passing him in the turns. Holloway didn’t have his normal pop that he could use to move around giant clogstacles like Lasagna and Meatballs Guy. He didn’t have the ability to carry his cadence up the hill, no gear felt right, and every so often he would almost pass out as Lasagna and Meatballs Guy would reach into the back of his jersey, haul out a giant slab of cold pizza and wolf it down, spraying Holloway with day-old grease and large pieces of pepperoni.
It was going to be a very long day and he would probably gain ten pounds to boot.
Finally the grease and pepperoni and 120-degree heat and screaming drunks and tattooed breasts and piles of puke in the turns got to be too much and all he could do was pray for ice water to pour on himself. As he raced by at 12 mph he croaked out “Water! Please!” to one of the spectators. It was a last ditch effort to stay out of the ditch, and the spectator had a son in the race who Holloway often raced against. The dad didn’t have to help, but he did and the water got Holloway to the end of the race, where the generous spectator had to watch his progeny lose yet again.
After the finish and some panicked calculations, Holloway learned that despite collapsing into a puddle of grease and getting beaten by Lasagna and Meatballs Guy, he had held onto his lead and won the overall. With a sigh of relief after one of the hardest days he’d ever had on a bike, the team went out to the Tulsa Hooter’s and Pipe Fitting Supply Co. and Brewery and Super Rooter Servicing Company, LLP, Inc., and blew the entire $12 overall cash prize on a beer coaster.
The boys were tough, but Tulsa, it seems, was tougher.
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