Before we get started with the recap of Sunday’s Brentwood Grand Prix Bicycle Race and Bicycle Falling Off Contest, let’s observe a moment of silence as we take in the awesome magnificence of this truly incredible photo and its stupendously impressive subject:
(Photo credit: Phil Beckman, pbcreativephoto.com)
This is, in fact, the apotheosis of life imitating art: The subject, who appears to be either winning something or on the verge of doing so, is in fact un-handily placed about 55 riders back. The fierce look of determination that suggests an indomitable will to win is actually a gasp of dismay at being momentarily forced to take a pull on Lap Two. The aggressive posturing so suggestive of a podium in fact adumbrates a very-close-to-DFL finish.
And how could it be otherwise? This race honors the memory of Raymond Fouquet, a man who only wanted people to enjoy cycling, and it honors him by throwing vicious, bloodthirsty psychopaths into a treacherous, winding, undulating, windswept course that tears everyone to shreds.
The only race that I had any chance of winning was the one to the starting line, and even there I got 29th place. Immediately to my left were the usual gang of assassins and pretend-friends, but one stood out. Like a hemophiliac Hapsburg passing on self-destructive genes to hopelessly inbred family members, the awful chromosomes of Labor Power again reared their head in the shallow and twisted gene pool of the 50+ Leaky Prostate Masters Race.
No matter the jersey, no matter the sponsor, the terrible hereditary vices of SoCal cycling’s most nefarious team would rise from the sepulchre once again as Genghis Hahn brought to the table no knife and fork but rather a chainsaw and a belt of hand grenades. His prospects looked grim midway through the race when he washed out his front wheel in the 180-degree turn, skidded across the pavement like a badly thrown newspaper, and unraveled several yards of hip and thigh skin over the asphalt.
It looked like this, only worse, except perhaps for the gentleman with splayed legs who is now officially a woman:
(Photo credit: Chad Moston)
While those who still had delusions of victory smiled a happy smile at Genghis’s early and violent demise, and others wildly leaped over his head, crashed into his spine, or skidded on his face, Genghis had only one thought, and it was the same thought he’d had when the race began: “I will crush all you motherfuckers and make you as miserable as if you’d had to eat fifty yards of your own shit.”
Genghis limped over to the wound care and bike replacement tent, got a new bike and a new leg, jumped back into the fray, made the split when the race finally came apart, covered the last-gasp attacks and wrenched victory from the snarling, snapping, frothing, ebola-spewing jaws of defeat as blood oozed from his ass and the wretched howls of the vanquished filled the air.
When interviewed after the race and asked to say a few words about his sponsor and to perhaps thank the promoters for putting on a fantastic event, Genghis spat blood, laced with shards of tooth and herpes onto the fawning crowd below and said, “Labor.”
And he meant it.
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