Climbing lessons, or, Team America 1, Team Socialism 0

The day dawned bright and clear but only for me and Ol’ Grizzles, who sneaked in before the others awoke and drank all the coffee. After two solid days of food and liquor the guys who had to sleep in the villa kept each other awake with the percussive rumblings of their bowels and the alternating stop-start wheezing of sleep apnea.

The challenging and beautiful ride routes planned by Munch had already been vetoed by the mutinous riders who only desired a brief pedal down to the cheese shop and back. “I can’t climb on this rental bike,” complained Ol’ Grizzles. “The geometry of the rear triangle cuts the power of my stroke by half.”

“I can’t climb today,” said Shit in the Lane. “This is my recovery week.”

The Norwegians all looked contemptuously at the Americans, who were going to vote for Trump. Stigosaurus grunted as he ate an almond and finished off his bowl of salt. “Today big pounding.”

Ol’ Grizzles, whose bike, underwear, toothbrush, and EPO were still in Boston, got on the phone to check the status of his lost doping shipment. “How can I help you?” said the cheerful lady. “What is your tracking number?”

“It’s 54321-24.”

“I’m sorry sir, that’s our partner Iberian Airlines. Our system doesn’t have that number. You should call Iberian.”

“I just called them and they said to call you.”

“Our last record in our system shows the bag was shipped to Ougadougou yesterday. Is that your final destination?”


“Ougadougou in Upper Volta. Is that your final destination or are you simply in transit through Africa?”

“Lady, I’m at my final destination, which is Mallorca.”

“Why were you traveling through sub-Saharan Africa? A more direct route would have been Madrid.”

“Lady, I’ve never been to Africa in my life. You lost my bags in Boston.”

An hour into the conversation we were all milling around waiting anxiously for the ride to begin, as storm clouds were gathering and the window for a sunny ride was slamming quickly on our fingers. “Can you hurry the fuck up?” Munch said. “You’ve got a rental bike, for fuck’s sake.”

Ol’ Grizzles was now speaking to a very nice lady at Iberian Airlines who was also very happy to help him and advise him that the next time he travels from Houston to Mallorca he should avoid connections in sub-Saharan Africa due to the likelihood of issues with luggage.

The navigation for the day’s course was undertaken by Team Norway due to the fact that they were engineers and had complete mastery of real-time mapping technology. As we swooped through the gorgeous Spanish villages with the sun illuminating a deep azure sky and the wind at our backs we were a magnificent group to behold except for one or two tummies that evidenced an excessive consumption of liquor and sperm (whale).

Team Batshit Crazy Texas Evolution Deniers was extremely concerned by Team Norway’s hired guns, Stigosaurus and Posi-Tron, vicious and canny killers on the bike whose sole mission was to annihilate Team Batshit Crazy. As the gentle rollers began, ticking off the first sectors of our 100-mile, 9,000-feet day, we knew that it was only a matter of time before the Norsemen unsheathed their fearsome battle axes and lopped off a few heads.

Suddenly, Shit in the Lane drove to the front, stringing out the peloton into a narrow, snaking line. The Norsemen sat on his wheel, sapping his mighty strength as they prepared to unleash the tremendous power of the Stiganator and his trusty maiden-in-waiting, Posi-Tron.
One by one the weakest of team Batshit dropped a prolapsed uterus and the more culinarily oriented members of Team Salted Fish spiraled off the back. At precisely the moment when Stigosaurus was poised to unleash his tremendous power, Ol’ Grizzles ratfucked him with an acceleration up the side that only SITL, Brian, and I could follow. Despite the tremendous power of Stiggy and Team Aryan, we motored away from them as if they were doing a sack race.

Of the many awesome things about Mallorca, nothing is more awesome than the hundreds of pelotons out prowling the roads. As SITL set the throttle on “destroy,” we caught and dropped countless mini-wankotons, Team Blonde fruitlessly trying to reel us in. When we reached the end of Sector 1 the group stopped for coffee, flan, pudding, beer, and salami, and Ol’ Grizzles expressed his concern to Stigosaurus.

“I’m really disappointed in you, Stig.”


“I expected you would really show us a thing or two in Sector 1 but you rode like a three-legged nag dragging an anchor. How old are you, Stig?”


“Well you just got your ass beat by a 63-year-old great-grandfather, which means you flat fucking suck.”

Team Norway jumped to Stig’s defense. “He has ridden 2,000 kilometers this week and he is a national champion runner in his youth and anyway he excels in the high mountains”

“Well someone needs to tell him this isn’t jogging, and it’s not my fault he doesn’t have sense enough to quit riding after 9:00 PM.”

We resumed and we hit Sector 2, a barely paved 10-mile road through olive groves, and soon we had shed Team Norway except for Posi-Tron. Bruce, Shit in the Lane, O.G., Brian, and I scored an incredible victory, adding to our point total by 5,000 points. Unfortunately for Stig, we had decided to only award 45.6 points for the rest of the trip.

At lunch we were all ravenous so I had two lasagnas. Stig and Posi-Tron had a hotel room they were sharing at the nearby resort, so rather than eat with his mates Stig crawled back to his hotel to get a fresh stick of celery, a bowl of salt, and a couple of fresh blood bags.

We chided Posi-Tron for Stig’s disappointing performance and said we hoped the 12 new units of blood would do the trick. Team Norway was getting a bit testy due to their tremendous power and the fact that each time Ol’ Grizzles upbraided them he added another ten years to his age.

“Stig and Posi-Tron do best on the climbs,” they insisted, “and this has been too easy so far. You will see,” they said.

After lunch Shit in the Lane gave his double cheese pizza four minutes to settle and hit the gas. When you are on his wheel his ass is so wide it blots out the sun, you could just as easily look around Mt. Fuji. This time Stigosaurus made the selection and he sat on SITL’s wheel who ripped it through the lanes at 33 mph. When the rollers started SITL exploded and Stiganator unleashed his tremendous power.

O.G. and I were immediately put in huge difficulty and after a few minutes of receiving the tremendous power we put away our nail files and stopped watching YouTube videos. I pulled through in my weak, effeminate California way but it apparently had a detrimental effect on Stig’s tremendous power because he began to wobble and then said “Let’s wait, okay?” which was Ol’ Grizzles’s cue to attack, which he did.

The dominating win of Sector 3 gave us an additional 50,000 points which would be hard for Team Cratering Oil Prices to make up.

However, the next sector was the first real climb of the day, a steep 5km ascent with numerous ramps. Chef Leiv tossed the first grenade and only Stig and Posi-Tron survived the shrapnel. I latched onto Posi-Tron, terrified by his worm-like physique of 110 pounds, his long legs, and the fiendish grin on his mid-30’s face as he contemplated chewing up another feeble old man on the climbs.

Apparently though he was already full from lunch and not hungry for old man and soon enough Stig countered with the ferocity of someone whose last meal was a bowl of salt. He dropped Posi-Tron and the tremendous power had me gasping, heaving, and gagging as the road kept tilting viciously up. With the exception of Derek, Jules, Rudy, Julien, Fukdude, Ponygirl, and a couple of hundred other South Bay riders I had never seen such tremendous climbing power.

After a bit he looked back and snarled, preparing to unleash the super extra tremendous power because the tremendous power, although tremendous, wasn’t quite tremendous enough to have the desired effect. Once the super extra tremendous power came out, however, Stigosaurus began to wobble and weave a bit so he looked back and commanded, “Time for easy pedal now!” but what I heard instead was “Wanker legs now tired and giving up,” so as much as I didn’t want to, I dropped him.

O.G. passed him, too, reminding him of his disappointment at this crushing defeat in Sector 4 and deciding to give Team America 12 million bonus points. Stigosaurus didn’t say anything the rest of the ride but we were pointedly told that tomorrow, when the road tilted skyward, we would see the true prowess and tremendous power of Team Left Testicle.

Munch redeemed the Vikings by earning three bonus points with an extra Puig and a 20km pull all the way home to Lloseta, where we had magnificent paella for dinner with jokes on the side, mostly directed at Stiganator, who actually ate some real food. We knew that he was gonna unleash some tremendous power.


17 thoughts on “Climbing lessons, or, Team America 1, Team Socialism 0”

  1. At this point, you guys need to leave Mallorca and join the Giro d’Italia. Kittel has no chance.

  2. Sounds like a grand time. I’ll have to head down when I get a break, and don’t have to travel to the US.

  3. Is there a way we can watch live, pirated coverage of you guys on Eurosport? I’d love to hear Sean Kelly’s commentary on the tremendous power and racing acumen y’all are delivering. Also would like to know what kind of signature displays are thrown to the masses whenever one of you crosses the finish line in first place.

    1. I generally go with the “fall off my bike and sob” salute. Not sure about Stigosaurus because he’s always behind me.

  4. Michelle Landes

    Sounds like fun,food looks great , can’t stop laughing at Shit in the lane you crack me up 😂 Video next🙏🏻

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