I gave up about thirty years ago trying to make people feel better about my 68th place in the parking lot crit. Now I don’t even tell anyone I’m racing, and my family knows better than to ask, “How’d it go?” Still, every now and then a friend of a friend or a friend of a family member gets a whiff of the bike race, and in kindness and curiosity and ignorance they peg me with “How was your race?”
This happened last night at the table. Some friends of the kids had come over for dinner and they had brought their dogs. I love dogs. We were talking about the grandbaby and about how he hadn’t shit for the last couple of days. I’d forgotten how dinner table talk changes with an infant, and a two-day shit hiatus was quite relevant to everyone’s existence because now it was just a matter of when, how much, and who was going to be holding him cooing “He’s SOOOO adorable!” at the moment he uncorked a diaper buster.
In between shit speculation I kept an eye on the dogs, one of whom was doing the Itchy Ass Butt Scoot on our carpet. That’s the thing where the dog drags its butthole over every square inch of the floor with a happy look on its face and dares you to stop him. Of course we lie on the carpet along with the baby, and it was great to see that we were going to have a whole new intestinal biota to build baby’s immune system. I was less thrilled about my own immune system, which was already pretty strong and didn’t need another dog-ass inoculation, but oh, well. Guests and their pets.
About the time the butt scoot wrapped up, the other dog did the Pink Wet Dick Couch Drag. You know this one, it is so cute. The dog lets his giant pink penis flop out on the couch and it just hangs there, leaving a snail trail as he waggles it from side to side. As a man it’s hard not to envy anyone who can simply show the world his engorged sloppy dick and, with a stupid smile, say, “See? That’s my glistening wet dick. How do you like it?”
Of course the guests were total butt-scoot & dick-drag pros, so we all laughed it off with “Aren’t they cute?” and “What a nice penis!” and “Dogshit on my clothes is so DTLA!” and we all pretended that it was totally cool and we continued with dinner. That’s when the guest, who had heard I had been to a bike race, asked The Question That Shall Not Be Asked.
“How was your bike race? I heard you went to a bike race?”
I put down my fork. “It went great, thanks.”
And then The Question That Shall Not Be Asked Even More Than The Other Unaskable One: “Did you win?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. How’d you do?”
“I got next to last, I think.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I often get that.”
Now the awkwardness really set in. Dog asses on your host’s carpet, no prob. Wet pink dick on the leather couch? Cool, man. But next to last in a bike race? AWKWARD because, now sitting at dinner with a loser.
I tried to explain. “I’ve been losing at bike races for almost forty years.”
That made it even worse. The guests were inconsolable. Even the dog pulled his dick back in. So I explained.
“Look, you know how in football there are two teams?” They perked up at the mention of a real sport.
“Well in football there is one winner and one loser, right?”
“In bicycle racing there are 119 dribbling prostates, kind of like your dog there, but only one winner.”
“So everyone loses except that one guy. Bike racers are losers. That’s all they do is lose. A .500 season in football usually won’t get you into the playoffs. A .300 winning record in bicycling makes you the winningest bike racer of all time.”
“Oh,” they said, their glum responses confirming what they already knew, which is that bicycle racing was really stupid.
“Yeah. So when you win a bike race it’s a big deal, even though it’s some stupid old farts’ race in Compton. There were 119 other idiots who lost and who all have to go home and explain to the guests at the dinner table why they’re losers.”
They stared into the gourmet dinner bowl of beans and rice. “So why do you do it if you never win?” The woman was patting the grandbaby, who had been transferred over to her lap so she could experience the joy of feeding a tiny child. It was the perfect transition from delusional old man loser to bright-future-adorable-little-thing.
“He’s sooooo adorable!” she said.
And on cue, he delivered.
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