Today’s Wheatgrass 2.0 went sooooo well.
Team Origin had a great turnout, with band leader Marco Cubillos, lead guitarist Baby Seal, drummer Kristie, bassist Boozy P., Mel E. on the keyboards, Josh D. on the zither, and Wily Greek flying the variegated Origin colors and blowing a giant Greek conch. Big Orange donated G$, G3, Pornstache, and Abraham M. to the cause; Lolo, Pilot, Alx Bns, and I rounded out the crew.
Wheatgrass Ride 2.0 stats:
- 35 miles
- 3,900 feet of clumbing
- 75 minutes of 70’s jams blaring from Pornstache’s bottle cage-mounted beatbox.
- 12 cups of Jamba Juice wheatgrass, donated by THE BIKE PALACE.
This isn’t your grandmother’s Wheatgrass Ride
After our golf course warm-up, where everything was cordial, things got very uncordial as we ascended Stathisridge, one of the worst climbs on the Peninsula. But today’s ride wasn’t about the ride. It was much more about the ride.
No shoutypantsing. No instructionalizing. No complainifying because the pace was too fast or too slow or too well done or too salty or the service was too slow or the discount coupon wasn’t applied or it’s too tight in the balls or one of the eggs was cracked or I changed my mind and wanted the green one or could you take a little more off the side or this makes my butt look big or this color doesn’t match my Garmin.
None o’ that. Because it’s super hard to shoutypants when you are pinned.
And like any good ride, I learned something. What did I learn? That I am a crabby, grouchy old man. As the ride started I cursed Pornstache and his stupid beatbox. Didn’t he know that blaring out jams was the biggest cycling faux pas out there? That no one wanted to hear his music? That the PV denizens would be awoken at the ungodly hour of 9:00 AM with that shit? Most of all, didn’t he realize that with all that music going on, there was no way I could silently and grimly concentrate on all the angry, awful, mean, and unpleasant things coursing through my head as I was being slowly sauteed in a pan of boiling watts?
DIDN’T HE KNOW HE WAS RUINING MY INNER GROUCH?
Then it hit me: Grouchy old people always hate young people who are happy, and happily sharing music. Grouchy old people sit on the front porch and shake their fists at the cat in between embolisms. Grouchy old people never get the chance to be ensconced in the bubble of young, strong, fit, ass-kicking riders who are about to flay you alive then laugh with you over a cup of coffee.
Best course of action seemed to be STFU and pedal. Not only did the music vanish with Pornstache the moment he pressed hard on the pedals, but you know what? I like Barry White anyway.
Photos copyrighted and shit and graciously donated and shit by Origin Los Angeles and Pornstache.