Rolling thunder

Let me die free.

Let me die like this: hammering off the front on the world’s dumbest and most exhilarating group ride ever, the New Pier Ride.

Let me die like this: helmetless, the wind blowing through the locks that I yet have, by colpons oon and oon, my hairless enemies gnashing their teeth, eating their livers in my wake.

Let me die like this: young and enthusiastic riders, not beaten down by conformity and fear of death, bridging up and refueling the break with the force of twenty bulls.

Let me die like this: pinned on Ramon’s wheel as Pornstache passes, hye on hors he sat, frame too big, catching wind as a spinnaker, throwing watts onto the pedals like copious ocean foam upon the rocks.

Let me die like this: John Candy Trump ignominiously cutting the course and reappearing out of the neighborhood just in time to blow by him, my caboose latched onto the Pornstache Express.

Let me die like this: a thousand slow deaths as Ramon and Pornstache take turns motoring even farther from the dejected and dispirited group.

Let me die like this: face bismotered and slathered in, uh, pain.

Contorted in awful misery, yo.

Let me die like this: the end in sight, having saved every ounce left in these old bones, punching once and dislodging the raging bull.

Let me die like this: watching the bull counter and ride away.

Let me die like this: with Pornstache slapping his ass in the universal bikespeak of “hang on, hang on, hang on.”

Let me die like this: the Pornstache catch, the raging bull fade, and the leadout at every punishing mile per hour that Pornstache’s legs can churn.

Let me die like this: coming around with every ounce of strength in my sagging body, gifted the #fakewin at the #fakerace by a #truefriend, arms raised in the #fakesalute, all caught on video by Fran Sur in the LAX police follow car.

Let me die free.

END

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2 thoughts on “Rolling thunder”

  1. You have described every cyclist thoughts, all that is needed is to replace the names to suit the local world championship.

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