New Pier Ride | Cycling in the South Bay

It’s okay to be a cupcake

May 2, 2012 § 8 Comments

My Tuesday morning FB page began with a trickle of “Oh, noes! It’s waining!” and crescendoed into a flood of “Sleepin’ in, hot coffee and cuddles with babes!” as one after another the soft men and women of the South Bay elected wussdom over pointless suffering and bronchitis.

The folks coming from the West Side, where it was dry, weren’t expecting the eventual wet roads and light drizzle, i.e. they were expecting the usual wheelsuck in an 80-man field where they could tweedle, twaddle, and watch others Go To The Front while they caught up on little league scores. Unhappily for them, the pack would be tiny and the roads therefore windy, because most of the South Bay contingent had opted for, in the words of Prez, “Hot white chocolate mocha with my sweetie and to celebrate the completion of our new kitchen.”

Can’t make that shit up.

So the Westsiders met up with a greatly diminished group, which meant a total field of no more than forty. In other words…nowhere to hide! No big, fat, soft, loving envelope of suckage. To make matters worse, we had a cameo appearance by none other than MMX, up from the wilds of San Diego with his North County dickstomping boots. To make matters worster, Backpack Eric a/k/a Motorhead also showed, fresh from a brace of Cat 3 wins at Sea Otter and Chuck Pontius.

Show me your dick. There. Now it’s broken.

MMX’s first order of business as we drilled it along Pershing was to go down the line and break a bunch of dicks. Then, Motorhead ran over what was left of the bleeding ballsacks, so that by the time we hit Westchester there were only six people left, including the day’s Purple Freddy Freeloader, a Sho-Air Wanker on a black Specialized Rouwank with an electric orange stripe.

I found my way to the front once or twice and stepped on the few dicks that were still squirming around on the shoulder after having been badly broken by MMX and Motorhead. Every time the wankers sat up to catch their breath (which had escaped long ago, barn door still wide open), MMX and Motorhead would string them out into a gnarly, nasty, filth-encrusted, single file line of snotty faces washed by rooster tails and spattered with broken dreams.

The freeloaders were learning that it’s a whole different deal without a big fat, cozy envelope to drag you along, and even harder when every few seconds or so someone’s breaking your dick again. By lap four people were gassed beyond repair, with endless, extra hard efforts having been taken by USC John, and a pair of hard pulls by Freeman. MMX and Motorhead lit it up on the final bump, and it was like that moment in the kitchen when the whole fucking pan of Jiffy Pop goes off at once, kernels flying and jumping and burning and charring to a fare thee well.

I’ve never seen so many mucosal faces at the end of a ride, as the survivors’ chins dripped sheets of snot mixed with bubbling spit and chunks of road tar. It was such a pretty, happy sight that MMX and I celebrated with a nice hot cup of coffee and oatmeal at CotKU back in Manhattan Beach, after scraping all the broken dicks off the bottom of our stomp boots.

Awards

Yellow jersey: Freeloader wanker Sho-Air dude, who never did shit the entire ride, tried to sneak away on the last climb to the bridge, got caught, refused to pull through in our three-man break, and sprunted for the vee. You’re half the age of the dudes you’re sprunting against. Have you no self-respect? Do you think no one notices? Racing is about winning. Training ride NPR bullshit is about doing your share, sharpening your game, and earning the respect of the people you ride with…then winning if you’ve still got the legs. If we wanted another wheelsuck to wait ’til the finish after doing nothing the entire ride, we’d have airlifted in Prez. You’re the winner, but you’re a wanker!

Hardman: Motorhead. His first pull off the overpass broke so many dicks that the dickwagon got overloaded and had to make a run to the dump, empty the bed, and come back for more. Motorhead delivered repeated dickbreaking smackdowns, and terminated with an honorable second place finish behind purple Sho-Air wanker. Motorhead is a joy to watch. Hits the front with Hair-like viciousness, holds it forever, makes every pull so nasty and unpleasant that you hate his fucking guts. His only plan on the NPR is to go so hard that he can’t go any harder, then recover and do it again or get dropped. He never gets dropped and he’s always got an ugly kick at the end. What’s so hard about this formula, wankers? Be like Motorhead. Go To The Front! [Note: USC John Tomlinson dished out mega dickstompings the entire ride, as per, then showed up at TELO and stomped the shit out of whatever dicks hadn’t shown up to be stomped for NPR. You got a hardman award coming your way, sonny.]

Purple Freddy Freeloader: Sho-Air dude. Does your team know that you do this shit? When Charon raced for Sho-Air, I never saw him pull any of that crap. In a race, it’s smart and savvy. On a training ride at the Parkway, it’s lame.

Alternate Purple Freddy Freeloader: Hairy-legged wanker in the powder-puff blue “Strachimachi Racing” jersey. What the fuck is a “Strachimachi”? A scented douche? Sat like a sinker on a trotline for four laps, then glued up to MMX, who was on Motorhead. Motorhead lines it out at 40 mph, MMX follows through with the dickstomp of death, and Strachiwhacky gaps out, his head drooping, his legs shuddering, his shoulders heaving, his dick breaking, and the engine mechanics throwing their entire toolbox in the dumpster as he swings over for me to close the gap. “That’s so lame, dude,” I say. “Hunh?” he answers. “I was making space for you to come by.” Nice. Making space for me to come by…and close the other space that you made.

[END]

Letter to the Editor: Why I think the Wankmeister is a douchey blowhard

April 19, 2012 § 5 Comments

It’s rare that anyone reads this blog, filled as it is with much sound and fury, signifying nothing. It’s rarer still that someone takes the time to dress Wankmeister down for his blustering, mouthy satires that amuse no one but himself, and sometimes don’t even do that.

The recent publication of Tuesday’s New Pier Ride recap was met with scorn and derision by one of the mightiest people in the peloton, and someone whose delusions of cycling greatness occasionally get tangled up with, and therefore become hard to untangle from, reality. Wankmeister can relate!!!

Below, reprinted sort of with permission but actually probably not, is “The True Unvarnished Unadulterated Unexpurgated Pure Tale of What Really Happened on the Tuesday NPR and Why Wankmeister is a Poser Douchebag but I Love Him Anyway and Can I Have a New Nickname Please” by Aaron “Hair” W.

So I show up at Telo today and someone says to me, “So Perez beat you in the Pier Ride this morning?”. To which I respond, “Hell no! No one was even in the same zip code!”. To which they reply, “That’s what it said in Seth’s blog”. My response, “what the fuck is Seth’s blog!?”. So I read it for the first time tonight …dude, you are one bad ass writer! But your killing me with the whole, “Me have big swinging dick, me take so many pulls”. It’s redundant, and people are just gonna tell you to stop whining. So let me help ya out with the taking a pull thing …if your taking that many pulls, your not pulling hard enough. When I take a pull, it’s to break mother fuckers off. It ain’t to keep the pack speed at some certain average speed. People don’t respond well to hard accelerations …and that’s what I like to give them. And if it don’t break shit up, well, it took all the pop out of their legs for the finish. So change the mantra …fuck pulling, attack bitches! Attack over and over and over until we break the bitch in two!

Now let me give you the final finish, since it seems you were unable to pull through that section ; ) At the turn around by Sepulveda, 5 Big Orange guys got off the front, and Leibert sat in front of Derek, Mark-Paul (our other teammate), and myself to block. This part is comical …even with Leibert soft pedaling, these guys were not pulling away. So I said to Leibert, “Tell them you can’t go any slower!” …I could see Leibert was disappointed.

Anyhow, Derek, MP, and myself took over at the top of bridge before Loyola and were on the front all the way to the finish. And when the sprint happen, I can assure you Perez was nowhere near me (or in front of me for that matter). So reprint that shit bitch! ; ) And tell these weak dick mother fuckers to start attacking more! When the group slows up, it’s cause their hurt’n …so fuck’n hit ’em again!

Now don’t get all teary eyed, and take any of this shit personal …cause you big dick swings too low for that.

And for Christ Fucking Sake, come up with a better fucking name than “Hair” …maybe something like,

“Giant Swinging Dick” or “Totem Poll Dick!

…you’re one of my favorite dudes, seriously.

and thanks for all the other compliments in some of your post.

-AaronW (GSD)

Now I know what you’re all thinking. “Does he have any idea how hard people are going to laugh when this goes up on the Internet?” and “Does he even know what the Internet is?” And I can answer that for you: “No, and no but he soon will.”

However, it has now become necessary for Wankmeister to defend his honor, and since he has none to defend, he will go try and borrow someone else’s at least for a few minutes. So listen up, Hair.

You’ve broken a bunch of rules with this noxious missive, which is awesome. You are fast and smart and tough and you train hard and you win races (I’m making that last part up). But there are some rules that even you can’t get away with breaking. Here they are:

Don’t ever ask for a nickname. Nothing good will come of it. Ever. Just ask the dude who wanted to be called “Cheap Trick” and is now known as “Nancy.”
Don’t ever ask for a “better” nickname if one has already been bestowed. It’s like being a crippled dude with syphilis and telling people not to call you “Gimpy.” The only possible replacement is going to be worse, unless you’ve always fancied being called “Skankdick.”
No matter what, don’t ever, ever, ever, ever, ever (and you can toss in a couple more “evers” just for emphasis) tell anyone what you really want to be called. Especially me. It will make the consequences of #1 and #2 above look positively benign.

So, you’ve fucked up, and now you’re going to be punished. Henceforth you shall only be known as Super Heroic Radically Impressive Manly Penis Yeoman Doing Incredibly Crazy Kermesses. But since that’s a mouthful (so to speak) and takes too long to type, we’re just going to call you by the acronym. Or, we could go back to using “Hair.” Your call, buddy.

Nicknamedly,
Wankmeister

PS: After you get through strumming that totem pole…go the front, you sandbagging wanker.

Wheelsuckery beats gotothefrontery on the NPR every single time

April 17, 2012 § 6 Comments

NPR round-up…

Prez wins by a country mile. Takes one hard pull on the first lap. Sits in the rest of the ride. Pfffffft. Still, you can’t deny the boy is fast, because he smacked the shit out of all the other wheelsuckers, too. Go to the front, Prez!

Motorhead attacks, pulls, lives at the front, and still gets top four in the sprunt. Of the top five, only he took more than one pull. And he took a fricking bunch of them. Props, dude, especially after the beatdown you administered on the Donut. Now ditch the black and white kit and join up with SPY or Ironfly or Big Orange.

Fireman launches an attack on the last lap midway up the climb to the bridge in a hopeless bid for glory. Reels in the two Big O dudes hoping he’ll have some help only to find they’ve flamed out, dropped their booster rockets and are plummeting back to earth. Fireman discovered repeatedly at the front, battering like a madman.

Tree, perhaps still suffering from PTSD as a result of his collision with the vegetation at Boulevard, fails to take a single pull despite constantly posting Strava records demonstrating his awesomeness. Go to the front, Tree. Stay there until you puke.

G$ attacks, pulls, brings the pain bucket and dumps it all over everyone’s head. Coming off the World overpass he pulls so hard that the vomit string goes back forty riders. 300 people queue up on his wheel expecting that he’ll led them to glory in the sprunt, only to be disappointed! G$ ain’t your bitch, bitches!

Mighty Mouse goes to the front over and over, hammers as wussy-like dudes with no shred of self-respect hang onto her wheel and let her carry the water, chop the wood, and bury the axe in their feeble, cowardly heads. Good job, MM. Now go back to the front!

Tink goes to the front. Good job. Now go back. To the front.

New Girl gets blown out the back, hops back on, overcomes Wheelsuckophobia and does some excellent maneuvering towards the front for a couple of laps. Wankers, are you taking notes? Chick was closer to the point than most of you have ever been. NG, now that you’re a master of pack riding…go to the front!

Gooseman returns to NPR with crushed elbow, dented skull, and electric green bike that is uglier than an assboil after BWR. His first move? Goes to the fucking front. Pulls til he blows, swings over and finishes the ride. What’s with all you SBW wankers? The dude was in intensive care for, like, six months, had a brain transplant and a full skeletal replacement. No one gives a shit if you crack and blow. Go to the front like Gooseman, wankers!

Douggie sucks wheel the entire ride, then informs all on the bricks that it was faster than last time by 1 mph. What’s up with that, Douggie? Go to the front!

Davy Dawg mashes and bashes, takes one nasty troll up the hill on the way out that hooked all kinds of junk fish, beer cans, spare tires, and a brokedown outboard motor. Gets bollixed in the sprunt when he picks G$ for the shake & bake and winds up with nothing but the shake. Good job! Now go to the front!

Junkyard says he felt good after BWR and that he had no problem sitting in on NPR. Sitting in??? Go to the front!

Brazilian Wax makes his presence known in the last 400m. We don’t care if tree look taller when bush is trimmed. Go to the front!

Big Dude in Bahati Kit chills and soft pedals the whole frickin way. What’s up with that? Your kit says “Bahati,” dude! Bahati don’t sit in! Go to the front and hammer til you crack and flail and collapse and drool all over yourself with snot, spit, and a bloody stool!!

Really Big Dude fights me like a pit viper for Davy Dawg’s wheel on one of the ascents to the bridge, but wanks and tanks when it comes his turn to hit the wind. What are you afraid of? Dying? Die, you sorry fucker! But before you do that, go to the front!

Hair takes one or two hard pulls, disappointing since he should have taken fifty. Go to the front, Hair!

Derek the Destroyer sits in the whole time like he was racing for money or saving his legs for Telo or filming the fifteenth installment of a business park crit featuring all the usual suspects with his GoPro, which we’re told he sleeps with. Enough with the videography, you hammer! Go to the front! And given your ability and speed, stay there!

Somo and Big O Wankers at the turnaround on Lap 2 ignore the giant car traveling 100mph in its own lane, zip in front of it, almost get t-boned, then do the u-ey ignoring the storm of oncoming traffic. Irony: they were going to the front. Nonirony: they were only at the front because the rest of the pack had slowed to 3mph to let the car go by. Reality: as soon as the pack caught them, they slunk back into the safety of the rolling cocoon. Go the front, wankers…but safely!

Rodley drills it on the way out to the World Parkway overpass, takes a nasty pull up the hill on the return section of Lap 1. Good job, Rodley! Now go back to the front!

Gangstachick shows up late, joins the ride, participates fully in post-ride coffee smacktalk at CotKU. Next time, get here on time, and go to the front!

MORAL FOR TODAY’S NPR, AND FOR ALL FUTURE NPR’S…GO TO THE FRONT!

Help for the clueless

March 27, 2012 § 12 Comments

On this morning’s New Pier Ride I slid to the back on the third lap around the Parkway and was, again, amazed. So many bicyclists on $10,000 rigs wearing hundreds of dollars of the latest clothing doing nothing but soft pedaling. No hard breathing. Tons of shelter in amongst the bodies. No ambition, desire, or motivation to move even so much as a bike length towards the front.

“What a bunch of wankers,” I thought. “Why don’t they go to the front? There’s no workout back here. What’s the point of all that carbon, of getting up at dark-thirty, of smearing your balls mistakenly with fiery ointment, of all those shaving cuts around the groin just to cozily coddle yourself in a big lumpish peloton?”

Then it hit me. They didn’t know they weren’t at the front. They would finish the ride, deem it a good workout, and get on with their day. Most would think they’d been on the front at some point in the ride. They’d be…satisfied.

So I’ve come up with a little primer to help you get “at the front” and to become a better cyclist.

1. What is “the front”?

This is conceptually difficult for most NPR riders to grasp, but here are some key pointers that will unequivocally tell you whether you’re “at the front.”

–There is no one in front of you.
–Everyone is behind you.
–It is very windy.
–The big fat walrus dude with the backpack is nowhere to be seen.
–Your eyes are watering.
–Your legs are screaming.
–You want to vomit.
–There isn’t enough air in your lungs.
–Your heart feels like it’s going to lunge from your chest.
–Your HRM has gone from a series of quick beeps to a sustained alarm.
–Sheets of drool and snot cover your lips, chin, and cheeks.
–You don’t think you can withstand the pain for even another second.
–No one is screaming at you to “pull through.”
–When you finish your turn “at the front” the next person in line says “good job” or is blown off his bike by the headwind.

2. Do I belong “at the front”?

After firmly grasping #1 above, it occurs to 98% of the NPR participants to ask whether or not “the front” is a place where they indeed have any business being. Unfortunately, they mostly seem to conclude that “at the front” is a place where other people belong in order to keep the speed high while they, the “not-at-the-fronters,” can chattily spin at the back. If you can answer “yes” to any of these questions, you unequivocally belong “at the front.”

–You have said, in the last ten years, that you “race bikes,” “want to race bikes,” “used to race bikes,” “train with a state champion,” or that “Paris-Roubaix is such a hard race.”
–You have spent, in the last fiscal year, more than $200 on any cycling item advertised as “carbon,” “aero,” “performance,” “bladed,” “lightweight,” “tested in a wind tunnel,” or “as used by xxx,” where “xxx” is someone who gets paid to race his/her bicycle.
–You belong to a cycling club, any of whose members call themselves “bike racers.”
–You have ever held a USA Cycling racing license.
–There is any point during the NPR when you do not feel like puking.
–You have two legs, both of which are long enough to reach the pedals.
–You have a penis.
–You have a vagina.
–You have a penis that used to be a vagina, or a vagina that used to be a penis.
–You have ever contested a sprint on the NPR, where “contested” means “finished within 1,000 yards of the fastest rider.”
–You have ever owned, thought about owning, or are planning to someday own a power meter.
–You have ever met professionally with Ron Peterson.

3. How long should you be at this alien place called “the front”?

Now that it’s become obvious where the front is and that, in fact, you belong there, there’s a third issue: Since only bad things seem to happen to those who dwell there for long, and since you are a firm adherent of the pleasure principle, it is important to know how long you’re expected to spend time “at the front.” Answer these handy-dandy questions for a rough guideline.

–Can you talk? Go to the front.
–Can you breathe? Go to the front.
–Are your legs still attached to your hips? Go to the front.
–Is the walrus dude with the backpack within 200 yards of you? Go to the front.
–Are you holding on for dear life? Go to the front.
–Are you at least 30% over your functional threshold? Go to the front.
–Are you about to cry? Go to the front.
–Is this the most horrific pain you’ve ever experienced outside of childbirth? Go to the front.
–Have you just been shelled? Do a u-turn and wait until the pack overtakes you. Then go back to the front.
–Is your cheek mashed against your stem? Go to the front.
–Has G$, Hair, Canyon Bob, Tree, Prez, Davy Dawg, G3, or Vapor just finished a pull so nasty and fraught with pain that you’ve shit all over yourself? Go to the front.
–Has the ride just started up Pershing and your legs are stiff as boards? Go to the front.
–Is Tinkerbell shredding you like cheese through a grater? Go to the front.
–Are you waiting for the sprint? Go to the front.
–Are you not at the front? Go to the front.

4. Okay, I’m “at the front.” Now what?

After you’ve mastered #1-3, you’ll need some instruction as to how you should behave now that you’re at this new, alien place called “the front.” Follow these steps and all will be well.

–Hammer. This is done by pressing down on the pedals with maximal force until you can no longer press down on them any more.
–Really hammer. This is done after you’ve passed the point where you think you can still stay upright on your bike.
–Hammer your fucking nuts off. This is where you no longer care about anything. Everything is numb except for the pain, which is unendurable.

Well, I hope this helps. See you on Thursday.

Weekend South Bay cycling notes

October 25, 2011 § 3 Comments

Feeling that way. Mantourists throughout the South Bay dropped off their bikes at the IF WHQ on Sunday and Monday, and picked up their incredibly awesome MT4 t-shirts, designed by StageOne and made by ActiveT. The logo is designed to represent a stiff man part, accompanied on either side by a pair of other man parts. I hope you don’t think I’m joking, because I’m not. It was an awesome sight to see all the MT4 bikes lined up at the WHQ, each one nattily attired with its own nickname sticker. There were only a couple of misspelled names, 42 names printed for 43 riders and 50 shirts for all 40 who ordered. Mantourists don’t do math or speling.

Record on the Rollers. Douggie’s record of 9:57 on the Rollers, per Strava, still stands despite my repeated attempts to break it. He set the record on the Donut Ride, Saturday, Jan. 8, 2011 and despite the best efforts of Roadchamp, Bull, Howard Hughes of the South Bay, Rodley, and me this past Saturday, the record is intact. We never even got within striking distance. This is the stretch that goes from the bottom of the Switchbacks to the church just before Hawthorne. Think it’s easy? Have a go! Not that this is keeping me up at night. Of course not. In fact, it hardly bothers me at all. Why, I could care less about breaking that fucking record. Strava is stupid, anyway.

Fool me twice. Day 1 of MT4 goes from San Jose to Santa Cruz. I emailed Dr. Jekyll, asking for a link to the exact route. He told me that the climb, Moody Road and Page Mill Road to Skyline, was only a couple km long. Remembering that he’s the one that took us on the 9,000 feet of death in that same vicinity last year, I checked on Strava. Here’s the dope, dopes: 8.4 miles, almost 2,000 feet, average gradient 4.8%. The record is 37 minutes by some 40-lb. mountain goat named Daniel Green who owns most of the harshest climbs in the area. It may not be as completely awful as 2010, but it looks pretty bad.

Marckxed man. I went by Brad House’s cyclocross race on Sunday at Lunada Bay to watch grown men play in the dirt and pay homage to MMX. Brad is to be commended for the efforts he puts into promoting these races. The work laying out the course looked harder than cleaning the Augean Stables with a toothbrush. The actual racing looked so hard, nasty, treacherous, and pain-laden that it made me glad I only have one bike. MMX won his category–kudos–and it appeared that most of the field and the spectators were sporting SPY. This last part is really important, because it shows that more and more people are willing to say “Hey, Oakley is made by the same people who make sissy Prada handbags and Chanel perfume, but SPY is designed in SoCal by SoCalians. Very cool.”

Angel in a centerfold. Those of you who are used to gagging on his rear wheel or suffering the ignominy of having him beat the crap out of you in the IF club time trial can relax for a minute as the Spivinator shows a different side: local camera ace. After getting thrown from his horse and dragged through the mud at the San Diego ‘cross races, he’s taken some time off ‘cross to re-grow his skin and focus his prodigious creative energies behind the camera lens. If you’re lucky to be his FB friend, you’ll enjoy his series from this weekend’s races. He’ll also be heading up to San Jose on Wednesday with the IF Blue Train to participate in the Occupy PCH! Movement, where dedicated 1-percenters fill up the entirety of America’s most famous road with their bicycle unprotest. Kudos!

Alberto’s worst nightmare. This Romanian CPA showed up at the Center of the Known Universe on Thursday after the world-famous Pier Ride, asked everyone how much their bikes cost, bragged about his $300 shit-spattered bicycle, hit on all the chicks, made us hold his smelly canvas jacket for him, then dumped it unceremoniously on our legs, snatched my iPhone and took a photo of everyone, modeled his lobster-man cycling jersey and matching gut, gave us his email, showed us his iPhone, explained to me that my name means “seven” in French (it doesn’t), then kicked back with a cigarette and blew smoke in our faces even after being told to leave. Some people are in control of any situation. This dude is in control of the universe.

It’s lost $73.45 in value thanks to that asshole. En route to the IF WHQ on Sunday, I stopped at Cheapo-tle for a grease ‘n chicken gutbomb. While in the lot, some asshole nailed my cherry ’02 Camry and totally thrashed its bleeding-edge rad trick rear end. The caddywhompus bumper now ruins the coolness aspect of America’s stylingest pimpmobile. I wish I had a nickel for every time I’ve cruised PCH in this chick magnet just to have some smokin’ hot broad pull up alongside and say, “I love navy blue and velour seats in a mid-sized economy sedan that gets 28 city/36 highway, cowboy!!” Plus, this baby only has 189,000 miles, three matching plastic wheelcovers, 20 or thirty rusty “style” spots on the hood, a gash in the left door (looks like you’ve BEEN there, you know), and some other character aspects. My buddy Stern-O once told me that if I was going to take a trick cherry like that out on the road, I was crazy. Looks like he was right. Again.