A 15-minute video is worth an hour of excusifying

May 28, 2012 § 15 Comments

It’s hard to explain to people what it’s like riding with the leaders up the climb on the Holiday Ride. “Um, it’s hard,” or “Well, you see I was gassed and then Billy Boozles made a sweep up the right-side gutter while Arnie Aspartame swung off and then…”

Thanks to my new GoPro helmet cam, I got the chance to video the thing and let you see for yourself. Click here to watch the Mandeville Canyon climb all the way to the top with the leaders. Don’t tell me that it’s “blurry” or “fuzzy” or “dogshit quality video, dude.”

It seems that I stuck my finger on the lens cover and smudged it. Still, remind me again, how much did you pay for this? Exactly.

My ride commentary, with video documentation, is below.

#1. The video don’t lie

It’s amazing how much people lie about what they did during a ride. By the time they get done, they’ve fabricated a narrative that is so distorted that you wonder if the dude telling you the story was in the same century as you, much less in the same breakaway.

This video quickly punctures some of the biggest whoppers that bubbled up immediately after the climb. G3 complained, after getting caught and dropped, that his teammates had chased him down.

They all denied it. Vehemently. “We wuz riding tempo so you could stay away!” “I’d never chase down a teammate!” “Some dudes from another team reeled you in, dude, I swear!”

No.

G3 was brought back by a well-oiled machine consisting exclusively of his own teammates. I know it won’t make you feel any better, Greg, but this is exactly how I feel when you chase me down on the Wheatgrass Ride, or when you chase me down at TELO, or when you drop me going up to the Domes. The only difference is that we’re not teammates. On the other hand, I know you’d do it to me even if we were.

Plus, there was no way in hell you were going to solo the canyon vee. Unless, of course, your teammates hadn’t chased you down, in which case, well, who knows?

#2. The dude taking the video is a wheelsuck deluxe

Yep. I sat on the whole way. Never took a pull. You’ll see Surfer Dan look back a couple of times and invite me to take a turn. You’ll see me refuse.

“Wow,” you’re thinking. “This is the guy who’s always telling everyone to take a pull? What a douche.”

As I like to say, “If the nozzle fits…”

I was gassed and too afraid of Surfer Dan to do anything other than suck wheel and pray that no one attacked hard enough to drop me, which is what usually happens. That’s how it is when you’re a wanker.

#3 The dude who won the hill is an even bigger wanker

Yeah. Sitting on your teammate for the entire canyon climb and then blasting by him with totally fresh legs after assisting with the earlier chase, catch, and drop of G3, who is also your teammate? What’s up with that?

Answer, and I quote: “That’s MY wall.”

Those who don’t know Tree well will know this much after watching this video: It’s all about Strava. He will sit, chill, and torch anyone, teammates included, if it gets him closer to a Strava record. In this case, he didn’t get the KOM, but he moved up the leaderboard to fourth. And he got the KOM for something called “Westridge to White Picket Fence.” So there’s that.

Attacking and dropping your teammate who tows you all the way to the end and being labeled a wanker is a small price to pay for an incremental gain on Strava.

Those of you who think this is just sour grapes because he blasted by me so fast and hard I couldn’t have hung on with a tow rope…you’re right! Of course, if I have to get my ass handed to me on a plate, Tree’s my first choice as server, because even after I called out his wankage he smiled back and said, “Good effort out there, Wanky!” Some people are nice no matter what. Go figure.

#4. Dave Jaeger is a total badass

The dude is 51 years old. Remembers Armistice Day. Helped Caesar cross the Rubicon. Was one of the first users of the new invention, dirt. Nonetheless, he attacks the breakaway. Gets reeled in by Surfer Dan. Attacks again and dusts off the remaining hangers-on. Gets reeled in.

Still finishes with the break for fifth. Tells me after the ride, “You rode smart for once.”

Me: “I wasn’t riding. I was holding on for dear life.”

#5. The real artillery was either home getting oiled or out doing a real race at CBR

Kalashnikov and G$ started the ride, which was about 150 strong, but parted company in Marina del Rey to go and do a real bike race instead of a kit parade w/15-minute hillclimb effort + frappucino at CotKU. Roadchamp was home, resting after a hard weekend of riding and putting the finishing touches on his afterburners for the state road race next weekend in Bakersfield. King Harold, Launch, Vapor, Critchamp, et al. were racing, placing, or winning.

#6. Tink is amazing

Check out the first part of the video where she winds up the pace and keeps the gas on. You can’t see the wreckage in the rear because I’m too busy sucking wheel to look back and catch it with my helmet cam, but she’s causing mayhem and destruction behind her. She sheared three minutes off her Mandeville PR and finished just after the first chase group. She now holds the QOM for Mandeville and sits 20th on the men’s leaderboard. This girl is simply incredible.

#7. The camera makes your butt look fat

It’s a 170-degree wide angle, and my nose is pretty much stuffed up your rear end, further magnifying the ginormousness of your hindquarters. Trust me, in real life your derriere is svelte, lean, muscled, and the stuff of magazine covers. It’s the fault of the camera that we all look like candidates for a bovine butt porn shoot.

#8. Surfer Dan is a total badass

Yesterday he went up to NorCal and got 8th in the state road race. This morning he turned on the jets going up San Vicente and kicked most of the holidayers out the back. On Mandeville he ramped it up, led the vicious chase to reel in his teammate, chased down Jaeger twice, shrugged his shoulders when Wankmeister cowered in the rear, and drilled it all the way to the top. He was gracious and not in the least bit miffed by Tree’s finish line antics or by my wheelsuckage, proving that the really good guys just go do their ride and never bitch about the result, while we wankers run home to our keyboard, uncork and savor a vintage 1876 whine.

The taste of bitter, Devil’s Punchbowl 2012, Part 4

May 1, 2012 § 4 Comments

Meanwhile, back at the race…

Steelhead had died 999 deaths in the suicide breakaway, but not 1,000 deaths because he’d already died once two years ago at Boulevard when he rode up to G$ and said, “Hey, dude, I finally made it over the first climb with you!” then hit a rock, splatted on his head and would have bled out except that STEEL DON’T BLEED.

After getting kicked out of the break, Steelhead took a breather, and with no teammates in the break drilled his brains out to bring back the two leaders, who came into sight just about the time that Steelhead threwsa rod, seized up, and was forced to put in an order for an all-new engine from Jessup Chevrolet. However, he also had to pay the extra $582.22 towage fee, as his carcass was dragged around the rest of the course in a more or less completely broken down state.

Purple Parks and Axena were finally brought back on the last climb up the big hill, and the tired remnants of the lead group slowly trimmed itself down to six. The heads of the snake were G$, DQ Louie, Jack Benny, Purple Parks, Ignoble, and Axena. Axena made a final attack with another rider in a one last bid for glory, getting a small lead on the rest of the lead group.

You’re my friend and I respect you that’s why I completely lied and stabbed you in the nuts

With Ignoble gassing it through the sandy, off-camber turn of death, the group chased up to Axena and his fellow traveler. G$ countered, gapping the group and taking DQ Louie with him. That’s when the hijinks began.

G$: “Pull through, bro. I need help.”

DQ Louie: “I’m done, man.”

G$: [to himself] “Done? That must mean he’s going to be content with second and give me the win. He’s an honest rider and would never trick me. Plus, he’s probably forgotten about UCLA.”

DQ: [to himself] “Does that sorry cocksucker think I’ve forgotten about UCLA and the way I hooked Axena, Big Orange protested, I got relegated, and Glass Hip was given the win? Fuck him.”

G$: [to himself] “Yeah, we’ve raced together for years. He’s a class act. Not like a lot of these other douchebaguettes who will lie and cheat and fake it and then whack you at the line.”

DQ: [to himself] “I can’t believe it. G$ is going to tow me to the line! What a sucker! I’m so gonna whack his ass at the line.”

G$: [to himself] “If it was anybody else, there’s no way I’d tow them to the line. Especially not a good field sprunter like DQ. But he said he was done, and he’s no liar. Okay, legs, uncork!”

With a mile to go, G$ switched into glide. The leaders were left to choke out their death rattle on his fumes. And then, as the line approached, DQ Louie hit the jets and took the win.

G$ couldn’t believe it at first. Then, little by little, he began to taste it. Devil’s Pukebowl. Hopes dashed. The taste of bitter.

Post-race interviews

After the dramatic stab-from-behind victory of DQ Louie in the 45+, Wankmeister patrolled the crowd and spoke with various participants. Their comments are below.

WM: How was the race?
Roxy [Bike Palace]: It went well. But it was hard. Really hard. I think I almost broke my hoo-ha.

WM: How was the race?
Mighty Mouse [Unattached]: It sucked.
WM: Why?
Mighty Mouse: This highly experienced racer dude who’s been coaching me and is a Pukebowl veteran gave me the wrong starting time, so I missed my race.
WM: And who is this highly experienced dude?
MM: Do you know G$?
WM: You were depending on G$ to get you to the race on time?
MM: Yeah. Why?
WM: Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

WM: How was the race?
Tink [Big Orange]: It went great! Thanks, Wanky! I followed your advice!
WM [nervously]: Uh, what advice?
Tink: Where you told me to suck wheel and never work in the break! They kept prodding me to go to the front, but I refused, and then finally I only took weak, slug-like, ineffective 10-second pulls! It was awesome! I got third!
WM: Uh, there’s a group of chicks coming our way with clubs and a pitchfork. Why don’t you crawl under my car for a few minutes?

WM: So, when does your 40+ race go off?
Fireman [warming up on trainer]: Ten minutes.
WM: Are you ready?
Fireman: Yeah. You got any food?
WM: Uh, sure. Here’s part of a half-eaten BonkBreaker from my last race.
Fireman: Fuck. Thanks, dude. I’ll take it.
WM: Good luck.
Fireman: Hey, could you do me a favor?
WM: Sure.
Fireman: Give me your rear tire, wouldja? Mine has a blister on the sidewall and is about to pop.
WM: My rear tire?
Fireman: Yeah. I’ll put your good tire on my wheel, and this fucked up one on yours.
WM: This bad one that’s about to pop?
Fireman: Yeah. Is that a problem?
WM: Uh, I guess not.

…after Fireman’s race, via text message…

Fireman: Fuck, dude. That was a 48-mile time trail.
WM: How’d the tire hold out?
Fireman: It was too heavy. That’s why I got dropped.
WM: Oh. Sorry. At least you didn’t flat.
Fireman: Yeah, a flat would have been great.

WM: How was the race?
G3 [Big Orange Cat 3, not to be confused with G$]: Fucking sucked. My tactics sucked.
WM: How so?
G3: Typical negative Cat 3 bullshit. I fucking hate racing with the 3’s. What a bunch of wankers.
WM: Why don’t you race 45+?
G3: Uh, no.

[End]

The taste of bitter, Devil’s Punchbowl 2012, Part 3

April 30, 2012 § 4 Comments

By the time we hit the right-hand turn onto the stairsteps of death, Wankmeister’s golden legs from the previous week had turned to silver. Barely hanging onto the back, I noticed that Ol’ Gizzards had been shed. Fatty the Pimple, the balloon dude with the red outfit and rainbow striped sleeves that made him look like a zit about to pop, was huffing and puffing like a Code 4 cardiac patient.

At the top of the stairsteps my legs of silver had turned to bronze. Fatty the Pimple popped. On the long crazy downhill I recovered, then recovered some more on the rolling section leading to the hard right turn, where the organizers had thoughtfully placed lots of sand and gravel across the off-camber, high speed, right-angle intersection. “Careful!” they yelled, which was lots cheaper and easier than sweeping the deadly turn with a broom. Fatty had toiled his way back on, and of the forty or so riders who had toed the line, only about twenty remained.

As we began the climb up to the start-finish, we passed the giant sign pointing out the San Andreas Fault. Now at least I knew who to blame for that vaguely familiar taste in the back of my mouth. The taste of bitter.

A three-man suicide break was already up the road. Axena had attacked with Purple Parks, and Steelhead bridged to complete the threesome. Our main chase group came through the start-finish, turned left, and began rolling up what is in effect the second section of the climb that began at the sandy intersection.

DQ Louie had decided to bring back the leaders, and the moment he upped the pace my legs of bronze turned to legs of wood, then plastic, then overcooked spaghetti. This was it. The dreaded moment of droppage. The moment when the hardest, gnarliest, most painful and relentless contest in Southern California goes from being a road race to a time trail.

Fatty never came off, which made me hate him even more, and made the bitter flavor stronger still.

Oh, no, Mr. Bill!

On the descent I formed a group with Mr. Bill from Big Orange, Bill L. the Pool Guy, and some dude from Schroeder Iron. His name was probably Bill too, but I was too tired to ask, and the way he hung his head and sagging gut as he rotated through told me that he was too tired to answer. None of them was climbing worth a shit, which made it even more humiliating when they effortlessly rode away from me the third time up the big climb.

As I flailed along by myself I passed C.U. Tomorrow. “Good job, C.U.!” I said as I passed.

“Fuck you!” she waved.

The next chick I overtook was Irish Lassie. “Good job, Lassie!” I said as I passed. “Shut up and give me a push!” she yelled.

The next gal was Gangstachick, who I passed just as we began the downhill. How was it that these three teammates were spread equidistant along the climb? “Good job, Gangstachick!”

“Your advice about wheels sucked! There’s no wind at all! I should have brought my 808’s. YOU SUCK!” she called out as I passed.

By now I had formed another flail group, this time with Cat 4 Shon Holdthebroom. We lumbered on for a long way, with him occasionally moaning, “I can’t pull through. No more gas, dude.” Fortunately, his tank magically refilled after the final turn as he and his Cat 4 buddies left me in the dirt, sprunting up the final mile to the finish. I crossed the line with yet another impressive moral victory in the bag. Dropped, defeated, and spanked by a couple of Cat 4 wankers at the end, it had been another day that began with high hopes and ended in the rubble of cruel reality. I rolled my tongue around in my mouth, collecting small clumps of salt. And bitter.

The real race, for the real racers, however, had ended much differently.

[Tune in tomorrow for “How Devil’s Punchbowl 2012 Was Won Through Trickery, Treachery, and Deceit, and How Fireman Borrowed My Rear Tire but Lived to Regret It and How Mighty Mouse Learned the Importance of Checking the Race Flyer for Starting Times and Never Trusting the Most Notoriously Late Racer in the State to Tell Her When Her Race Was Supposed to Go Off and How Tink Listened to Wanky and How Roxy Almost Broke Her Hoo-Ha”]

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