back in tha zaddle

O Pioneers,

I'm back in action after a harrowing journey to, thru, & from MEHICO. My underoos still smell like tequila-infused urine, but even before the pressing demands of londry I have returned to my disciplined study of all things cycling. First on the agenda: A new breed of draft-on-tap has joined the ranks at THE SCHACK, causing ill-discipline and insubordination among the ranks at the bike shop. Way Wrad. This potion is known among men as "WINTER BOURBON ALE SOMETHING," and all who deny it are guaranteed a slow death-- excepting a single man: my liege and co-author Mr. R. Q. Kleiman, who declared WBAS' cream-soda taste as "not for him."

Despite his blasphemy, he made unto me the offering of one (1) oversize Coors Classic cycling cap, custom-stretched to fit my head. In light of this sacrifice, I, Grendel to his Hrothgar, retreat to my stygian lair, sated, until the next full moon / 10-to-6 shift. Were it not for his devotion to the Scooterian doctrine of intense satisfaction with the Schack's wings, though, I would have eviscerated a dozen of his thanes as a warning. I'm watching you, Kleiman, from under your own hat.















On another note:

Tomorrow I'm going to brave my churning guts to ... ride my bike? I think that's the expression. See, while you chumps have been all suffering through Base 2, I've been soaking up the sun just south of the Equator (note to sec'y: check geo. for me before going to print), just like Michael Rasmussen except I got more body fat and melanin. Tomorrow will tell if I've got enough hardman spirit to brave the elements and actually use my ... legs? to propel some kind of device? I'm going to get some clarification on what all this "bike riding" noise is about before I commit to anything.




Third and not so final announcement: in the words of Young Jeezy, "Sometimes I think to myself, Goddamn I made it / and I know they hate it." These words echoed in my head as I, with some difficulty, extracted from my cramped apartment-mailroom box a crumpled USPS flat-rate mailer, bearing a return address more exciting than green ink and owls down the chimney:















Oh boy oh boy! TIME FOR A PRODUCT REVIEW.



At first brush, you may find the GamJams.net official team sock to be, in the words of Mr. N-B, "so gay." You might even double up in silent, body-wracking laughter, mouthing the words "gayest socks imaginable", again mimicking my erstwhile colleague. However, your bigoted merriment wouldn't begin to scratch the microns-thick membrane of gayness, embodied in these socks, which conceals a burgeoning bubo of awesomosity. Ahem. These extremely wrad socks, provided to B&R Elite Racing as part of ongoing sponsorship talks, are the first step in producing an entire clothing line-up of performance-centered, precision-crafted bikewear aimed at lifting athletes both elite and amateur to the pinnacle of their sport. The "Upon A Star" sock is a prime example of the extremely detail-oriented approach GJ has taken in designing a super high-performance piece which promises extraordinary benefits for the wearer.















Upon putting them on, I first notice that they are extremely small. Two explanations form in my mind: either they were built ultra-tight to increase compression and circulation in the foot, thus improving warmth on cool days and dissipating heat on warm days; or, in some freak accident these are actually socks for pre-adolescent girls. Knowing Mr. May as a world-class designer, I see the feint within the feint within the feint, and come to the correct conclusion: these are some of the most technically advanced socks on the market. Running my fingertips over the graphic on the cuff, I find further evidence to support my theory: the pattern of glitter clearly forms an area of aerodynamic dimples around one's ankles, slicing the wind so keenly, I can hear a wail as I pedal. It almost sounds like an eight-year-old, crying as if someone stole her favorite socks. I know I'd cry if someone stole these babies.
A final test remains: I must determine the wicking capabilities of these socks. My grotesque flippers sweat so much that I stand in a perpetual puddle from mid-March to late October. If I don't keep moving, I grow moss on my north side.
Rather than stir from my $1100 ergonomic blogging ottoman, I decide to get my socks wet by thinking about Odessa Leipheimer's dogs, and soon, the cute factor overwhelmed my self control. Third time's the charm, and I was resoundingly convinced of the absolutely superlative technical prowess of the designers at GamJams. A sockful of pee evaporated from these babies so fast, I was able to use the escaping steam to power a small turbine which ground and roasted Mr. N-B's Jittery Joe's Morning Blend. Sell your shares in DeFeet: Mike May has changed the sock game.

Had to Cuss Him, Sock Hookup, Mehico

So far the best comment heard on a ride in the last week comes from Mark Iannuzi AKA The Human Uzi. Heading into the sprint on Centerville, I "led out" for once, leaving the actual squabbling to N-B, the Uzi, and the Bruce Juice. The Juice went out too early, then N-B, then Mark came around N-B with a few seconds left to go. In N-B's words, "if it had been anyone else, I would have let them have it. But because it was Mark, I had to mess with him." That in mind, he pulled around Mark at the last second, snatching the coveted hypothetical Tour de Williamsburg Green Jersey for a week. On the cooldown stretch, I asked Mark what went wrong, and received this pearl of wisdom:
"I thought I had him, but I came around him a little too early. I ran out of juice, and-- I had to cuss him, as he came around."
I haven't been able to get it out of my head-- Mark with his drawl, compelled by the forces of fate and destiny to Cuss Him. The sheer narrative depth of it is astounding-- the fish make their own light down there, in the depths of Mark's implied narrative. It's not just frustration; it's the ritual closure of a predetermined drama of epic proportion. There was no free will involved in this cussing; Mark had to cuss him (as he came around). Awesome.

What else is awesome, you clamor? Listen, children, and I will speak its name among you: tha sock hookup, He That Is Known As GamJams. Our Lord of Links has heard my plea, and He has delivered me from socklessness. Word.


This will probably be my last update for a bit: I am being taken away to MEHICO, for some sort of family vacation. I will return in time to work CHRISTMAS EVE at the shop, al-right.

VACX Final Report + Pictures

PICTURES
Oh good people, it has been too long since I wroted amongst you. This is due to the stressful nature of the job I be workin, as well as my devotion to tha racing.
Please excuse me.
The VACX Final was contested today, at beautiful Darden Towe Park (not really that beautiful, just a park with a lot of dog shit everywhere). It was warm and dry though, so no complaints on that front. Rolled up in the HONDANATOR, courtesy of the ever-gracious David, AKA The Mand with The Hand. Lined up with a scraggly crowd of brave souls, including some new candidates for the cross scene fashion awards. Top contenders today were dude in home-made jersey AKA white t-shirt with "JMU" on it in red paint; dude in dress shoes and jeans on a cross bike; and dude in T-shirt and jeans on a mountain bike with his seat too low. The winner is the third guy, because he'll need the prize money for knee replacements.

Also astonishing was the number of Redlines, which are basically like Salsa frames or aluminum Surlys. There were even folks doing pretty well on them, although the A-race winner was on a very real, steel Lemond. The point is, is that Redline is distributed by Seattle Bike Supply, and I didn't know that anyone around here even carried or ordered them. What am I? DAMN WRONG.

Another B&R dribblet goes to the winner of the Collegiate Men's race, who knows his name, from VCU. I was kind of rooting for him anyways because me mother works at VCU, so I gotta have some pride. W&M certainly isn't up to it. Anyways, he wins my coveted respect because not only did he win, but he had total wildman hair. He was stoney-cold rocking a straight mane, plus facial hair which was totally out of line with the Best Buy employee's handbook regulations on appearance. Of slightly diminished importance in comparison to my esteem is the call-up at nationals he will receive as reward for his efforts. Way to go, Wildman. Your hair is bangin'.

And what about me? Who gives a shit! I got fourth, which was awesome but also a bummer because what I want, more than anything, is to just win something. Dirty little butt-dogg juniors just show up and they extremely take home prizes, and my azz is working-working-until I am straight busted, totally hucking a mountain bike with a freaking Marzoc fork on it, and all I have to show for it is seven safety pins and a receipt from the Ponderosa in Charlottesville. All I want is some validation-- some material evidence of my worth as a racer, or a symbolic reward for my dedication. Basically what I want is to win some socks, or something, just to say-- not loudly, and maybe only to myself, when I sit on the cooler in my closet with the door closed in the afternoons on my days off-- that I am a winning racer. That I not only won a numeric ranking among top competitors, but that I actually earned a physical object, essentially created a thing out of nothing through the medium of a bicycle.
What's the point? I'm not done with you, VACX, not just yet. I'll be back next year-- and I'm winning a fucking water bottle next time.

MORAL:
4/20<23/75

Capital Cross Classic

was crazy. It was one of the biggest fields I've ever entered, with 80 starters in the C field and over 100 racers on the course while we raced. The rain held off, so we were spared the real mayhem-- leave that to the guys who are paid to race.
A while ago I was reading a cyclingnews report of some World Cup 'cross race, and there was the obligatory blow-by-blow involving the leaders. I was pretty skeptical of some of the stuff, like "Lars Boom's cleats failed to engage for several seconds, costing him one hundred and thirty-seven places in the overall," or "Sven Nys' wheel slipped on a climb, allowing a forty-one man group to gain a ninety-minute lead." Really? You have to be that perfect? I couldn't believe it, until I saw the start line Sunday. To quote Chris Scales, it looked like a scene from 300, an army of psycho strongmen in tight clothes. Then, when they blew the whistle, dudes actually tried to stab me with spears. I was struggling to find the cleats, and dodge the arrows and spears, and in the two seconds it took me to find the pedal, a dude in world-champion stripes popped his front wheel up and rode over my back, using the big ring to dig into my neck for traction.
After that, I puked up my heart, my liver, someone else's heart, and breakfast, then started racing. This time I was on a bike I'd never ridden before, i.e. Rick B's 29er, but fortunately the event was so short I didn't have time to notice any ill effects. The suspension fork definitely served up some noticeable bob, but it's not like I was in contention for any top spots, so it probably wasn't a big deal.
Anyways, back to the race: dudes were tearing down barrier tape, crashing, having wheels pop out of dropouts, piling up in corners, everything. It was totally Death Derby Extreme for the first lap, while all the fast dudes passed all the schmucks. The prize for most dangerous part of the course goes to one climb on the back stretch, where a fence-post strung with barrier tape had somehow been snapped off six inches above the ground, presenting a jagged metal spike jutting up, ready to impale a crashing rider. I didn't hear anything about anyone dying, so I assume the folks running the race fixed it.
Props also for the guy who did the race in just shorts and a seersucker, short-sleeve button-up; as well as for the dude whose buddy convinced him to bring his bike just for fun, but ended up doing the race in (apparently) a puffy wool sweater, khakis, and sneakers. The overall best-dressed award goes to sweater guy, because seersucker guy lost his lead when he started riding a unicycle after the C race. Seersucker dude, unicycles are for douchebags.
SUMMARY:
23rd out of 75 finishers
45 degrees and windy, but no rain/mud
Seersucker, wool
Quote of the day: "On the first climb, I was tasting last night's PBR." - Ryan Delaney