endrunkulated / Cat's Hill Crit 2009 / Whysp

Fuck and all. It has been a hell of a day. Had to wake up early because "Epic" Alex Anderson was down with long rides, and if that dude says long rides is how it is, Team BREDSkwad rolls long rides. So I woke up fucking early for a Saturday, and ate beef jerky for breakfast (no joke, Epic won't even don his super suit or butter his shamWOW for anything less that 4 hours, I double-dose on protein just to email him). Anyways I'd eat beef jerky for breakfast most days. 6 hours and 11,000 feet of climbing later, and I've got yet another brutal sunburn while I come calling to every fucking apparelier on Pacific Avenue, like all I want is some shoes, brah. Shoes ain't made for such fat and flipperish feet as mine, so while Kit-Kat rolls home in new-car-smellin kicks, I got the same shit with the rounded out soles (from walking as a duck walks) and the broken parts where the fat foot bends to accomodate the fat toes. What have I done, I wonder, in some previous life.
Anyways I start drinking early this evening, around 5, because at 9 is the WHYSP show, and I got to get juiced in case that is a bust. (I know the dude and he knows ceramic Mavic rims, so it seemed like a safe bet, but you never know.) We roll in The Crepe Place and it is chummed waters for obsolete styles of eyeglasses and facial hair, which when combined yield a dude who looked like a young Unabomber [it was nice to meet you Daniel (I think this is your name) and Michelle-- why do you hang with a dude who looks like he has two years of food in his basement?] Anyways nothing blew up except the bathroom after I guzzled something called a Beefalo on Rye, which was seven(!) dollars and served in an upside-down conical stemmed James Bond glass which of course made me feel like a high roller. Thank God I put that fucker on credit, drinks like that are the reason the banks are collapsing.
About 11 and the Whysping ain't in full effect no more, so I finish the Beefalo and we go Back to the Shadow from which We Came, stopping along the way to RING THE BELL (dong), picking up a pair of cronchy beef tacos (delicious), nachos with tub of squeezy cheeze (delicious), and a small Pessi (not as good as Cocola). And here I am at 500% of my normal drunkenness, writing a letter to my favorite people in the world -- you. Now go the fuck to bed.

I will see you on the 23% grade at Cat's Hill.

Called it

Don't act like I don't tell you how it is; if I say I'm gonna get shelled from a big race, that's how it's going down. So when I said I was gonna get shelled from Sea Otter, I was pretty much duty-bound to deliver for you, the precious readers of the Bacon and the Raisins. For three laps, I was up front on the climbs, hurting dudes, pushing McDonald's numbers out of my gigantic Tamagatchi screen. Four laps in, I can see dudes are hurting-- they're stringing out on the climb and not all of them are catching back on through the famous corkscrew. I'm thinking I've got it all plucked and stuffed, because the run-in to the finish is so smooth, so slow-- a dude with much booty could drop a nasty sprint through there. But then I remembered that I gave my word to get shelled, so hey pronto I dropped my chain on the steepest part of the climb.

What a douche. Fire your mechanic. I tuned it up the night after, better late than never etc., and that motherfucker shifts telekinetically now. Which would have been nice...
A week off, then more mid-pack finishes! I will update you with every detail of training, and tell you the same thing three times about Theo Bos.

Sea Otter Circuit

Oh yeah, you know I drive Google traffic by mentioning big races, which I later get shelled from. This weekend I am getting shelled from the famous Sea Otter-- except instead of doing any of the interesting shit at SO like dual slalom or stealing carbon wheels from the expo, I'm doing... a circuit race. All the mindless repetition of a crit, but with longer, more painful laps. Why did I sign up? Because at BREDSkwad, you gotta be in it to lose it. In any case it is supposed to be a buttery course, perfectly banked for the race cars but not some crappy NASCAR oval. 300 ft of climbing per 2-mile lap-- does that favor a big fatty, like me? Possibly. Lots of short-hill races are won by fatties every year, although I suspect that they are more like "musclies", which sounds like a disease your kids would die of 150 years ago. Whatever that means, boombatties to the line, bitch, I'm lining up.

Now I just have to decide whether to drink beer for breakfast the morning of, or the morning after...

Copperopolis race report / tha skunkfuck

Copperopolis was a dark day for the BREDSkwad, but I can comfort myself with knowing that I called it before hand. While packing, I distinctly told my lovely assistant, "Either I'm going to crush this race -- or I'm going to get my shit kicked in like never before."
Well there's no doubt when you make a call like that what's going to happen. C-Awfulis is 3x21 miles for the fours, 1300 feet of climbing per lap and it's almost all in the first five miles. Of course, being fours everyone thinks they're going to break away on the first lap, so the pace up the hills is pretty brisk. The climb is kind of a stairstep of ramps and flats, so the surging is as bad as in a crit. Here's the hindsight pro tip: warm the fuck up. I didn't and I got totally skunkfucked by dudes who hammered their guts out up the hill, only to earn the distinction of being dropped 30 seconds after me. As I told Aaron and Rob on the way up, much of racing the fours and fives seems to consist of asking "Why?" although there is never a good answer. What caaan you do? Go hit the hills more, I guess. The race highlight was a dude from BBC (I think) who blew off the back not long after I did on the climb. We had a little chat, something like:

BR: It sucks being fat.
BBC: I'm 160 (he was like 6 foot)
BR: Then why aren't you up there?
BBC: Let's just say, if this was a time trial, I'd blah blah blah
BR:

Sometimes I think I will never learn to stop talking to people in races.

In related news, Levi was DQ'd from C-Awfulis for centerline (good job ref, you are truly important and we respect you), but I bailed after lap 2.
BREDSkwad: 0
Astana: 0

illin' yo

Bad news for BREDSkwad (bacon and raisins elite deth skwad)-- the team captain, the seasoned sprint ace, the climbing specialists, all the domestiques, the coach, the masseur and the mechanic have all got a scratchy throat leading into Copperawfulis, the roughest road race of the West. Fortunately, all problems can be solved by looking to the patron saint of hardcore road racing, Eddie B.
Wait, I checked Eddie B and his advice is to harden the fuck up and destroy your opposition with iron willpower and/or laser eyes. Let's instead check with the patron saint of rest and recovery, Joe Friel.
Here's a snippet from one of our heady intellectual discussions over espresso and smoked salmon (fucking nasty but it's his thing):

BR: So Joe, I'm fat and my throat is sore, what should I do this weekend?
JF: Race for three hours in the hills.

So there you have it, wattage-nerd royalty has blessed the team for C-Awf.
That is to say, for better or worse, move over, bitch, I'm lining up.

Copperopolis Road Race OMGROFL

Jesus Squeeze Us, when you're a pro mid-pack finisher it seems like you barely have time to get shelled from one race before you're expected to get shelled from another. I just finished skipping the Napa crit to drink beer, and turning in a lackluster performance at the Beach Hill crit, and now I've only got a week before I have to finish somewhere between 20th and 60th at Copperopolis, aka "The Paris-Roubaix of California." Supposedly this race claims close to two-thirds of starters with flats, slipped bars, ejected bottles, and crashes. Whatevs. All those dudes with gossamer carpet fiber wheels and 100-gram tires won't be laughing when I pass them on rims that were no more than decent-- a decade ago. In addition to wheels so heavy that I once stopped to count the spokes-- I couldn't believe they were 32, not 36-- Team Bacon and Raisins will also be rolling on the tires I did all my base training on. Oh yeah, we're in it to win it. Remember, I invented the Paris-Roubaix of Williamsburg.


Oh wait, there's thirteen hundred feet of climbing per lap? Breakfast beers it is.

Santa Cruz Crit 2009 (Kicked My Ass)

Are you excited about hearing how the race went for me? No? Then why do you read any of this garbage?
Now that we've got that out of the way, let's talk racing. Yesterday wasn't really a good prep day for a crit-- instead of resting with my legs up, sipping lukewarm broth, I went drinking at 9am. I at least ate pancakes with the booze (the "velvet hammer" -- champagne and guinness at Zachary's restaurant.) At breakfast, a friend found out that Caitlin hadn't used her wetsuit since she bought it, so it was decided (we were not part of the decision) that we were going surfing that afternoon. Aaron rallied Dennis, possibly the most gnar-gnar, leatheriest dude in town, and we attempted to shred. The shredding wasn't happening, and Dennis decided it would be badd grammah to force ourselves upon the crowd where the real waves did be, so we packed it in pretty quick. Highlights for Caitlin included a body boarder getting the whole-body shakes and moaning "skuuhh uhhh sketch, dude!" because a crab touched him; and seeing sea otters up close. Dennis' thoughts on otters: "They're fast, and they've got sharp teeth." I didn't take away a newfound appreciation for nature's wonders, but I did burn my big balding noggin-- East Coast readers will be familiar with said noggin, especially when sunburnt.
ANYWAYS, when I lined up this morning, not only was it California cold (50 degrees), I had sore hips (what the fuck does that mean?) and I looked like Hellboy with no horns. That being said, we were the first race so I threw down much warmup, which is not my SOP. It seemed to help, because the race had a hairpin (see course map) and it was, even more than usual, vital to be up front. So when they blew the whistle, I promptly fucked up clipping in, which always happens in races but never any other time, and then spent a lap battling up to the front. Unusually, I made it there, and proceeded to spend four laps acting like I knew what the fuck I was doing -- hilarious! Then on lap six I got squeezed into the on the hairpin, and didn't crash but did lose about twenty places. And then I bailed. I still feel like shit, or maybe I am just telling myself I feel like shit because it is easier than fighting to the front twice, but at any rate I went and got a cup of coffee.
Aaron's race didn't go much better.
Verdict: BUMMER.
If you are looking for a 56cm 08 Trek Madone, now would be a good time to send me a tempting offer.

Ronde 2009 (Time To Get Drunk)

"I'm asking you to believe." -- Bob Stapleton


Here are the rules of the Ronde van Vlaanderen 2009 Drinking Game:
1. If George wins, take two drinks, per hour, for the next four days.
2. If Boonen wins with his hands up and the Specialized logo on his gloves showing, take a drink.
3. If Pozzato has fabulous hair, but doesn't win, take a drink.
4. If Pozzato's hair ain't fabulous, change channels and watch deep sea fishing or Law & Order (not both)
5. If Cancellara was bullshitting about being hurt and wins, take three drinks.
6. If Fumiyuki Beppu finishes within a half-hour of the winner, take a drink (is he even racing anymore?)
7. If the cobbles look brutal, take a drink (applies for each cobbled section.) (freebie)
8. If George's bike breaks, punch a hole in the wall.

Here's the pro-tip: Don't load velonews until you've seen the finish on TV, because they'll put the winner's name on the front page. (If you don't check velonews, cyclingnews, and pez fifteen times each per day, get off my blog.)