This morning we rolled out of the offset-center of the known universe in Redondo Beach with a gaggle of about 75 riders. At Malaga Cove the pace mysteriously increased, first with Johnny, and then with a massive attack by Wikanator, followed closely by Marco. I tagged along until the taste of vomit got a bit too sharp, and shortly after we crested the Malaga hill we were joined by a handful of other escapees, including the feared Neapolitan.
Perez hit the gas, one or two others took turns, and then Rodley blew the group apart as we passed Indicator and came through Lunada Bay. He’s ready for FTR and going fast. Just past the school, the Neapolitan hit it hard, followed by me and Marco, and when we dumped out onto PV Drive we were a threesome, soon joined by Perez, Derek, and five or six others. Perez, always willing to hit the front, and Derek, always willing to let someone else hit the front, epitomize the Donut Ride: a couple of guys drilling it to the Switchbacks while everyone else cops a free ride and waits to attack on the climb.
Our breakaway got snagged at the Golden Cove stoplight, and our 40-second advantage melted back into one big amorphous group. The Neapolitan surged a few times, but the fireworks didn’t really start until one of the guys had words with Saturn, and then another guy got involved, and pretty soon there was a shitstorm of screaming, yelling, cussing, hollering, middle-fingering, pushing, scratching, eye-poking, spitting, nose-tweaking, shin-kicking, toe-stomping, tit-tweaking, and pecker-pinching such as I haven’t seen since kindergarten.
Unfortunately, the usual litany of he-saids, she-saids degenerated into actual physical contact when some guy with a really tiny, shrunken, shriveled, microscopic, woefully small and inadequate…ego…either pushed Suze or slapped her, depending on which eyewitness account you believe. Now I’m all for a spirited chorus of “fuck you’s” and “up yours” and “yo’ momma’s” to keep things lively, but gal-whacking gets you Loser of the Year and Please Don’t Come on this Ride Anymore You Douchebag Award.
If you’ve confused cycling with MMA, or if you are so angered by the wagging middle finger that you have to hit someone, perhaps you should take your anger out on, say, someone your own size, rather than engaging in fisticuffs with a woman pushing fifty.
After the dust-up, we hit the Switchbacks, and all of the wheelsucking, cowardly, craven, spineless, yellowbelly pretenders cowered some more, while others did the dirty work. On the third turn, what was left of the lead group split apart, Nick and Derek raced away after doing nothing but suck wheel for the entirety of the ride, and I put on my reverse jets and went backwards really, really quickly.
I counted 22 riders go past me like I was standing still on the way to the top. So it looks like my form for FTR is right on target. A massive beatdown awaits.
The rest of the ride turned pissy, then shitty, as these photos attest.