Telo is an ordinary business park, you know, a place where businesses go to play on the jungle gym, where businesses sit under the trees and sip lemonade, where they loll in the grass on lazy afternoons and, in summer, where businesses plunge into the cool inviting waters of the business park swimming pool. You can go to Telo any old time and see the businesses having fun as they cavort along the sidewalks, wave at the passing vehicles, and generally behave like the happy-go-lucky, free spirits that businesses almost always are.
Except on Tuesdays at 6:00 PM. That’s when it becomes “Telo Tuesday.” When the checkered flag drops, and the business park transmogrifies from a happy inviting series of prettily paved streets into an asphalted, unforgiving meatgrinder from hell. The timid businesses pull up their skirts and make way for the brigade of amped up cyclists who appear out of nowhere to race for an hour or until Brad thinks one of his Big Orange teammates might be in a winning break, in which case he stops the race early.
Here are the things that people did at Telo today:
Greg L.: Showed up and turned the meatgrinder on “high.” Much pureed pink slime spewed out as a result.
Dom F.: Sliced through corner after corner after corner, proving once again that he’s the best bike handler around.
Jay Y.: Sometimes you’re the hammer…but not today!
Marcel H.: Rarer sighting than an Eskimo Curlew.
Suzanne S.: Never more than ten wheels back, charging off the front again and again.
Kristabel D-H.: Not phased at all by the morning slugfest on the NPR, at it again in the PM, mixing it up with the boys and, of course, taking her turn “at the front.”
Jon D.: Can you say “anger management”? Pounding like a jackhammer.
Christian C.: Never ever took his foot off the gas.
Sarah M.: Tucked into the rolling mass, held her own and then some.
Cary A.: Gave me the “Gig ’em” sign while leaning against his maroon-colored truck.
Greg S.: Two hundred and seventy three point nine attacks.
Harold M.: Can you say “counter” followed by “crying blood”?
Derek B.: Cooled his jets until he taxied for takeoff, then “boom.”
Nick B.: Hiding, hiding, hiding, wheelsucking, hiding, wheelsucking, hiding…
Carlos R.: Nicely placed. Can I send you a map so you can find the front? [Update: after reviewing a list of references provided by Carlos, WM sort of retracts this calumny with the following revision–"Worked like a superman at the front for most of the race, dropping the weak and feeble at will, and won the race by twelve bike lengths.”]
Alan M.: Crazy careening throughout the field like a bowling ball amongst the ten pins. Didn’t knock any down, though.
Simone M.: Always says “hi” like she means it!
Dave A.: Chopped by Wankmeister in the chicane…sorry, buddy! Monster pull with four to go, an entire lap and a half.
Andrew K.: Zinging to the front, zinging to the back, easily spotted with those red shoes.
La Grange Wanker in Green: Pulled a boner at the end and earned the wrath of Davy.
Helmetless Dude in the Bubbles Outfit: There was a time when no-helmet meant “you’re rad.” That time passed. Long ago. Long, long ago.
Walrus Dude not Wearing the Backpack: It was a tough half lap before the harpoon pierced your throat, but at least you were out there trying, which is a hell of a lot more than hundreds of alleged South Bay “racers” can say.
Rime of the Ancient Mariner Japanese Dude: You only got lapped twelve times, but you are, like, a hundred years old and have only been cycling for a couple of years and it takes balls to get out there and flail.
Peta the Brit Chick: Said “hi” to me in that cute Britty talky voicey thing, and held on for what seemed like a long time. Did you finish? Tell me you did.
Southbay Wheelchick: I don’t know your name, blondie, but you rode great.
Anonymous Big Orange Dudes: With, like, all 3,000 of your teammates out there, do you think you could have, like, let someone other than G3 and G$ do all the work? Never mind.
Heroes who sucked wheel for 55 minutes and made their cameo on the final lap: You will always suck, no matter how highly you place. There is a place in hell for people like you. It’s called Temecula.
Toronto: Never very far back, but never quite far enough ahead. Go to the front!
Major Bob: Thrashing, attacking, blasting, crushing, recovering, going again. Doing the NPR/Telo Tuesday double. Tired just watching you.
Manny G.: It’s not Telo without you, buddy! Heal up and hurry back.
Dan C.: UCI Rule 1982.39(a)ii(4) says that “Telo results shall not be validated without at least one hairy-legged monster surfer wanker showing up and kicking everyone in the teeth.” Where were you???
Fukdude: I know this doesn’t fit in with the mathematical plan of victory calculated to the nearest .000001 gigawatt, but, since you practically invented Telo, and since people still come up to me on the street and say, “Who’s Fukdude?” you need to show up. Or not.
Neumann: NEUMANN!!! I didn’t get a note from your mother! Where were you?
Paul C.: Scary fast, in all the breaks, today just wasn’t your day. Or mine.
Wankmeister: DFL. Took one or two mousey pulls then scurried back to the protection of the swirling vortex. Some days you’re the giant wheel on the semi-tractor trailer. Some days you’re the asphalt smear.
Marco C.: Rode cannily, made a couple of nice escapes that were ultimately doomed to failure.
Joe Y.: You get an eternal Telo pass, or until the bone is completely absorbed by the metal and you become the Terminator.
Tara U.: Now. I’ve seen you go out there and shred. And. I expect you to come out and do it again. Never mind that I only make it to Telo once a year.