The last time Mrs. WM and Jr. came to watch me race was in 2008 at the Dana Point Grand Prix. With a few laps to go in the Calcium Deficiency and Low Test Category, Matt Hahn decided not to wait until he became an octogenarian and instead broke his hip on the straightaway in a terrible bicycle-falling-off-incident .
Far from the crash and in no real danger myself, in sympathy with the carnage I flung my bike onto the tarmac as hard as I could, bounced a couple of times in front of my shocked son and wife, then limped bleeding off the course and over to the beer garden where I fortified myself with two pints of IPA before soldiering on to complete the 35+ race DFL.
Today was going to be different, and it was. The Barry Wolfe Grand Prix took off helter-skelter at 10:15 AM with 50 minutes of frolic on the menu, which frolic quickly degenerated into volleys of attacks so vicious and cruel that by the third lap a bloodthirsty pack of wolves consisting of The Hand of God a/k/a THOG, Genghis Hahn, Gorilla in the Nist, Naugahyde, and Bullet rolled up the road.
I was just coming off a hard effort and recognized through the spit and blood clots that this was probably The Move, so I stretched across the open windy Serengeti and somehow latched onto the wheels of these Titans of the Drippy Prostate. Much pain ensued, and it ensued immediately.
THOG settled into a steady breakaleg breakaway pace of mymaximumspeedever+3 mph, and that strange time-space-continuum effect snapped into place whereby your time on the front seems like an hour but your time resting seems like a subunit of a nanosecond even though from the perspective of a person standing on a train it seems quite the other way around.
Once the breakaway was established, THOG ordered us all to begin riding in earnest, and the increased speed was so severe that Bullet began taking, shall we say, slight sabbaticals at the back, and Genghis began interspersing his cupcake pulls with blistering accelerations that coincided with the ringing of a bell later identified as “cash primes.”
Through it all I failed to notice that sticking off the front of Genghis’s handlebars like a cowcatcher was an apparatus that resembled two pieces of rebar welded together by the detonation of a phosphorous bomb, twisted, out-jutting handles sloping down, short and low, that were in fact 1990’s-era vintage aero bars. We will skip over for just a moment the fact that Genghis rides a top of the line TIME bike which, even with concrete wheels, would weigh less than the rebar Spinacis that were dangling off the front of his bike.
We will also skip over the fact that he never seemed to use them.
What we will focus on is the fact that in addition to cupcake pulls and prime-snagging he burst from the break with 200 meters to go and cleanly whipped the snot out of the shattered remnants of our brokedown palace.
There aren’t many rules in cycling, but there is at least this one: Thou shalt not fuck with THOG.
He’s not the patron, the boss, the head honcho, the universally acknowledged master of the universe, he’s much more than that. He’s the final arbiter of the pig trough. What, you ask, is the pig trough? It is this, written in Book of Degenesis, Chapter One, Verse One:
Life and cycling is a pig trough. Many are the pigs who belly up to the trough and seek to snurfle out its rinds, garbage, and tasty bits of rotten things unfit for human consumption. Yet before thou shalt be allowed to stick thy greedy snout into the trough, thou must contribute to it, and the pig that seeks to swill without giving his fair share shall be excommunicated from the house of pigs and forced to sprunt with the wankers back in the field.
It is a hard law, but immutable, and when Genghis swilled all the cash primes and guzzled the victory he was ratted out to the officials, who promptly convened a Reading of the Rule Book. Once the four officials had assembled their fifteen IQ points, Genghis addressed the genitals of the jury by citing to Rule 1I1(d).
In road, track, or cyclo-cross races, handlebars with ends, features, or attachments that extend forward or upward or that provide support for other than the rider’s hands are permitted only in time trial and pursuit events (not in Team Sprint); however, attachments that point upward on the brakehoods of road bicycles are allowed if the distance between them is greater than 25 cm (9.8 inches).
According to Genghis, the first clause of this sentence allowed his aero rebar attachments because they pointed down, not upward. The prosecution’s case, adeptly argued by THOG, countered that Genghis’s reading was selective, as no attachments are permitted that provide support for other than the rider’s hands, and Genghis’s attachments clearly provided support for his wrists, forearms, and also perhaps for his forehead.
Expert witnesses testified for the defense, but on cross they appeared to have spent too much time in the beer tent and the court granted the prosecution’s Daubert challenge and excluded the expert testimony.
THOG made his concluding argument to the jury, urging them to DQ Genghis because he “rode like a prick,” and a unanimous verdict tossed out Genghis’s glorious victory and awarded it to Old Naugahyde, who was urged to use the winnings for some skincare products and a visit to the dermatologist.
Most importantly for me, my sixth-place-out-of-six in the breakaway was instantly upgraded to fifth, which only vaguely compensated for the fact that I’d ridden like a complete maroon, had smashed the pedals at the wrong time, attacked from the front, and generally made a fool out of myself.
On the bright side, Mrs. WM got some great photos of Genghis, and Jr. was proud of his dad for not crashing again.
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