The Racing Chronicles

Promoters, Scientologists and Trained Creators

by Bill Stone

April 2001

Preface: This Chronicle is dedicated with admiration to promoters, rogues, and all manner of those who by choice or circumstance live by their wits.

As you know from watching Ken Burn's Jazz the Roseland Ballroom was located on Broadway and was the place south of Harlem to be during the thirties. What you may not know is Roseland was fictionalized as the Jollity Building in A.J. Liebling's, peerless collection of New Yorker stories, Telephone Booth Indian. The title referred to theatrical agents and other undesirables who used the telephone booths of the Jollity as their offices. They were people doing what they could to get by in that area of Manhattan roughly contained between 42nd and 52 streets and 6th Avenue and Broadway. In the thirties there were way to many people trying to fight off stomach pains by doing what they could and as a result not too many were successful at this occupation. At this time Self's grandparents were on 90th Street engaged in similarly productive vocations. One example will suffice. People generally assume that a pawnshop pays somewhat shy of thirty percent of a pawned item's value. So, a down on his luck "heeler" would sell his ten dollar ticket representing his watch for a dollar and the most likely gentile buyer would redeem the ticket and walk away with his thirty dollar watch and only too pleased to have preyed on one less fortunate. What the man with the satisfied smile doesn't know is that the pawn shop owner had just purchased a consignment of one hundred two dollar watches for which his Jollity friend had printed a hundred pawn tickets which were in turn commissioned to the Telephone Indians for a dollar a sale. After expenses the pawn promoter netted a very round seven hundred dollars, which was a lot "doing your best." Telephone Booth Indian is out of print, however, you can buy a like new paperback from a used bookseller for about a hundred dollars.

The celestial conundrum confronting an entertainment promoter is how much entertainment has to be offered and at what cost to the profit. This is of no particular importance to one time and out men, a lesson well learned and still practiced by the tent evangelicals who have big laps of the Midwest. Self attended one of these pranks a few summers ago when the local Uptight and Upright Citizens' Council donated the High School Auditorium and thirty teenage girls for use as sacrifices. As expected it did not have the staying power of a grade school Rave much less the flare of the Fair sponsored mud car races, especially after a couple of teen Fair strollers were put to death by an escaping mud car that ran through the track wall. Of course they were girls in temporary permanent custody of the state for offenses as evil as smoking in public. Apparently, fake snake bite deaths pale against the real thing and is at least anecdotal evidence that State Sponsored Religion may be a fast starter but has no stay.

However for race promoters interested in return customers the logic is less Aristotelian and decidedly mystical. At one extreme are the web dinks that fill bulletin boards with witless prattle that all races should be free with prices paid down twenty places. At the other those fear filled Cassandras who present that any criticism will result in the complete demise of the sport. A mindless subset cants that all prize money should be given to the four juniors and five women who show up to every race except when there is a Bottlebot convention or a Lancôme sale. As if this weren't enough there are teams that take all the money and decry that the race, the promoter and the competition are lame indeed, a corollary to the truth that "if they don't want to come you can't hardly keep them away." (Cross Reference: Baseball fans who prove that cyclists are at least smarter than some people.

Proof that a thought is a creation then came in the form of an email. Somehow Self receives messages from the Hoosier Cup-a series by the way that everyone should attend even if it means returning to Hooterville.
Anyway, one of the Elders of Cycling had proclaimed that the DePauw Master's Crit was limited to the first sixty-five hampster racers. Self was asked to attend four of five colleges during his tour de education. For a semester self studied abroad at Miami of Florida, known to students as the University of South Manhattan. Every week or so it would be too rainy to sit at the pool and watch the Texas girls who had escaped from SMU or TCU or one of the myriad faith based Texas institutions for lapsed cheerleaders. On these days Self visited his Uncle Mel Edlestein for a gin lesson. Uncle Mel sold limited edition clothes to ladies from the Midwest. He would buy the size 18s and up that Sachs, Macy's, Gimbels, and others couldn't sell in Manhattan. He would mark each item up three hundred percent and then put three of each on the floor under a sign "when these are gone there are no more." Of course he had like four hundred in the backroom. Having by now taken various parts of four introductory economics courses Self educated Uncle Mel that this was an example of the principle of "implied demand" to which he replied "and this is an example of gin and you have now been promoted out of twenty dollars." Never play cards with someone who can count to fifty-two while speaking on two telephones. Being as how self paid dearly for his lessons it was immediately clear that the Elders of Cycling's email was an example of creating an implied demand, and sent back a reply to same effect. As per, Self, in his exuberance forgot that some of the Elders run humor wise more towards Andy Griffith than Bill Mahr. Accordingly, soon received a scolding, replete with the expected incomplete sentences and unknown tense sequences.

It was the same unoriginal litany that Self had single handedly ruined cycling for those who are in the sport for fun-a euphemism for those who have and never will win anything except for the stuffed spacemen now given away in Frosted Flakes. So, was about to send the drone to pixel death when read the part about how Self was disdained by everyone except the meager Puck Posse of Misfits and Malcontents. Being as how your Chronicler is all to well known to be able to give but not take, this calumny had to be tested. Anyway, the response of the posse was less than settling: "So, that's hardly news"; " He might be on to something Bill"; "Never imagined that pinhead had such insight"; and "What makes him think we like you." In search of a little solace presented the matter to the Darling Wife who advised "I don't care if you are the head of a posse, I am not going to address you as Puff Daddy and you are not to write me in as D/Gro. Besides, anyone who would take you seriously enough to implode in paroxysms of distress is most likely a few amps short of a dead battery."

Racing Promoters are familiar with the curious paradox that Midwest cyclists will line up for ribbons in March while no amount of money will get them to throw down in the Fall against anything more challenging than a Hilly Hundred chicken thigh stuffed into a day old cinnamon bun. So it is then that maliciously advertised Spring Training Races are Rosebud to those locked in the fantasy of being Classic hard men. Such is the lure of being a part of Euro Mythology that otherwise sane men and women will actually pay cash to ride in zero temperatures while blinded by expiated nasal streams from the other fifty guys who spit into the wind. Admittedly, your Chronicler's take might be a little skewed being as how the best performance ever in one of these frozen feet exercises has been to not get dropped before the roll up to the start line. Children should not have to go to school until September and the race season should not start until the NCAA's are finished.

Cycling Teams are large in the self- promotion business. On their websites each team promotes that it is "A Premier Midwest Cycling Team." Their creeds are all a variation of the same theme: "It is our goal to represent ourselves in a way that brings credit to our sponsors, family, and friends and by our actions demonstrate that cycling is uniquely a sport in which the values of hard work and friendship predominate and harbinger success if not in any race then in the more important struggle of life." The staff at the Chronicles was relatively elated to see a Truesport posting announcing "Masters of Cycling." Anticipated reading an article about Dr. Moll, Daddy Mercer, the redoubtable Automobile Magnet Swope who climbs like a Ferrari on atomized hydrogen fuel, and all other locals who have Gold, Silver and Bronze leaf on their shelves-although Daddy M no doubt long ago stored his two Golds along with his used chains in a vat of depleted mineral spirits. Instead it was a teaser. It seems that Huey, Dewey and Louie of the MOD Squad recruited Norm and the Skipster from the Handjobs, added two professors and devoid of any notion of hubris determined themselves the Masters. Regardless, the website is a stitch.

The team profiles reveal that collectively the members have more degrees than a Death Valley thermometer, and in science no less. Self as did James Thurber was never able to see anything through a microscope except what appeared to be psychological test patterns or as Dear Old Dad from MIT said "you're too stupid to study anything that involves knowing something, go to a liberal arts school and learn how to buy clothes." Fortunately, several team members are university trained creative writers and in the latest web article one these Creative Scientologists writes that he gave a lecture to the Cycling Class at DePauw. It seemed anomalous that a school that promotes itself as the Dartmouth of the Midwest is offering jock classes. However, this is the school that graduated Dan Qualye and any further explanation is superfluous. Parenthetically, you are referred to last month's New York Review of books for a discussion of a study showing that private elite universities affirmatively admit and give scholarships to white kids who can play ball. Regardless, you can learn all the cycling science you need on a ride with Grant, Whitlock or Curtis for the greatly reduced price of a large Gatorade. The only useful piece of science you can learn in school is how to make and use EPO.

Our Creative Scientologist then writes that he and his professors are the only team with mettle enough to ride in weather of biblical dimensions, and that those who lack their resolve are going to suffer like Iliad sailors facing Neptune. Called and advised Grant that he better skip the Spain training camp and sign up for a remedial frostbite training camp on the Northern Shield. Instead he reminded that form and pedigree are far better predictors than tales of who won an artic training ride, albeit one up a secret hill in Brown County. Races don't always go to the fast and strong but that is the way to bet and that is to say that an underlay that has never produced probably won't. This, then, is saying that you won't go broke laying that the Scientologists will be back to their normal state of dissension before they cash out the Girl's Team, the Lime Slimes, or the Kevin and Dean Show.

Another gem that Skinner brought to attention was that one of the University Trained Creative writers had favored the public with a Cupid retrospective. At the end you learn that "you have to love yourself from within before you can love anyone else" or something to that effect. The Chronicles have a hard time accepting that such Oprah talk works but decided to survey some of the lady racers. Turns out that women who carry Trussardi bags and wear Ferragamo, Mussoni, and Max Mara are in possession of no time for guys in torn pit stained cycling clothes that always seem to be around when they are in various stages of undress. Turned to the DW for helpful insight. " Billy, women who have earned their own didn't do so with the hope of being treated to a dinner at Lone Star by a man who wears permanent pressed and tapes John Tesh's late night love commercials. If you want a woman to show you her Perla get a room on the Grand Canal where she can put on the provided hooded rope and drink Pio Cesare on the balcony while watching the ships on the Adriatic lighted up by a thunderstorm." Apparently, the summer vacation at Dolly Wood is not going to work out.

POSTSCRIPT.

The Chronicles did go to DePauw. It was a fair course for a rodent run, however, the advertised new pavement consisted of some spilled gravel. The implied demand gambit resulted in the Scientologists being self promoted out of a full field as thirty showed up. The Girl's Team is now sponsored by Swope Motors and Curtis insisted upon a new name and will now be known as the Automobile Hegemony.

The Hegemony put three in the first break that also included Professor Moore from Boiler Ag and Mechanical and Dean from Child's Play. Apparently, the frostbite training didn't prepare the Scientologists for the ninety- degree blast furnace as Dr. Moore was quickly dropped. Then the Auto Magnates put their remaining Auto Men in the second break along with Eric who was in the first break. The head Master of Cycling himself was in this break but again the lack of snow prevented him showing his full measure and he too was dropped.

Eric ended two laps up with the rest of the Hegemony having a lap on everyone else except Dean who was second and this is but proof again that the fast guys always win. The prediction here is that the Artic Scientologists will melt down faster than an ice cap in Bushworld.

PERSONAL.

Seventeen years ago Debbie and I brought home from the shelter a two-pound ball of fur. For all these years that our miniature lion would jump out her tree, over her fence, or through her cat door to greet us when we came home. She had her own desk, her own room, and her own window. She would not let anyone near her except for us Enmark and Whitlock. She spit at Grant and would throw a party for herself when guests left. BoBo died of cancer last month. We miss her a lot.

Ride Fast and Take Chances

Bill Stone