THE RACING CHRONICLES: On Laments, Yellow Lines, and Sun Dialers.

(New York Review of Books)

The choice in life is not between slavery and freedom;

It is that we must choose between slavery and the unknown and

You cannot live well until you choose the unknown.

(Kushner, Living a Meaningful Life)

I.

The 12K Lament

About a decade ago the Self was approached by a local racer to provide him money that he fulfill a dream to go around the world racing for some outfit called Athletes in Action. It was a particularly shameful episode in a life otherwise lived free from subsidizing bat crazy right wing religion and the lapse resonates these many years later with a mailbox full of promises to fulfill prayers for increasingly larger donations. It was then with justified askance that Self traipsed around an offer of a vicarious year racing in the mud and gloom of Belgium. Now the Self will readily admit to many unfulfilled desires, but being cold, wet and slimy somehow does not squeeze Liz Hurley out of the fantasy files despite Belgium being close to Amsterdam.

The central theme of these diaries from Dreamland is the 12K Lament:

The weather was bad but that was good.

The course was hard but that was good.

We rode to the course and that was good.

We raced really hard and I did the best I was able and my teammates helped me as best they were able. And that was good.

I came home tired to my bunk bed in a stone –wall house and took a bath after heating the water on a stove and that was good.

I allowed myself to eat some Frites without mayonnaise and they were good.

It is hard here but I know it will make me better and a really good team will pick me up if they just see that I am good.

And that will be good.

Please send more money as the prize lists here are not very good. But that is good too because it makes me harder and that is good.

Now, pursuing passion is important business and not to be trifled being what living the moment is the best anyone is offered. The perplex obtains when a quest for recognition subsumes the passion for at that point the dream becomes torment.

II.

Yellow Lines, Chivalry and Pro III Whiners

It was just good fortune that the one time Self drug himself to a Louisville Frostbike race chaos ensued. Rachel advised that the centerline rule would be enforced and of course the announcement was met with the usual "what is she going to do disqualify me, it’s a training race with no money," and "what does she think this is the Valley of the Sun."

Appropriately, the persistent violators were the Red Crosses, one of whom was asked to withdraw on three occasions. When confronted the criminals advised they would henceforth boycott races put on by Rachel and Mike unless they were given an apology. Oh yeah, welcome back.

Of course what with the Red Crosses not being allowed to race outside of the Kentucky metroplex and with the exception of New Albany not in any race with corners this was hardly an economic boycott, more a tantrum to be ignored.

The New Albany criterium was well organized and on a great course. It broke up early and the Estrogen Replacement’s Moles won.

Most of the other early season races were forgettable, but it is Self’s memory that Texas Road Kill (formerly Hegemony, formerly Girl’s Car Team) won most if not all and those they didn’t someone else did. It was all very exciting.

The District Crits were held on a difficult course and the forty-fifty race was down to twenty after three laps and you would of course not be reading this had Self not been one of the twenty. The others assured me they would have been there but for untoward events such as tacks on the course, sudden tar traps, and other riders getting in the way. Had Self been dropped the excuse list would have been longer and more credible. One of the Scientologists won and apparently that was reason enough for most of the Professors to pack it for the season, of which more to be discussed later.

The race with the most potential was the Rum a Dum Throwdown. As you know this event was preceded by the great don’t you disrespect Benji confrontation. Self drove the eight hour round trip in the hope of seeing Chain Ring Mueller take on some guy who said he’d show up wearing an Orange Bowl ring. As with no many things reality didn’t measure up and Chain Ring had to settle for a thirty plus victory.

The best action took place in the Cat III Phyllis Shafly Women Should Know Their Place Race. Michelle, Katy and another woman member of Lukemia entered the Cat III race. They were riding at the front, an event which apparently chagrined the boys from Notre Dame country-where ladies still attend St. Mary’s. "Can’t you just sit over there in tank tops and cheer for us MEN." So, pretty soon Michelle is next to Enmark to whom she suspected these bullies would and did defer. Self figured that Mich was three to two to money on the uphill finish and was surprised to see her sit up. Seems a few of the thugs had spent the race playing push butt complete with "didn’t you already have a race" and "what are you trying to prove, ____" and then threatened harm if they "got in the way." You just can’t find class like this in other sports.

Batesville is about an hour from Indy. It was an interesting course with corners. It was a nice day. So, of course there was one Scientologist, a few Estogen Replacments, no Handjobs, Tidy Bowl Waves, or Lukemia Linebackers. To their credit the Giests gave up lake activities for the day. Road Kill won with Blood Alcohol Contends Dean and Dr. Prostate filling out the bored. There was a heated sprint for valuable IRS Points and Self was able to secure last place, after a hard battle to stay behind JT.

As prelude to the next day Self observed that in the Cat III race the Flyweights’ designated sprinter was easily handled by a Dairy Farmer from Cincy. Stay on this story as it has legs.

The City with the Tree In The Courthouse Crit was held on a fast course with an uphill and downhill separated by two short sections. The City cooperated and Mike Moles went out of his way to get a get a great venue. So, this day again there were no Scientologists, Tidy Bowl Waves, Handjobs, or Lukemias. Mike and Jeanie smooze the Mayor, close the streets, and guarantee the purse and his fellow racers can’t drive an hour. "Well you know we are following our coach’s advise to do nothing but below lactate training until our next goal race, the CIBA Century." As per someone who actually races won and it probably was a Road Kill.

But for once the Master race was but prelude. By way of context a diversion is necessary. It is gainsay that the category on many racers licenses has no relation to their ability level. That said it is endlessly amusing to hear a Pro Cat III grouse that some Master Cat III took him to task. So, it was that at the Circleville Cat III Grifters Race the locals were chain whipped by guys who have practiced this scam for the best part of twenty –five years. But, surely it couldn’t happen here in Hooterville where racers can as Self was advised last year be left to police themselves. Yes, sort of like Buch Lite can be trusted to come down hard on the thieves who made him rich. Dreams do live in the face of truth.

Anyway, the Flyweights show up at Greensburg to do battle against the Dayton Aircrashers, a couple of Handjobs and the Dairy Farmer. The Batesville-Tree City races offered a Ben Franklin for the two day winner and the Farmer had transcendentally recruited Whitlock to his cause. So, it comes to pass that the Farmer gets in a break with two other guys, one of whom is the same Flyweight he dispatched the day before. Now, if your interest was winning a bike race you’d assume you’d want that break to come back or at least improve the odds, especially when you have last year’s revelation all loaded up with no where to go. Ah, but instead they sit and here comes the interesting part. Being as no one seems interested in racing Whitlock takes the opportunity to slow things down for the Farmer to whom he has never been introduced. As best Self can determine these on the fly affectations arise somewhat like mutterings to an evangelical, being as Self is pretty certain Joe has never been near mescaline. Regardless, he begins to slow the race down in the corners; and it is at that point that the story gets sketchy. Apparently it comes to pass that the Flyweights are content with the break, the Handjobs are as per clueless and the Aircrashers want to ramp. However, as we know in Cat III World it is impossible for a Team to make continual attacks to speed up a race, the only permissible tactic being to sit at the front and then scream for someone else to pull through. Unfortunately, Whitlock keeps getting in the way and when he won’t pull over one of the Crashers comes up and pushes him from behind, knocks him down and breaks his shifter. At this point it gets deliciously ugly.

Sitting on the sidelines with the Road Kill, Self sees Joe cut the course, a fireball of ripped shorts and blood. For the rest of this report the Chronicles rely upon a narration from a credible eye–witness. Seems that Joe approaches the miscreant and calmly inquires why the Crasher would do such a thing and invites him to meet after the race over a cup of decaf Lipton to discuss the matter. Unfortunately, the Crasher mistakes this peace entreaty for an invitation to a Chain Banging and violently eschews the offer of a handshake. Meanwhile the Crasher starts whining and complaining and in the confusion no one notices that the Cincy Sandbagger has dropped his break companions and by the time the Flyweights free the Rig the race is over.

Now, while Self is busy doing his disciplined warm up, two cokes and a ding-dong while watching rodents on wind trainers, the Flyweights approach and demand that something be done. So, ask how one guy can slow down an entire field on a course wide enough to land a small jet. Then suggest that if they were content with the break why wouldn’t they want it slowed down. Finally point out that the day before Self was parked on the third corner and heard their entire team yelling at each other to brake in the corners to let the break get away. Finally threw out a few Grantisms:

There are several ways to control a race. Blocking is the least effective.

One guy can’t block a race if you don’t let him.

Send your guys up to the break and use this blocking to your advantage.

What is different about today. Cat III races are always crash fests.

And finally:

Why would you want to race IIIs anyway.

In the Cat II race there was no braking, no blocking, no fights and a disgusting minimum of cursing and complaining. It was awful and even getting in the second break for tenth just couldn’t make up for the pitiful lack of expelled bitterness.

III.

Sun Dialers Redux

The recent Velonews has an interview with the new Head Fed. Right after he gets on top of the project to bring home more international medals he is going to get around to serving the membership. He will even meet with the renegade organization that controls racing in Colorado provided all other rebellions participate. One of these insurgent organizations is in Oregon and it sanctioned the recent Masters Race at the Cascade Classic while the Feds sanctioned the Pro Men and Women races. The Fed officials made it quite clear that non-elite racers would continue to be treated like choirboys in Boston.

MKA and Rican shined on Nationals after winning the Tandem TT so as to defend Labor’s Title in Bend.

As a result of last year’s women’s boycott of the nighttime criterium the promoter accommodated by giving the Pedalers of Charm the Masters’ time slot. The promoter’s reward for this indulgence was that thirty-three Charmers showed up to race the sunset. The hundred twenty-four Masters got to watch.

The next day’s circuit race is conducted on a seven-mile course that includes a one-mile climb. The Masters do ten laps and the ladies less. They started the Charmers a few minutes after the Masters. On lap six or so the Masters lap the Sundialers who have not yet worked out the day’s protocol. At that time the Demonseed and another Master were two minutes in the lead and three others a few hundred meters in front of the closing group. The Masters slowed down as they approached the time bonus climb, and as MKA and Rican prepared to ramp the motorcycle appeared and ordered the men to stand down as the Sun Dialers had finished tanning and were ready to launch. Now, it needs to be noted that there were twenty-one miles left in the Men’s race and they were closing on the leaders. The previous year MKA closed a minute forty-five on Demonseed in one lap and besides Demonseed was already minutes down in the overall. It was the other guys dangling just ahead who presented the threat. MKA explains this to the official who retorts that if MKA goes past the motorcycle he will be pulled. MKA then suggests that he also neutralize the leaders and is told that they are already too far away to be caught and that Labor’s race is over.

So, the Sun Dialers crank it up and dash past the Men who are then told they must not go faster than the Dialettes, all nineteen of whom were now metronomes at seventeen mph. Apparently, a considerable debate ensued as to whether the men would have to further reduce their speed so as to let the other ten ladies get back their lap. After much angst it was determined that if the men waited that long they would not be able to finish before the pros started and besides a cloud was forming and the Blue Shirts figured the dropped ladies would be given whatever spot they occupied when the sun dial shut down.

So, the Masters got to ride a lap and a half at seventeen while the breaks were not restricted.

When confronted after the race the Head Blue Shirt explained that the Charmers were in a USCF National Points Series race and the Masters were not even in a race recognized by the Feds. Then, just for punctuation the Charmers protested that they hadn’t needed any help to pass the Masters and didn’t appreciate being given the handicap. When it was pointed out they had already lost seven miles they advised that Masters just don’t understand the politics of pro racing. And who can argue that truth.

Self has survived Nixon, Regan, Bush and probably the Lite version. If they can’t suck the fun out life there is good reason to believe the nimidiots in Colorado Springs can’t ruin cycling.

Ride fast and take chances.

Bill Stone