THE RACING CHRONICLES: Wheaties Boxes, Epistrophy, and All Politics

If dreams are like movies

Then memories are films about ghosts

You can never escape

You can just move south down the coast.

And the price of a memory

Is the memory of the sorrow it brings

Counting Crows

Pain often marks the place self knowledge

and growth can happen,

much in the same way that fear dies.

Naomi Remen

I.

Wheaties Boxes

As you'll recall before Monica Seles was stabbed and before Jennifer Capriati had the good sense to stop living her father's life the two met in the semi's of the U.S. Open. Even then the only good reason to watch a woman's tennis match was in the vain hope that either or both had forgotten to wear underwear; however, the grunting and groaning did at least sound XXX rated and thus Self's twenty second tennis tolerance was suspended. (There is, of course, no imaginable reason to watch men's tennis.)

Before he found non-filtered Camels Dear old Dad had been a ranked junior prodigy and more importantly had been responsible for calling the bookie for Grandfather and the gaggle of Uncles who arrived at the door every weekend for pinochle. So it was that when it appeared Jen was going to upset Monica, Self looked to Dad for the expected confirmation. Instead he muttered Wheaties. "You want Wheaties?" "No, it's just that it is not likely Seles will lose." "Will you elaborate?"

"It is hard to beat someone whose picture has been on a Wheaties Box. You don't get there by losing."

As usual he was proved correct.

So, it came that Self was listening to the Louisville Auto Mart's Bobro detail his second stage taper toward that One Day in July when all his meticulous, compulsive disordered preparation would permit a detonation on that Hill in that arid forest outside Spokane that would propel him, the perfectly prepared athlete, to a long overdue Jersey.

"My power meter wattage tells it all. I am producing more watts per micro grams of lean tissue than a hamster on meth. I have less body fat than a Battan survivor, and my muscle fibers are now perfectly synchronized such that they fire no more and no less than necessary at any given load demand. I know exactly the heart rate at which my body produces a nanomilligram more of lactate than I can convert into downward pedal motion and have precisely determined the amount of ATP that must be spared. I have measured my insulin sensitivity at LT plus and thus know exactly the right formula of protein, malodextrin, B vitamins, riboflavinoids, preparation H and poppy extract that best potentates the passage of glucose across the blood-cell membrane and thus enables my prodigious mitochondria to fire like a Malibu Beach House engulfed in a Santa Anna wind. Those West Coast guys got nothing."

So, it happened that Daddy Mercer fell into the scene and Self asked him about his preparation. "Well, you know the guys who have won usually win again because they are just winners and do you have any rat poison as my heart is working double time, and I don't mean Union double time, and I need to slow it down before the next race." Then Bob frowns and explains that you don't want to race more than sixty minutes a week before "One Day in July" because it will cause your body to rot, to which Mercer says: "You are going to race three hours in three days, tapering is what coaches sell, it's got nothing to do with getting your face on a Wheaties Box."

Spokane has coffee shops, hotels with OLN that connect with the bike path that you ride two minutes to the downtown criterium course, and a bookstore/café located on the straight away. Jane arrives with a bike box that requires a U-Haul and directs self to her Internet special hotel. It is not on the river, but is abutted by a massage parlor and a pay before you eat Denny's. The desk clerk has her reservation but explains that Jane had not specified how many hours she would need the room and wanted to know if she desired to have the TV turned on and if so the fantasy videos were five dollars an hour, twenty all day. There was no extra charge for Self unless he needed a towel and planned to stay the night. Self had found his comfort zone and offered to exchange Hilton room.

In contrast to Janey, MKA arrives with a wheel in hand, a toothbrush hanging from his pocket, and a plastic bag with shorts, shoes and jersey. "Labor comes to race, not dress for dinner." "Yeah, Rog, but a lot of guys do bring a bike." "O'yeah, you got Ann's cell number and did you bring money or a credit card."

Self hears a knock and assumes it is room service, but no, Spready Hahn is at the door explaining that he has run out of space in his room and needs a place to glue tires, change cogs, and besides the blow drying of his frame tends to bother David. Cancelled the room service and left for the races.

Self finished in top half of field only because half were kind enough to get dropped. Never saw the front but was advised that Wheaties rule had prevailed as LuDuc had won. Daddy Mercer and another guy bridged to a third guy and Mercer earned another cereal box. General Mills long ago retired Bostick's picture and he did not fail this test. Heggstar tried to lead out a teammate and by mistake ended up first at the pay window. There was a minor bubble up in the forty plus but exceptions also prove the rule. Finally, in the thirty plus Kenny Williams won the package insert and also demonstrated that cereal stardom and magnanimity are only sometimes coincident.

Seems Mr. Williams is a Washington legend who like Hooterland's own Ben Sharp was once just a halcion induced sleep from the 12K Dream, of which more later. During the race the humble Mr. Williams had been lead out for primes by his teammate. After he took the win the announcer mentioned that HumbleNot's teammate had laid it down for him; but alas you cannot throw big enough softballs to narcissism. "Well, actually I had taken the primes pretty easily and while I knew he had lead me out for those at his maximum I had a lot more. So, just in case someone else had held back, though having beaten these guys up for my entire life I was pretty certain that couldn't happen I nevertheless decided it best to go it alone and just told him to stay out of my way. Besides, if he had wanted to help he could have crashed out some guys. Oh, yeah did I mention that I was once Elite National Champion and that I now am a full time coach and my website is www.pompousitywins.snob."

But what pray of the Auto Mart Hegemony? Well, they proved another anxiom, viz. frogs do well in Hooterland ponds but fare poorly in seawater. Oft times the Chronicles have heard the Swopers comment that local races were just training rides for their harder weekday efforts. However, to his credit the Perfectly Prepared One said he wasn't a bang on sprinter and the always dead on Eric commented that we had nothing like this at home. Fortunately, Mikey got his foot stuck in his mouth long enough to explain that "Iwouldabeeninthebreak, but I didn't think those California guys could stay away."

Jane was seventh or so in her race. Then the thirty plus women were given the marquee, sleep in, eat, polish and buff up marquee time slot. All seven put on a great display and finished before the sundial shut down. MAYBE IF THEY PAID EXPENSES?

Labor was four, four, eight and something and was not pretty.

The road racecourse was hard, and hot, and chipped and sealed, and really hard and really hot and really melting and Death Valley, lip searing, mind altering desert miserable tar boiled hot. Spready was second. Some others finished. Perfectly Prepared was a victim of the Chip and Seal, flat, and whatever. Swope Mega Magnet Sugar Daddy Brad saved it all for the road race, the climbs, the steeps, his territory. He flailed and was hauled off in ice packets talking about meeting Jim Morrison in the dune.

Self put himself in feed zone. Ugly place it was. Somehow became surrounded by a bevy of the loathsome Flower Maidens. Noticed that Heggstar was scratching at his post race IV bandage and asked if perchance Self paid him for coaching next year he could instruct on that packed own blood transfusion technique. Had expected the explosion and resulting expansion of space; however, again underestimated the corrupting affect of money and instead was asked at what price.

Every year someone mentions that "so and so is retiring." Now, Self has never been even close to a "work ethic" and expects it would be a terrifying place indeed. However, it seems to be general knowledge that retirement presumes either a career or at least a job. So, am pretty certain that a person cannot retire from a dream.

Thus, it was with initial curiosity that Self overheard a feed zoner waxing non eloquent about his impending retirement. A glance over the shoulder brought into view a particularly virulent strain of misanthropic protoplasm previously identified as Stan. He was speaking to a young companion in stage whisper.

"I have done about all that a person can expect to achieve in bike racing. You saw my strength in the Crit when I bridged solo (attached to eight other guys) to the break. That is because I have been riding on the track and you just can't imagine how strong I am on the track and after this I am going to the track nationals and will most likely win what I want to win and then I will with a deserved equanimity hang up the carbon wheels. I have a desire now to conquer mountains, to hang upside down on the edge of oblivion, saved only by my will and imagination. I will probably be picked up as a model for a free climbing magazine. My chiseled mature features are what they like, and you know they can airbrush the rough spots and the blue pre cancerous skin doesn't show if you shoot with a filter."

Anyway, drove over to the hill with a cooler of bottles. For four days Self had not so much as looked at a Blue Shirt. But, you just knew it had to happen. Was handing up the bottles to whomever-including the Swopers - and then in the break group from which Spready eventually attacked for second, some guy said, "if anyone takes a bottle, I'm going to turn him in." Of course, pretty soon the Super Official Blue Shirt Lady shows up and announces that she was disqualifying anyone on Self's Team. Told her it was kind of hot and maybe she should take one and give it to the motorcycle guy who had just fallen over. "Not until I get the license number off your rental car." Busted in the Aryan nation by Mark Furman's bride, definitely, time to go.

The Wheaties theorem was validated in the Road Races as LaDuc, Mercer, and Bostick repeated and a life form of whom more later took apart the forty plus field.

When last heard the Hegemony was talking about getting the desert rats out to the Frostbike Spring Training Series.

II.

Epistrophy

1.

Email to Homeboys

Subject: Chris Walker, aka Skywalker, Mutant, Reptile. Forty Plus Master Devastator.

Place: Hanging in the sky between Spokane and Portland

Short note. I have seen a man arise from a coffin, a man mutated on Bikini Atoll from a radiated coitus between a salamander and a hamster, a man with minus zero body fat, a man whose lycra shorts hang open at the hem, a man who eschewed water in a fifty one mile broiler, a man who when finished asked if he had time to do another 34 lap to cool down before going to the airport, a man who could share a seat with a multi chinned Midwestern Mary Kay saleswoman and not be crowded. You know him as Mr. Living Dead, the Vampire, Moonwalker. With reverence he is Mr. Death Took a Holiday, Mr. Body of Dorian Gray. MKA latched to him early and at thirty-one miles cracked like Waterford crystal subjected to country music. It was brutal, freaky, and as MKA bowed to him, Mr. Escaped Death asked the flight attendant if he could please have some sand to drink as the cup of water he drank during the race had left him sort of bloated.

I have seen death resurrected and I am shaky.

You may fear Kaiser Sose but I do not want to meet a man who can't make a reflection in a carnival mirror.

Moonwalker is proof that Death is not the worst thing to face.

2.

Paris jazz patrons long anticipated live performances by the Thelonius Monk. However, his first concert was uneven, discordant, ragged, and peripatetic. But, the next day he was precise, logical, and not constrained by the diatonic scale. He showed again that the playing of jazz requires thought, action, interaction and reaction in spaces that give pause to any notions that time is finite and that movement and cognition are disparate and that the unpredictability of such expansive moments gives glorious lie to conceits that preparation compels result.

Unfortunately, the sweetness of logical imprecision was for this plane ride lost on Rog whose musical allusion stagnated upon hearing Jim Morrison trying to get to the other side. Thus, decided to accept that MKA had endured a life changing loss and offered up the wisdom of Dr. Naomi Remen. Rog, there are a lot of things that happen to us that we just shrug off and don't require a lot of our time to reconcile; however, at sometime we encounter a loss, (***)

" that becomes a part of us and has altered our lives so profoundly that we cannot go back to the way we were before. Something in us can transform such suffering into wisdom. The process of turning pain into wisdom often looks like a sorting out. First we experience everything. Then one by one we let things go, the anger, the blame, the sense of injustice, and finally even the pain itself until all we have left is a deeper sense of the value of life and a capacity to live it."

"Or Rog, you could just order up another ten of those little bottles of gin and pass out."

3.

After two days of riding up Mount Bachelor in rain and snow, avoiding disqualification at registration and watching Spready and Rican eat non stop, Labor Power was sitting on milk crates watching the lady racers warming up in their portable air conditioned tents while eating catered cucumber sandwiches. The first stage of the Cascade Classic is a two- kilometer time trial up a thirty percent grade. The start times were determined by first names and thus Self had a lot of time to listen and torment. A few riders in Spready turns the best time and lamented it would have been better had he been able to use a professional quality hair dryer on his frame and had he removed his big chain ring and replaced the left brake lever with a plastic non-functioning look a like. About that time a Marin County resident known to Self only as the Riddler rode up, unfolded his portable golf seat and announced that he had beaten Chris by a nanosecond-a result portended by his percipience in removing all but two chain ring bolts, the grommets from his water bottle mounts, shaving his head, and taking a high colonic that morning. As they were patting each other on the back and explaining that the key was to stay seated and turn high revs three beats below maximal temperature MKA started standing, sans electronic equipment. For the next few minutes the Riddler nodded knowingly, unctuously pontificating that "you can't keep that intensity standing, he'll load up, a shame, but you can never get him to listen." MKA arrived, head down and the Riddler was ready to console until he learned that his time had only been bested by fifteen seconds, at which time he muttered something about getting his girls ready, picked up his seat and went away. About then Self inquired if you had to complete the time trial and did Spready think it would be best to take one or two bottles, and of course Self missed the start and thus gave a time trial all the respect it deserved.

MKA was again terpsichorean.

Labor went on to win all four stages with MKA and Spready tying for first and the Rican taking Third. However, it was the Maritime Merchants Indemnity's Demonseed Beamon who, in the nighttime downtown Bend crit put on the best show of the weekend. He went solo for half of the race and by the time the sunset had earned $500.00 in primes. He finally submitted to Rican's relentless chasing with a lap to go and MkA easily won his second stage of the day. But, for once the Master crit was merely prelude. As you will read the ladies just stole the night.

III.

All Politics

The front window at the Starbucks in Bend provides a keen view of the race. You can also eat a fresco and watch the races on one of the televisions hung on the sidewalks. Two hours before the master's race Self purchased a caffeine injection and looked to sit down. However, all the chairs and tables had been commandeered by the AutoTrader.com ladies who were using all of six of the twenty chairs. Self was informed that the chairs and tables were needed for an important team meeting. When it was suggested by another that perhaps the paying customers could use the chairs until the rest of the ladies arrived the Team Manager informed that racing was a business for these ladies and they did not need the stress of having to put up with amateurs and tourists.

The Lady Pedalers of Charm spent a half hour at the line protesting that the water in the first turn through which eighty masters had raced without incident had to be completely dried before they could begin. About two laps in a blind geriatric dog put his paw into the road about a hundred meters from the pack and the resultant crash caused two ladies to crack fingernails and a third to scratch her new water bottle. After two laps of protest they stopped at the line. A séance was then conducted and it was determined that someone named Nicole had channeled through the Auto girls that she would not want the race to continue because it was too dangerous to race under the streetlights and well had they really known that an advertised nighttime criterium was going to be held after sunset they would never have left the safety of the Starbucks. When the local Oregonians protested that they wanted to race, it was pointed out that the locals merely had jobs and families about which to worry and that if the race continued they simply would not show up for the last two stages. For some unimaginable reason the Promoter did not call this bluff.

All things considered the boycott was probably a good thing as with it being dark there would have been no way to time the race what with sundials not working after dark.

The men pros then raced presumably because they don't get the Nicole Channel.

The protest continued the next day as the Ladies permitted a rider not in contention to solo two minutes ahead of the sundialing field. Never one to miss an opportunity to fan a fire, Self used his press card and asked an Auto Girl and Verizon Babe why the charade. Demonstrating that not even Charm Pedalers can resist the Chronicles they retorted: "Well, it was a race and someone went fast and won." Not to be put off Self suggested that had they been going fast the Masters would not have lapped them. Punctuated with appropriate scornful scowls the Cell Phone Lady told, "professional racing is often 'all politics', but if you come to the Brewery Crit tomorrow you will see some real speed."

Channeling, protests, sit in, sundial races, and politics. It is just a shame it all had to end.

Ride Fast and Take Chances.

Bill Stone