THE RACING CHRONICLES

Just Another USCF Savage Burn; and Witness to the Crest or How Labor Came to Love the Jarheads

Labor Swilling at Jack Fry's

I look back on my youth with great fondness,
But I would not recommend it
As a working model for others.

The prevailing quality of life in America-by any methods
of measuring-was inarguably freer and more
politically open under Nixon than it is in the evil
year of 2002

Hunter S. Thompson
Kingdom of Fear

Just Another Savage USCF Burn

My vow was breath, and breath a vapor is…

Passionate Pilgrim
W. Shakespeare

Your vows, put in two scales will even weigh,
and both as light as tales.

Midsummer's Night Dream, Act 3, Sc. 2

As you know Hunter S. Thompson grew up in that part of Louisville known as the Highlands. The Self knows the Highlands only because it is the location of Jack Fry's, even in Self's youth a place where a young man could sit at the bar, scowl at whiskey and place a bet. It was part of a rather obtuse triangle the other points of which being the downtown banks and Pendennis Club and the Louisville Country Club and surrounding housing of Indian Hills. Though there has been a proliferation of gated sixth class cities in the northeast section of Jefferson County the belief that all decisions in which fortunes are to be stolen are executed in this triangulated area gives succor to the Self's satisfying sickness that Tammany and then Robert Moses represent the high water mark of City Politics.

It is fitting then that within this irredentism a consortium of city officials, sponsors and selfless volunteers ran the slanted table of putting on a beyond expectations Master Nationals only to find that you can't beat a game where the pockets are rigged to hold only snooker balls. Now, normally the Self would be all gleeful with gloat and reminding that way back in 1999 after Ft. Walmart the Chronicles had warned that the USCF's working statement was "A Lie is Almost Always Better than the Truth." The Racing Chronicles: Oney, Huey, 1999). However, Dave Stewart simply worked too hard, too long and too successfully such that not even the Chronicles can find even black comedy in this too many times told tale. Nonetheless, we'll try.

More perhaps than any other writer/director David Mamet has explored the art of the grift and if you sit very still and listen very quietly you can participate in the moment when the marks' unrequited need for someone he can trust causes him to do what he knows he should not. House of Games, and more esoterically The Usual Suspects. This is not to be confused with the easier task of taking money from a greedy shuffler who is gleefully certain that he is giving the business to some other chump. Heist. But what always fascinated are the ravaged sick souls who come back for more, much like those who remarry their former spouse.

Now, granted the Self has had the advantage of spending thirty years negotiating with pox faced insurance adjusters and defense lawyers with laser whitened teeth and thus learned long ago that trust is something that is going to eventually cost you a lot of money and in matters more personal a lot of anguish and grief. Nevertheless, not even the Self had the prescience to connect that super grifter stuff would be found in the Head Fed whose career was made selling Marlboros, Skoal, quart bottles of Ballentine Ale and eighty ounce cups of iced down simple syrup. Such skepticism probably would have been too much for even Mencken.

Besides, the Feds already had the money and except for wanting to get out of town before being found out, what was to be gained by praise, the renewed vow to return next August and the floating of the idea of also hosting Senior Nationals. These are not the actions of your normal grifter. No, they are far too savage, much too heinous to be the work of anyone short of a real rat bastard to whom horrible things were done in the way past. Perhaps he was made to drink sugar free Fanta or forced to smoke generics.

Nevertheless, it is an entirely other thing to expose yourself again to such foulness; and it is here that the affair took on the semblance of black comedy.

Shortly after learning that Natz had been stolen away to Park City, of which more later, Dave Stewart entertained a call from Mr. Slurpy who extended apologies for his underlings who had not been entirely forthcoming in telling Dave that Natz were definitely going to return even while the fax machine was returning the agreement with Park City. Apparently, this Matt guy was going to get a firm admonishment, no doubt for not lying with cover. But the coup was offering Collegiate Nationals. Now, that is really a prize as no doubt the City would be all over the prospect of having a few hundred college kids taking over the downtown hot springs hotels at ten to a room and loaded down with their own rice makers and blenders. Oh course the City would have to pave a few more roads, provide a few hundred police and completely block off River Road and the Park for a few days; but hey each kid could be counted on to spend five dollars a day.

The Self is pretty certain that at every Las Vegas Cement Convention some gentleman has awakened with his pants down and his four hundred dollar gambling stake gone only to find that the lady's cell phone number is for the local 7-11. Now, this is no big deal and you got to figure it at three to one that Big Belly Bennett was, in the near past, just such an unsuspecting sap what with having the need of a woman so as to explain the absence of maternal love that underscores his compulsions to eat an entire Caesar's buffet and then drop a few mil. It is however, unlikely that all but your most craven and repressed Republican would, upon running into her the next evening, accept an invitation for a night out prefaced by the explanation that she had needed to leave early because her mother had fallen out of her wheelchair and of course the extra money was to pay the hospital; because in Vegas the hospital, as she, required up front payment.

The Chronicles are nothing if not shallow and there is a certain sense of justice that attends when realistic hard driving businessmen find to their chagrin that handshake agreements with men who are infinite and endless liars are as meaningless as "vows made in wine." All's Well that Ends Well, Act 2, Sc2. Nonetheless, it was all too much to hope that Louisville would entertain the offer to host the college kids; but it would have made for a better story. Apparently, one savage burn was enough.

Stupid Week
Witness to the Crest

You buy the ticket
You take the ride

HST

(Editors note: In the highly unlikely event that some reader is familiar with the works of Dr. Gonzo please note that the management at Truesport had nothing to do with the perfidy of Mr. Stone in pilfering what took many years of drug abuse for HTS to create.)

Jarhead Loves Labor

Being Labor in Milwaukee after the first days of Stupid Week 2003 was a wonderful thing. We had won four races in three days. Butch was leading the overall, and there were six more days to heckle and pester, an assignment the Self took to quite well. No combination of words, music or memory could do justice to the experience. Labor was riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.

But, when we pick up the story a mere four days later Labor is sitting in the parking lot of the Sheboygan hair saloon. The music was now karaoke from the Wolverine Bar and the memories were no longer lingering interludes but instead mind ravaging regrets that nothing short of an induced coma could suppress. Labor was so far removed from the Pound end of the conundrum that it could not even maintain a good Flail. And now one of the Jarheads walked over to a sugarless Hawkstar and advised that Labor could be pretty good if it learned how to race. Hawk could only nod. That beautiful wave had crested and fallen back so violently that it seemed Labor would be sucked into the dead fish pile that accumulates near the sewage pipe that feeds Lake Michigan. Dave and Stickey went off to a Brewers game. Self supposed that going to a baseball game was similar to an induced coma.

Such was Self's state that as he entered the Wolverine he walked right past the quarter pin ball machines and declined a most hospitable invitation to assist a well chained lady in leading the crowd in a final hundred choruses of "Why don't we just get drunk and screw." It was that desperate.

How did it come to this? It all started at Holy Hell, five laps of wind blown heat with climbs. As the race started before Noon the Hawkstar could be excused forgetting sunglasses, sun screen, gloves, water, GU and Hansens. No amount of espressi can ameliorate the effects of getting up before the Self usually goes to bed. So, it is understandable that Hawk did not hear the ten minute instruction and discussion that the Finish Line was not on the five mile loop but on a short climb a couple miles after you pass the lap truck and turn left. The Self dropped out four laps early in order to get a good view of the finish. All things went to plan and Hawk was in the winning break with the Jarhead and Johnny Van Halen. It was an uphill finish and thus all Labor or it was until a Sparrow's brain took over and Hawk sprinted for the lap truck, and won. He managed to recover and latch before the finishing climb but could not close when the Jarhead attacked.

Regardless, second was well second and quite an accomplishment what that Starbucks was not even open when Hawk left for Holly Hell, and tomorrow was the Lakefront.
The Lakefront is five miles of climb false flat, climb, fast back to the first climb and repeat until numb. The Self to great surprise rode the climbs at the front for four laps and inadvertently caused quite a panic. Being what Self had never before been even in sight of the front of a Stupid Week climb everyone in back of him figured they were at the back of the race and thus would accelerate knowing full well they were about to be dropped. This of course caused a ridiculous increase in speed. Regardless, John Van Halen went faster than everyone else and Labor didn't and again there was a sprint dust up.

The next was another two hour drive before dawn to the Oneida Reservation and Casino outside Green Bay. Seems that Titletown is so busy that it can only shut down the two blocks of the criterium course for the Dreamer race. The rest race a course so easy that even the Indy zip code racers would drive ten miles to attend, five times around an eight mile course with four turns and big ring hill. A break of twelve developed in the cross wind and it contained a couple Jar Heads and Butch and Striky. Being what the finish was a mile downwind sprint and Butch having lost a field sprint the last time Bush Lite told the truth, this dance card could be written in indelible ink. But, after rolling through the finish a disgruntled Butch was shaking his head and muttering drat. Seems a Jarhead had attacked on the climb and others didn't follow and Labor was fourth and this was now getting seriously ugly. Sheboygan was to be the crescendo.

The Self tires of race reports easily so let's just leave it that at Sheybogan a four man break rode away without Labor. The recriminations were to follow. It seemed that some rider was not respecting another rider and if this wasn't bad enough another rider was sulking because of some slight or another. Now, while the Self does not fancy himself an Agent Provocateur busy with his reticule (Conrad) his bent side does, in the absence of outright anarchy, find interlude in the midst of others' dissension and distress. But this was our Team and arguably worth fixing. However, the Self knows his limits and when a fix requires assuaging feelings of grown men engaged in stoopid sport he was dead up against them. Anyway, this situation called for a brain not constrained by ordinary notions of decency and emotional need.

"Rog, Labor is breaking up. It is all dissemble, work jumble, right wing radio speak. It is about feelings, disrespecting, and points, all the time points. And it ruined a promising night at a Maritime Biker bar."

"Billy, your logorrhea must stop. Answer me in simple sentences. Where are you staying?

"At the Embassy Suites."

"Eating?"

"Restaurants while we watch the Tour. Downer Ave. with girls in short clothes and the Coffee Shop on the Lakefront with fresh baked goods and that stuff."

"And I suppose everyone is drinking mineral water and six dollar soy lattes with no cal whip."

"No, I use cream and double whip."

"This is not about you, it is about you making me, Daddy Labor, look ridiculous and MKA cannot be made to look ridiculous."

"Can we not revisit the Godfather; I still haven't gotten over Adaptation, which was by the way about what?

"Enough, here is what you do. You have taken these idiots out of there natural element. Immediately, lock them out of their rooms. Throw their stuff out the door. You know the seedy hotels around the Airport, the ones with the fantasy suites. Book them one room in Mike's Motel, the one where you have to pay for towels and sheets. Do not pay for the use of the 12 inch television and use the porn lock. Tell them it stays off until Labor wins.
Allow them nothing but gas station coffee and I want you to hide Hawk's entire stash of Starbuck's Crème and Espresso Cold Drinks. Drink them all if you have to."

"And I don't want to hear another word about points. Labor is not about points. Leave it Chips Black, it's his life."

"Now, go away, I have important work to do."

So, it was that Labor arrived at Kenosha. There was no team meeting, thank goodness as the Self had already been to a business meeting this year and had found it altogether lacking. Besides, when feelings take center you can all too often expect a bad decision to follow shortly. Anyway, bike racing is best served by the normal combination of caffeine, adrenaline, anger, sugar and fear; and this pretty much described the Mike's Motel contingent.

Brief Race Report: Kenosha is four corners. The thirty mile race was over in sixty two minutes. There were constant attacks. Labor was in everything. With two to go someone was off the front with Striky who then came back when he figured it was doomed. At this point the Self was right next to Stanky who seeing the sole Cheesehead shouted "fornicate this" and dashed across as Scooter chasing a rabbit she brought in for play. He dropped the Cheeser and stayed away. And just to show that Labor was back we got this upon interview from Mr. Points Chips Black. "I came out of the last corner figuring this was cake and was shocked to see that Mike (Stanky) was about to win. I was watching everything and I don't know how he got away." Well, simple, HE CHEATED.

Unfortunately, but not unexpected even the win was not going to clean up this mess. The Self spent the better part of a lifetime surrounded by pouters and sulkers, purulent users of the shun as control and to whom so many disappointment. The Self recognizes these disasters but ways of responding are well learned and thus the tendency is to try again to fix things; but the things are not the problem just the projection. Those who get paid to know these things give some simple advice. RUN AWAY, NOW, and FAR. And so the Self did.

Besides that night Stickey and Hawkstar pulled Self into their room. They were totally sick after listening to the soundtrack of Fear and Loathing non stop for six hours and had consumed four bottles of two buck chuck. They reminded that Self had told them the American Dream was to be found in Milwaukee and expected that all these lamentations were not helping them find the Dream revealed. This was not going to be just another lame screw up. Hard as it would be the Self was going to have to join with them and have fun. And so we did.

Fortunately, the episode was not without farce. At some point a couple guys from San Diego Excel snarfed that Labor was they had observed in dissemble. The Self's staircase wit only now permits the then not spoken retort that "you would not think your Team could see that much from the back of each race; assume the pulled riders made the observations."

In the end Hawk and Srickey were in the break at Whitefish and were two and three or something. Hawk when interviewed on the Final Stage waxed Lombardi thanking Caffiene Dream, the Jar, Dick Nixon, the Savage Burn and all his Psychotic Rat Bastard Teammates, especially the Self, described as the Venerable Reverend Billy Stone. Hawk vowed to return in the incarnation of a monster Horatio Alger, a Man on the move, and just sick enough to be totally… confident. Fortunately Sticky then snatched the microphone. Butch won the overall, pretty much by himself, and Mike Carro won the hearts and minds of those who know anything about bike racing. It would be nice to be like Mike but he gets up at around four and gets to the course before dawn and then rides until dark. The Self's destiny is flaildom.

Finally, Skippy, Professor DePauw and a guy named Charles or Chuck came for some races. Skippy asked that they no longer be referred to as Area or Zip Code racers. Okay.

Figure 1 Lakefront: Back to Having Fun


CODA

Who steals my purse steals trash-'tis something-nothing,
'Twas mine, 'tis his-'tis something-nothing
'Twas mine, 'tis him, and has been slave to thousands'
But he who filches from my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him
And makes me poor indeed.

WS, Othello, Act 3, Sc 2

Earlier this summer someone forwarded a link and offered that the 12K Dream was not in fact the creation of Chris Hipp. The purveyor of this theft is a Manhattan hairdresser who shamelessly headlines himself as "The Original 12K Dreamer." At this time the Hippstar was laid up with pulmonary emboli and various broken, broken and bruised parts that prevented him from his life's work of squatting on breaks and disrespecting Division III not quite professionals. It was feared that the loss of his lifetime's shining accomplishment would prove too much; and in fact upon learning of the theft he was reported to have put down the industrial tub of Hazen Daz that passes for lunch. It was grim.

Of course the website competes for Truesport and apparently is unable to attract any writers capable of anything but family humorous articles with catchy titles such as "First Time Gluing" and "Memories of Falling at a Streetlight When Unable to Unclip a Toe strap." So, it is understandable that the editors would grasp as the opportunity to have the "Original Dreamer" on their Banner. Besides, they probably know that Hipp forgot to Trademark his creation.

The real insult however is that those who read Mr. Dreamer will come away believing that Mr. Original is anything but a Dreamer. He writes those exercises in self indulgence in which victory eludes him only because of the Fates or an illness, or a sacrifice or the affects of toxic hairspray: his are those riveting in the middle of the action narratives in which every squeeze of the bottle is tension itself and of course he uses Watts Per Heartbeat as punctuation.

He takes false shadows for true substances.

WS Titus Andronicus

He is also a coach and thus joins the legions that perpetuate the fraud that a slug can grow legs. It is the same fatal flaw that attends the Velofluff infomercials. They saturate publications and even OLN with promises that potential can be exceeded without giving a thought to the physic damage that will attain to all those pathetic seekers who believe that a little speed can be purchased at $100 a month and whole lot more for a grand. They sell Dystopia.

Next time the Chronicles will take a look at Master Nationals and examine the history from Salt Lake City's succession, President Buchanan's negotiations with the Terrorist Brigham Young, Olympic bribes and the latest thieving act.

Ride Fast and Take Chances.