The Racing Exploits of Team Labor Power
w/ Max Kash Agro

PHOTO GALLERY
Photos provided by MKA

The Cherry Lead Out -- Labor pulling the Hippo Train, with grisled, gnarled, lizard-like Labor Sprinter locked on infiltrator Ricky Sqweeker's wheel.

Labor Foiled! Sqweeker blasted out of the last turn, leaving a dejected Hipp Star in his dust. Seconds later, Sqweeker' flipped up in the air like a rag doll when the Blue Coat on the motorbike cut him off.

Ding Dong's Handiwork -- Sqweeker pushing through the pain while the EMS fill out the forms and the Blue Coats scramble to find that waiver.

Labor Thunder! Labor's John Psycho Wiko explodes with rapture as he powers around Armand Rahm and Perturbo Rogers to take the Vee at Madhatter's Beach. Labor's national champion G-Spot tucked in behind his teammate for fourth. In the distance, a skunky McFiddy wobbles in with excuses aplenty.

Blue Coats Maim Sqweeker, Squelch Revolt by Deeking Labor. Madhatter's Beach, CA.

Madhatter's Beach, CA (Sept. 7, 2003). Postal Pritty Ricky Sqweeker nearly bought it today when a hypoglycemic Blue Coat on a Beemer took him out. Sqweeker had just crossed the finish line ahead of Labor's Der Hipp Star in the 40 plus criterium when the Blue Coat’s Angel abruptly swerved to his right, purportedly to fetch a half-eaten jelly donut from the gutter. Sqweeker slammed into the right rear saddle bag of the Evel Kneivel, flipping up into the air like a rag doll and splatting on the blacktop like an eggplant. A hushed crowd was relieved to see the ace sprinter sit up.

"After winning I turned to laugh in Hipp Star's face, who had guaranteed a Labor victory,” Sqweeker recalled later that day. "Evel was ahead of us. Next thing I know I’m free falling without my silks onto a bed of punji sticks. Pinwheeling. It was silly. Dude, can’t a rock star celebrate anymore without a ding dong trying to take you down?”

The collision occurred within eyesight of a beachfront playground frequented by pre-adolescent adrenaline junkies renown for their interest in any sport that includes the risk of decapitation. Said one Gen X’er, “Dude, it was sick. The bike just exploded like a light bulb striking a pylon. He [Sqweeker] caught major air, like Bestwick on the Vert, way rad, except pretty lame with the tricks. Should’ve nerved up with a tailwhip flair, at least a corkscrew. And, Dude, what’s with that landing? He totally cratered.”

The Blue Coats responded quickly by dusting the dirt and ants off the jelly donut, which they gave to their delirious colleague, along with a can of Dew. “It gets hot out there. You work up quite a thirst. I was feeling kind of shocky, what with my low sugar. I saw that donut and just had to have it, now,” Evel the Motorcoat explained.

Asked about the collision, he said: “Oh, that. Well, I’m sure he’ll be up and at ‘em in no time. These cyclists are like weeds, they just keep coming back, no matter what we do. Besides which this sport’s got to stay with the times. Americans today aren’t going to tune in without the promise of a snapped neck or a crushed spine. I’m sure, what’s his name -- Sqweeker -- is happy to spill a little blood for the good of the sport. Everybody’s talking about it. Didja see the way the crowd rushed towards me? It was awesome.”

Another Blue Coat who wished to remain anonymous confirmed that the USCF had targeted Madhatter’s Beach to test a new policy that encourages its Blue Angels to “mix it up” with the cyclists.

“What’s wrong with a little bumping and grinding? 50 million NASCAR nuts can’t be wrong,” he twitched. “Every day cyclists get shaved, smacked and powdered by cars on the road. Why should racing be any different? Frankly, our lead vehicles get bored out there going around in circles. Aren’t they entitled to a little action, too? And our lawyers tell us what with that waiver we force everybody to sign we are free to experiment with novel ways to increase the risk of serious bodily injuries. Finally, Sqweeker’s lucky we didn’t deek him -- we couldn’t read his number when he pumped the sky and frankly I have a problem with excessive exuberance.”

Nonetheless, many racers and spectators were visibly shaken at the sight of a popular racer whose circle of friends include luminaries like Lance Armstrong, Greg Lemond, Clevelandia and Gapp Star being carted away in a meat wagon. After reviewing the film, the Blue Coats deduced that just before the impact Hipp Star’s lips had been flapping, which, they speculated, probably provoked Sqweeker to turn his head back. In a move touted by White House spin specialists as “brilliant,” the Blue Coats worked to quiet the angry mob by immediately issuing a written warning that “any form of taunting by the Labor Power team will result in immediate disqualification.”

Hipp Star objected to the warning. “Yeah, my lips were moving. I was saying “F... it! My team had led me out for the last lap -- GMO, then Rican, then Stanky, then Agro -- and I flailed. I was just going to congratulate Sqweek for crushing Labor when that demolition derby nimrod cut us off -- I hit my brakes so hard I fishtailed my rear tire until it exploded. The only good thing about losing was at least I was far enough back to dodge the Hoghead and avoid another night in intensive care.”

Hippster, who owes medical bills for bike race-related crashes in four states, none of which have been paid by the USCF’s reputed insurance carrier, breathed a sigh of relief. Nonetheless, his sunken, withdrawn, despondent demeanor prompted team sugar daddy MKA to enforce a 24 hour suicide watch.

“Hipp’s been winning bike races since Lance was in diapers. He’s heard all the excuses and invented a few whoppers himself -- my personal favorite: ‘I couldn’t get warmed up’ at the end of a long dusty crit on a scorching hot day -- what is he, a gecko? A warrior like Hipp gets spanked after a cherry lead out suffers a trillion spankings, he’ll relive this over and again really until the day he drops. I’ll be monitoring his vitals closely,” said a concerned Max Kash.

Responding to Sqweeker’s claim of bulletin board smack talk from the Labor Camp, Hipp clarified: “I didn’t promise anything. It was that idiot Max Kash Agro. He’s the one who guaranteed the win. Not me. I don’t need this pressure. I just told Labor to get the hell out of the way. I prefer chaos and mayhem to orderly lead outs -- that way I can blame 50 bar banging idiots instead of one -- me. Look, yesterday I got whacked by Gassyhola, I didn’t train all week, it’s a stoopid sport, and I’m tired of the excuses. I got beat, OK? Now flick off.”

As the racers lined up for the next race, the 30 plus criterium, the mood had turned foul. Several racers asked why the Blue Coats had allowed the 50 plus and 40 plus race to finish so close in time. As the 40 plus pack was approaching the last turn, a legion of 50 plus racers were lazily finishing their warm down lap, creating a risk of a dangerous bike-on-bike pile up. Why hadn’t the Blue Coats diverted the 50 plus finishers off the course? Was the lead motorcyclist confused by the mass of competitors from different races scattered throughout the 1.2 mile course? And what about the rumors that a blue coat operative had dumped a sack of marbles in the final hairpin? Or the sprinkler that suddenly turned on exactly as Labor was lining up it’s Hippo Train, or the pack of stray dogs that invaded the backstretch on the bell lap?

Questions demanded answers. Was the crash the result of a single Blue Coat’s sugar inspired colossal stupidity? Was it the logical outcome of a new USCF policy designed to satisfy the American public’s bloodlust? Were the promoters greedily sacrificing safety for a few more greasy nickels in entry fees? Did Sqweeker crash because he was distracted by the malevolent smack from a despondent Labor legend? Or was it a case of simple vanity? Had our Boy in Blue crashed because he was admiring the trail of tears he had wrought instead of watching the road in front? To be sure, a closed road, but nonetheless, a road that was governed by a Blue Coat on a pocket rocket -- itself a ominous combination which certainly carried the grim prospect of imminent suffering.

The USCF has yet to address the issue squarely, but the manner in which they governed the 30 plus race may provide a clue as to their position.

30 Plus Criterium. Again, in the final few laps, the Laborites swarmed the front. Stanky, Agro, Rican, KB Skippy Bausch, L.Ron et al took their usual pulls, calculated to unleash Psycho Wiko and/or G-Spot, two sawed-off, seasoned closers. On the final turn, Perturbo and Armand Hammer (who placed 5th at Worlds in Austria) came out smoking with Wike and Gspot trailing. With about 75 meters to the line, Wike jumps to the outside left to come around. Gspot, fully locked, goes with. At the same time, McFiddy comes up on Gspot and catches Gspot’s left foot in his front wheel. No crash. Everybody finishes. Wike wins. Gspot fourth.

Wike wins again. Wike has never met a big race he didn’t wrap his paws around and devour like a polar bear snacking on a baby walrus. He doesn’t know the meaning of “choke” or “pressure” and for a Laborite barely comprehends the Pound/Flail continuum. He’s beaten the best at Redlands, Reno, Sea Otter, Superweek, and at the State Championships. He was third at nationals, after getting battered into the fences in plain view of the Orrin Hatch’s finest.

Permit me to backtrack some. Earlier in the week Psycho called MKA to report a rare sighting of a stray vein adorning an otherwise undefined milky white calf. This could only mean one thing: Psycho was approaching a body fat index of less than 20%. Naturally, MKA urged him to immediately put down the phone and head to the nearest Colonel Sanders for a fresh bucket of wings and rudders.

“No, No,” he assured me. “This is a good thing. I already talked to Dad. He said he got real fit once, too, which made him spring a vein just before he won that Taco Salad in a Bag prime in that Hooterville race he’s always blathering about.” In case you hadn’t heard, the “Dad” to whom Psycho referred is in fact the right Reverend Billy Stone. They lived together this summer for a few weeks, compared their puffiness, their preference for high-fat, high calorie, zero nutrition foods, and their predilection to long hours spent doing very little and decided they must be related. Since then, Wiko has been walking around with a slight gimp and has a newfound penchant to talk over you at a decibel level that presumes his audience is stone cold deaf.

Tyrants have for ages sought to divert the public’s anger by scapegoating an unpopular minority. The Blue Coat’s Weapon of Mouthy Distortion reprimand had failed to turn the tide against the dreaded Labor bandeleros. Here was an opportunity. Let’s show the public that we Blue Coats are serious about protecting the health and safety of racers -- let’s deek a Laborite! Gspot, a national champion sprinter whose won about a thousand races, threaded a needle so narrowly and deftly that it must be illegal! If another racer comes up on him he’s supposed to slam on his brakes and let him pass!

So instead of celebrating Labor’s victory we spent the next few hours filing protests that were slightly more futile than an email to our President urging him to spend less on bombs and more on bike trails. Labor did take solace in the Chief Blue Coat’s decision to waive the $20 protest penalty. The Blue Coat seemed to acknowledge that even a mockery of a sham of a railroad job has its limits. Interestingly, for all you wordsmiths, the final decision was that Gspot had been “relegated,” yet he was removed from the prize list entirely, which, to me, sounds like he was actually “disqualified.” Another niggling Labor quibble or the skin of a vast right wing conspiracy? You decide.

Madhatter’s Beach 40 Plus Criterium (100 wingdings)

1. Ricky Sqweeker, Postal Pritties (Thrill of Victory and Agony of Reckless Endangerment in span of 4 seconds; bruised, contused and abused but he’ll be back).
2. Der Hipp Star, Labor Powder (wanted to complain lead out was too slow, bit his lip)
3. Tricky Strickey, Labor Powza (vows to listen more carefully to Gapp Star on Sprinting)
4. Max Kash Agro, Labor Pauper (my job is marshal the premium lead outs, closers please apply)
5. Chris Man in Black, Indian Gamblers (chirped gleefully that he wasted Diesel et al for Nocal cup jersey day before)

Madhatter’s Beach 30 plus Criterium (100 woodpecks and assorted wormwood)

1. John Psycho Wike Stone, Labor Power Outage (sucks the juice out of pretenders)
2. Armand Hammer, Euro Poser (I had calves like that, I’d pose too).
3. Perturbo Rogers, Furrball’s Freak Show (finds a way)
4. G-Spot Hot Scott, Labor Pow Wow (curse of the starz n barz: forced to pay entry and robbed of earnings, last seen combing beach for comotose females)
5. McFiddy,Velosnotty (new Labor protocol: whenever getting beat, raise hand and cry like baby)

MKA

Special thanks to Rudy, photographer extraordinaire. And a special wet kiss to all the Flailer Made babes who helped defossilize MKA after the legs locked up at Fiesta Team Trial, which Labor won despite Gspot breaking off aero bars on first lap. Note to promoter: Exciting new revenue opportunity! Please consider running all the masters races together on the same course along with the big wheel races, the Kiwanis Kids Fez on Scooters fundraiser, the Little Indy Radio Controlled Souper Mini Rally, the annual Rotarians wheelchair race and of course the running of the cats. Imagine the carnage! The draw!