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High End Flummery; or "Hey, It's Not an 'A' Race.
H.L Mencken
I. Some years ago Self was explaining that it was better not to go to the Tuesday night training race: get in miles, don't waste time driving, tired from Sunday, interfere with recovery. Joe shook his head and said 'yeah, you almost never see a bike racer who actually races" and then "you don't suppose it's because you can't get around a corner without dismounting?" Appropriately shamed Self went to the race and has ever since held tight to the notion that to be a bike racer you have to participate in races; otherwise you are just a fan crashing around explaining that "nowadays I just ride for fun; and besides with my responsibilities I can't be getting hurt." So it was that the Self found himself at the Eagle Creek Circle Jerk. After all, where better to start the season than on a course without corners, hills, or witnesses? As usual Self was riding at the back of the Master's field with the rest of the assorted huffers, puffers, and perennial posers who end their seasons about the time they start crashing cars down in Speedway. Not that the Self minded being part of this canaille; to the contrary it was good to be back in the midst of a rolling freak show. It was, however, a bit boring what with the back being populated with the Zero contingent of the Heroes, Frat Brats from Bloomington and periodic visits from very annoyed Estrogen Bathroom Fixtures who were put out because they had been depending upon the cancelled 45 Plus Money to help defray the costs of entering the Park. Much of nothing happens until towards the end when, for some reason, a Zero starts screaming that it is time to go fast and the group speeds up for twenty seconds at which point one of the Frat Brats starts exhorting his teammates to ride hard. Apparently, this is Frat Brat code for sitting at the back and yelling "UP UP." Someone probably won because afterwards the Zeroes and Frat Boys were standing around with their hands out for a cut of prize money explaining that they had contributed mightily. It is counter-intuitive but sitting at the back and screaming at others to speed up is crucial to a team's success. But the Self had no time for such frivolousness because there was the need to prepare for the Dreamer Race. It was quite a hoot as the Promoter would jump in, speed up for ten seconds, sit out a lap and repeat. Meanwhile, a couple of Rodents lapped the field and then things got ugly fast-as in we started going over thirty. That is, a lot of guys started going fast; the Self chose to quit as the pre race plan was to only go halfway. Admittedly, this is a pretty trite and well worn excuse, but this was no time to break out the new high tech explanations for failure that had been developed over the Winter. II. Several times last summer the Self observed a Cat III sitting at the back of his races, pulling up on his jersey front and talking to his chest. It turns out he was using a radio; but further close observation revealed that his teammates were not talking back. The Self is used to people ignoring his calls; however, there was something else going on here as the rest of the team did not have radios. Not wanting to confront a fellow who rides around phoning himself on the intercom the Self inquired of the lad's teammates. It turns out that the gentleman was talking to his coach and was no more or less imbalanced than your average bike racer. Now, the Self has long been told that the best place to be in a race is somewhere more forward than say next to last; and thus was perplexed that anyone would need a phone consultation to know this. The bike was equipped with all manner of strain gauges, magnets, and a little red box which the fellow was busy examining. He was quite loquacious and advised that during the race he had been giving important data to his coach. It seems he was not at the back because of lack of ability or want to, but rather, because the coach was concerned he would ride too hard and thus put asunder the carefully laid out plan to be perfectly prepared for some distant race. This he advised was "simply not one of my calendared A Races." Not wanting to admit ignorance the Self tried to finesse the matter by asking if there were any races that he was planning to ride too hard. "Oh, I really don't know but it probably won't be this season as I have already had two cycles of almost being permitted to go too hard and almost certainly can't reach my long term goals if I try too hard again this year; and besides if I were to tell you when I planned to try hard it would put me under pressure and stress and the subsequent release of cortisol would cause me to gain weight and thus I would be sabotaging myself." "Sure, okay, thanks for the interview." So, there it was, the perfect explanation for failure: I was just following orders; I was just using the best present intelligence to perfect my future; it is simply not true that I am no good, too slow, and without talent-I am on a deliberate course of action and I am winning by losing. Pure Republicrat logic brought to cycling. III. Directed to a Training Bible seemed appropriate given the Self's limited acquaintance with the real King James. The kind clerk pointed out that it was about training for bicycle racing but it did seem a bit blasphemous albeit in the context of coaching rather apocryphal. The thing was full of all manner of very technical material about blocks, periods, zones, goals and limits. Near as could be determined a block is a period of time during which you live in different zones and score goals by practicing things you don't do well. To be certain Self called MKA.
It was apparent that this Bible study was not going to work out; so Self set about researching coaching plans. For a certain amount of money each month a racer gets an emailed calendar telling him what to do. Then for more money the coach will let you write him. The next step is that he'll help craft a race strategy, a race calendar, and review results. Finally as a Platinum Member the coach will review the data recorded on the Poweromatic sold to you at exclusive member only prices, coach you during a race, and call each night to make sure you are in bed with the lights out. Finally, something with which the Self has acquaintance, those particular bent spaces in minds where fear, insecurity, and worthlessness overwhelm reason It is into these interstitial spaces the purveyors of superstition offer trust and understanding free of initial charge. This is the corner of commerce long staked out by grifters, psychics, Osteopaths, holistic doctors, nutritional supplement hucksters, television ministries, 900 number sex sellers and faith healers. After the free consultation, the laying on of hands, the free sample, or a minute of titillation come the price ranges, with credit cards readily accepted. The more a Scientologist pays the higher he moves up on the wisdom ladder. The more a sick person pays to the 700 Club the closer he gets to having Pat Robertson use his leverage with God. It was only a matter of time before former pros faced with the prospect of selling improved bottle cages latched to the potential of selling hope to cyclists seeking imagined relief from being the kid always chosen to play right field. And as with most scams the victim rarely reports; and after all, there are all those coached based excuses. As with many things Hunter S. Thompson nailed it cold.
Of course someone could try to learn how to turn. But then there would be less excuse to not race around corners; and besides that would leave less time for serious training. IV. The Greensburg and Anderson Stage Races take place the next two weekends. Both Jeannie Moles and Steve Goar are going to put on fine races with real prize money. Now, the Chronicles would be well served if sycophantic articles resulted in one or both races being less than well attended; what better material than losing two great races because of a created delusion that there is a pernicious sub-rosa plot afoot to harm one promoter or another. And for this one time only the Chronicles will depart from its preferred jocosity and point out that if someone sets out for vengeance and revenge he better dig two graves. Ride Fast and Take Chances Billy
Stone
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