|
The Racing Exploits of Team Labor Power
w/ MKA
Greed
Good, Glory Gooder? You decide. Fredlands, CA
40
plus Crit, Fredlands, 35 minutes, 70 nimbos, average BMI around
27, Adulturers 58%, Fundy Rapturism 67%, Thurlow Fan Club 28%, Squeeker
Fan Club 89%; Avg No. Babes Popped per week by Squeeker 5.; Avg
No. bottles vino uncorked per day 4.
Now
then.
Insiders
predicted Perturbo and Squeeker would go from on or about the gun.
Not a heroic prediction. Sort of like predicting the origin of the
sunrise. Perturbo of late has been b-slapping the masters fields
and pretty much intimidates the up-n-comers in the dream races.
Squeeker just knows how to race besides which Fredlands was his
2005 debut and he had the fresh legs and your basic "girls
just want to have fun" breezy attitude.
Daddy
Labor waved the usual $1k bonus for the Labor Vee. Practically a
freebie considering mythic sprint doyen and Labor Archetype Der
Hiptler present, fluffed and puffed. Back in The Day in North Texas
Jim Hoyt of Richardson Bike Mart nicknamed Der Hiptler "Butter"
on account all he had to do was dangle a $50 and Hiptler would cough
up a gall bladder to nose out all comers. Hoyt's a first rate capitalist.
So what did he get out of it? The answer has to do with the joyous
power of being able to induce others to suffer. Guy like Hoyt's
worked hard, has a few properties, I'm sure a handsome bank account
or two. But probably not enough to bankroll a Kentucky Derby quarterhorse
or a Nascar coffin cruiser. He probably got more pro-rated bang
for his buck watching Hiptler puke at Hotter' n Hell than Chappy
Chapman got watching Smarty Jones win the Derby. Like I said a very
good capitalist.
As
expected, Perturbo and Squeeker squirted off early with a little
help from Labor's Hector Commacho, who expertly ramped up the speed
on the second lap. MKA bolted up to the magic bus, settled in, and
in no time was besot with unspeakable guilt. Where's my master?
Where's Der Hiptler? He will be angry that I abandoned him.
MKA noticed three other racer-type creatures managed to latch on,
including respectable but not extraordinary pedalpods Desert Rat
(free agent) and Frank N. Furter (Flailer Made). If I ask nicely
maybe Squeeker and Perturbo will slow down so Hipster can catch
on.
Squeeker
and Perturbo would have none of it. They just kept ramping and didn't
seem to mind that MKA was floating on the rear like a swollen scabie
on the buttocks. They probably recognized that even a fresh MKA
couldn't thread the needle on that final corner against two seasoned
nutcutters. Finally we saw the tail of the field and MKA pepped
up. Wait a second. Maybe my fellow Labor brethren will escort
me into that final corner like I was the Pope surrounded by his
Swiss Guards. Why wouldn’t they? Huge cash bonuses. Plus the
vig, which MKA historically plows back into the team coffer.
MKA
smelled victory and began trading hard pulls to catch the group.
With three to go, we caught. Unfortunately, no Laborites to be seen.
MKA pondered: Were they off the front? On the last lap, the
train was set up: Perturbo, Squeeker, Frank Furter and MKA locked
on. MKA would attack in the S turn into the headwind so as to hit
the final corner at speed and carry it through to the finish. That
was the plan. But coming out of the hairpin first turn Frank Furter,
who had been a reliable wheel all day, decided to dig a pedal into
the blacktop. A gap opened up and Turbo and Squeeker were off to
the races. Frank looked back at MKA like a bad dog about to get
scolded, utterly defeated, so MKA uncorked his can of whoop ass,
but unfortunately said receptacle had been downgraded to a locket
filled with sour gas. Not much combustible fuel. Enough to catch
on, yes, but not even enough to be happy about just being happy
to be there.
We
come out of last turn and MKA begins his mock sprint and low and
behold here comes Der Hiptler! A regular shooting star. Some say
he would've even won the race had two things occurred) had he not
been lapped, and 2) had he actually won the field sprint. Before
dismissing the effort, you will please note that ten meters after
the finish line the Banger Formerly Known as Butter did verily whiff
by Squeeker. Of course by that time Squeeker had his shorts down
with the guitar out and the Pete Townsend windmill workin.
What
happened? Where was the Hawk Star and his blistering lead out? Hawk
had gone for the glory and, by all accounts, got it. About the time
we caught on, he had scored an outrageously rich prime of $100.
His feathers were plucked, but he got his c-note and his glory,
which as we know is priceless. As for Hiptler, post race explanations
are often garbled and warbled at best, but as MKA understood it,
Hiptler could've lead MKA out but in so doing he would’ve had
to have employed a savage slicing-type maneuver which in view of
MKA"s propensity for freaking out in the face of danger would’ve
surely turned him into a ridiculously bloated and totally immobile
puffer fish.
Greed
over Glory? You decide.
40
Plus Bored (average speed 27.7 mph)
1.
Ricky Sqweeker, Postal Pritties (worked the break over like The
Wad pounding Jenna, Tracy, Marilyn and Linda in an all-star orgy).
2. Perturbo, Legends of Grouchy Hollow. Pounds Peckerheads for Pleasure.
Purportedly not afraid of Hiptler.
3. Max Kash Agro, Labor Proudly. (Smoldering in grease fire, can't
give it away).
4. Frank Furter, Flailer Made (Picked a fine time to leave me Lucille).
5. Desert Rat, Free Agent (watch your wallet).
6. Simple Green. Simple Green (corners like a drunk Chinaman pulling
a rickshaw)
7. Der Hiptler, Labor PuffDaddy ("I'm never doing another masters
race. They're too fast when they're not too slow and always too
stupid. Next time I'm entering the dream race with Clevestein Barr.")
30
+ Criterium, Fredlands, All the Usual Idiots Except for Cleveland
(who's a highly unusual idiot). 90 warthogs, 60 mins.
MKA's
often wondered whether Cleveland is as goofy as his reputation.
Did we create the archetype of a silly, self-preening, delusional,
whacked out simpleton and unfairly tag an innocent with the taint,
or does this man-child called Cleveland truly and authentically
stand for all the puerile qualities that his nickie represents?
It's
important to question stereotypes now and then, so as to not falsely
abuse. It's with this open mind the other day that MKA came upon
Cleveland during the Fred Park training ride. Cleve was conspicuously
rocking out with his Ipod inserted, singing badly (didjaseemee?).
Nothing unusual there if Karaoke is your bag. MKA drew closer. What's
that tune he's singing? Sounded familiar. But it couldn't be. Different
eras. Different hair styles. He wasn't even born then. It didn’t
fit. No way. The way he's singing so loudly, so boastfully, like
he wants the pel to appreciate the musical genre that moves
him, the band that inspires him. We are what we sing, what we
listen to. But the dots just didn't connect. Could this be a
cosmic put on? Cleveland goofing on his goofers?
But
the lyrics were unmistakable. We crested a hill. Everybody's lungs
were screaming for oxygen. We panted, we gasped, we choked. But
our man-boy simply sang, serenely, like a gelded Vienna choirboy.
He sang for all of us. A double message 1) whilst you mortal hacks
suffer, I am gay, carefree and so wondrously superfit that I can
carry a tune (didjahearme?), and 2) I am a woman's man, no
time to talk. Yes. Cleveland was singing the Bee Gees. MKA kids
you not. In a roughly approximate high-pitched, lady's-man-in-baby
blue polyester falsetto, Cleveland poured out his heart and soul
Whether
you're a brother or whether you're a mother,
you're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin',
and we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.
Good
lord MKA had to laugh. Is anybody else getting this? MKA looked
around. Nobody seemed too impressed. Perhaps MKA had projected himself
into some weird parallel universe in which every sound and image
was perfectly tailored to entertain his own twisted sense of humor,
an imagined sweet spot only he could enter. Perhaps. And yet his
lips did move.
Those
rubber lips continued to flap pretty much nonstop through the duration
of the 30 plus race. Normally MKA enjoys freaks, geeks, nerds, social
lepers and counter-culture outcasts of all stripes. They add spice.
So he kept holding out for something endearing about the sheer energy
Clevestein had invested in taking his blithering idiot status to
all time highs. It occurred that his vocal cords were like a teletype
that instantly spit out whatever inane image appeared in his noodle.
One second he was a patently fraudulent wigger, the next a huckstering
Dr. Phil, the next a budding Son of Sam with a death wish, the next
a trembling, liberal-eradicating Ann Coulter. The torrent of sewage-tinged
twaddle never quite rose to the level of adrenalin-triggering "smack-talk."
MKA felt no urge to fight back. Rather, MKA felt the need to get
away, quickly, the way you speed up on the sidewalk when you're
about to pass a bible-toting street preacher condemning all to Hell.
You can't exactly despise the numbskull, but you can't really feel
sorry for him, either.
Click
image to see a larger shot of The Pontificator of Piffle unloading
a bowelful directly into the ear of a fleeing MKA. |
| Those
rubber lips continued to flap pretty much nonstop through
the duration of the 30 plus race. Normally MKA enjoys
freaks, geeks, nerds, social lepers and counter-culture
outcasts of all stripes. They add spice. So he kept holding
out for something endearing about the sheer energy Clevestein
had invested in taking his blithering idiot status to
all time highs. It occurred that his vocal cords were
like a teletype that instantly spit out whatever inane
image appeared in his noodle. One second he was a patently
fraudulent wigger, the next a huckstering Dr. Phil, the
next a budding Son of Sam with a death wish, the next
a trembling, liberal-eradicating Ann Coulter. |
|
|
The torrent of sewage-tinged twaddle never quite rose
to the level of adrenalin-triggering "smack-talk."
MKA felt no urge to fight back. Rather, MKA felt the need
to get away, quickly, the way you speed up on the sidewalk
when you're about to pass a bible-toting street preacher
condemning all to Hell. You can't exactly despise the
numbskull, but you can't really feel sorry for him, either. |
|
Click image to see a larger shot of The Pontificator of Piffle
unloading a bowelful directly into the ear of a fleeing MKA. |
The
problem was there was no getting away. MKA found himself in a break
with about 12 others, most of whom were butt draggers looking for
a free ride. Hawk of course was in the mix. Hippstarr was back in
the peanut gallery holding court over the backflushers. Squeeker
again was the life of the party. He kept ramping, trying to break
off the piddledinks. Clevestein's modus seemed to be sit on, wait
till Squeeker screamed for the pudwhacks to pull through, and then
boldly attack into a headwind just long enough for Squeeker to give
him an earful on echelon etiquette. He'd then retreat red-faced
to his corner, put on his dunce cap and sort of rock back and forth,
muttering.
The
"break" turned out to be a big long turd that was getting
longer as the average speed dropped to 24.5 mph. Eventually, Hiptler
latched on after violating about 7 Commandments (Thou shall not
work, thou shall not chase, thou shall not tow, thou shall not share,
enjoy, smile, etc). He brought up Grendel Coxworthy, a burly chunk
of a beast with massive sternocleidomastoids and hulking calves.
Efforts to pinch off proved futile. It was coming down to a sprint.
Clevestein's Beer Dawgs and Labor each had three in the cluster.
With three to go, the promo jangled a $100 prime. On the backside,
Hawk came out of his hollow log and pinched off, cleanly. The gap
widened. 100 meters. 200 meters. Down corkscrew lane, MKA's outriggers
are splayed out when suddenly a flash rips by. It's.... Hipp Star?
The wily one? The cagey Deniro-esque one man, one bullet, one kill?
Chasing down a teammate? For a prime? When all he has to do is sit,
MKA will do the heavy lifting? When all he has to do is rest, recover
and blast through the final turn on the final lap for the Vig, the
Vee and the Labor $1k Premium? Butter, where art thou?
MKA
didn't say a word. Didn't need to. Another rider shouted, mockingly,
"That's your teammate up the rode, Idiot!" That was from
Briggs N Stratton, a loner who's never had a teammate but understands
theoretically that chasing one down is a bad thing.
Click
image to see a larger view. |
| Hover
got the Benjie and Hiptler looked real fast coming across
the line for the fictitious steak knives. Hover kept going,
bless his heart, leaving a trail of pinkish entrails.
Clevestein took the point and slowly reeled the Hawk in,
who celebrated his own demise by shooting a belligerent
bird into Clevie's mug, partially out of disgust but mostly
for the benefit of Hawk's mentor, MM Hackenflack, who
casts chasers into the same boiling pot with suicide bombers.
As MKA passed the wreckage, he gave Hawk a nod and consoled
that Labor's all over it, assuming that Der Hiptler will
live up to his legend. |
|
Last
lap. MKA came out of the hairpin on turn one on the point, fully
prepared to throttle down, assuming the Hippstar knew the shot.
About then Briggs snapped off, opening an impressive gap. MKA bore
down. We entered crash alley. Briggs' boilers began to overheat.
MKA sensed that catastrophic failure was imminent, and poured on
what was left. Briggs dove into the final turn with MKA within spitting
distance. MKA ritualistically stood up to sprint, hoping the conformity
to custom would magically turn his busted turnip truck into a spark
spraying shit wagon but alas all he got was a face-full of road
grit as Squeeker and Grendel slammed by. Der Hiptler, master blaster
and ace money man, managed to squeak by MKA at the line for fourth.
| Hiptler's
post race commentary already a classic "I didn't
know Hover was off the front because I was cross eyed
chasing the break down with Coxworthy on my wheel."
No explanation of why Labor's best hope for the Vee was
shooting his load for a prime with three to go, a prime
who's street value was a fraction of the MKA $1k bonus,
and not nearly as glorious as the top spot on the podium,
which Labor had owned the past two years. |
|
Click image to see a larger view. |
Greed
good, glory gooder? You decide.
30
+ No Greed No Glory Bored, Fredlands.
1.
Grendel Coxworthy, Karl Strauss Brewdawgs (Ever bump n grind with
a rhino? Same thing)
2. Briggs n Stratton. Frank Zappa Road Toads. (Also renowned Fabulous
Furry Freak Brother)
3. Ricky Sqweeker, Postal Pinots ("I took one look at the lame-o's
in the break and had to make like a hatchet and split.")
4. Der Hiptler, Labor Poof Daddy ("Too much suffering in masters
races. I'm doing the dream race from now on.")
5. MKA, Labor Prostate Prodder (Finally, Labor has it's priorities
straight. Greed Good, Glory Greater!)
6. Dennis King Kong, 7. Andy Brown Nose, 8. Arrogant Quiznose, 9.
Scotty Cockring, 10. Gawd's Gift
MKA
4/8/05
Post
Note
Those
rubber lips continued to flap pretty much nonstop through the duration
of the 30 plus race. Normally MKA enjoys freaks, geeks, nerds, social
lepers and counter-culture outcasts of all stripes. They add spice.
So he kept holding out for something endearing about the sheer energy
Clevestein had invested in taking his blithering idiot status to
all time highs. It occurred that his vocal cords were like a teletype
that instantly spit out whatever inane image appeared in his noodle.
One second he was a patently disgracefully buffoonish wigger, the
next a huckstering Dr. Phil, the next a budding Son of Sam with
a death wish, the next a trembling, liberal-eradicating Ann Coulter.
The torrent of sewage-tinged twaddle never quite rose to the level
of adrenalin-triggering "smack-talk." MKA felt no urge
to fight back. Rather, MKA felt the need to get away, quickly, the
way you speed up on the sidewalk when you're about to pass a bible-toting
street preacher condemning all to Hell. You can't exactly despise
the numbskull, but you can't really feel sorry for him, either.
Last
week MKA wrote a letter to the USCF quality control endorsing teammate
Jeff Flailoway's upgrade from a cat 4 menace to a cat 3 nuisance.
MKA wrote "Jeff's bike handling skills far surpass his level
of experience. He corners with the ease and prowess of a pro, descends
like a tour de France champion, and always puts pack safety above
reckless self-advancement." Three days later, in the 30 plus
criterium, Flailoway dug a pedal and paid for his sins with a bloody
right hip and a right forearm lacerated so deeply he required three
stitches.
|
|
|
|
|
Click
on images for larger shots of boy soldier with self inflicted
wounds
|
But
Jeff was just getting started. Two days later, on a steep descent
into Laguna Beach, Jeff dodged an errant car driver, smacked into
a curb at 35 per, flipped up in the air, landed hard, breaking two
ribs and slicing his left hip. The impact imbedded a fistful of
gravel deep inside his hip, requiring the ER doctor to bury his
hand inside the epidermal flap to fish out the crud. Flailoway,
who heretofore had always been very cheerful about this sport, finally
came around and admitted he was hopelessly mired in a "stoopid
[expletive depleted] sport!" Baptism by burning road rash!
Welcome!
Also,
the finish of the pro -1 criterium was at once ghoulish and comical.
Waifishly tiny and body fat repellent Roberto Meza was sprinting
towards the line in a massive cluster frenzy when winner Rashan
Badasshi shaved by him, forcing our pint sized hero to wobble violently.
Somehow Meza stayed up, and everybody breathed a sigh of relief.
Disaster averted. He savored the euphoria a good 6 seconds when
his teammate came up to give a big hug which of course knocked the
tinytot off balance, causing him to crash hard within 100 meters
of the finish line. It looked like he wanted to cry and I don't
blame him. If he'd been able to breathe he probably would have.
|
|
|
|
|
Click
on images for larger views
|
|
