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Golf
screws up the body, CANCER
CAN KILL YOU BUT
I. Get
a professional bike fit, 1. As related in Druber's Feed Zone the Self was off on his annual bounce in and about Wisconsin and Chicago. It was hard to handle without the encouraging presence of MKA, Hawk, Strickey and other Labor miscreants. Not even the hilarity of watching Drubs iron a shirt before dinner could quite replace the fact that there would be no Labor winner to annoy announcer Paul. It almost made the Self consider changing out of his jeans with a hole in the knees and put on underwear; but, then the nagging voice of Labor Lost crept into the brain space that had been compromised by the pre-prandial intake of Chateau De Illinois River Embankment that my companion had kindly boxed in from the Champaign Sewer District Winery and Recreational Vehicle Solid Waste Disposal Plant. "Billy" the voice spoke "Super Week is about GRITTY not PRITTY." The notion of looking good soon passed and besides the Self has not the slightest idea how an iron works and even less inclination to find out; though it was impressive that my companion's suitcase contained neatly folded and organized clothes. When no longer able to make a living racing bikes he has a great back up career as a butler. In all fairness it must be noted that my favorite butler did his very level best to antagonize pointing out to our favorite announcer that much to Paul's surprise it is almost always the fastest rider who wins a bike race. The crowd chuckled and the Self smiled inside. But we will get back to racing later; for now, the subject is the horror that golfing and its terminology are infecting cycling. The Self used to hold a "two handicap" at this nonsensical game; and thus has at least arguable "street" or more appropriately "fairway cred" to point out that cycling has as much in common with golf as George Bush does with reality. But, can it be that cycle racing is now attracting the ugly clothes crowd, the imagine the shot zombies, the pathetic group that uses Inderol and other "beta blocking" drugs to control their heart rates while under the pressure of needing to made a two footer to break a hundred? Could it be that we are going to endure the ignominy of having to pretend to be polite to each other; to wait for those who can't keep up; to offer up handicaps so that everyone can be equal? Are movie stars going to start putting on "pro am races" where CEO's pay thousands to be told by Chris Carmichael that they need to move their knees in just a smidgeon? Egad, will the Self be left only with skiing trees and bumps as a way to escape the lunacy. Let's take a look at the evidence.
It is only spoken by professional teachers outside the cheery confines of the Grill Room at Fairway Heavens but have no doubt it is spoken: Unless someone is already good golf lessons are a complete waste of money. All the videotaping, on course lessons on strategy, golf camps, and personally fitted clubs are as useless as real estate seminars, motivational speakers and books on playing Hold Em. America is not about a Dream; it is all about marketing the DREAM. Aimee Semple McPherson was a moderately successful tent preacher until she came to the Hollywood Hills where as Mencken told us she finally found a collection of people so woefully stupid that she appeared a vision. And so, it seems to be with cycling. Cycling is a sport singularly characterized by the heuristic truth that a fast guy on an industrial tricycle with balloon tires, a bell, and a fender feeler will beat someone as the Self with time enough to stop and sign a water bottle souvenir. It is that simple; it is that clean, it is that pure. But, simple, clean, pure and true are not the stuff of which dreams are made-that was the Maltese Falcon. (And don't write in we know it was taken from Shakespeare.) No, but "hope" is the grifter's product and as with the Devil it comes in many disguises. 3. In the above quote Hunter Allen tells cyclists to get a professional bike fit so as to address a bike "like a golfer." Now, first of all we here at the chronicles have no idea how a golfer "addresses" a bicycle: does he speak to it softly, call it cute names, or tell it sternly to 'ride straight.' Regardless, we are certain that a cyclist cannot address a bicycle "like" a golfer but a cyclist might be able to sit on a bicycle with the same precision "AS" as golfer sets up for a shot. Quite simply "like" is used to compare inanimate objects not the qualities of people. But, hey who are we at the Chronicles to question the syntax and grammar of a "professional power coach." But, what we would like to know is why someone needs a professional bike fit and who exactly is certifying these "bike fitters." Don't get us wrong, the Chronicles are all in favor of the Bobby Jones Blazer crowd paying a thousand bucks to be told how to stand over a golf ball and we in fact encourage nincompoops to spend a like amount to learn the same thing you can figure out by using a string, a rock, and a two dollar tape measure. Any long time Chronicle reader knows the Self admires the ability to sell people buncombe. Scamming is like work but much better and if there is one thing the Self admires it is the ability to get by without working. The greatest thing going is Pepsi and Coke selling tap water for two bucks a bottle. Bike scams pale. Sometime ago we offered these then inchoate thoughts on a cycling list serve. This was in response to a posting in which a racer inquired why his leg hurt after a hard training ride. Now, being what the Self's foot and leg have hurt pretty much all the time since he was twelve, much less after a hard ride, the initial reaction was the obviously silly one that perhaps this young man's pain was related to riding hard. The list serve filled up with all manner of offers that the pain was the result of "leg length discrepancies," "foot tilt", "spinal subluxations", "podiatric anomalies" and other "structural issues." Gee, and all this time the Self figured that cycling hard hurt. All these years and no one told! Anyway, the suggestion was a "professional bike fitting" assessment which it just so happened would be available that weekend for a small fee from a traveling man with a fitting machine who would be setting up his tent show at a local restaurant. So, it came that the Self searched the "bike fitter" and with twisted delight noted the sublimely serendipitous coincidence that the fitter was a bat crazy fundy. The Self's heart leaped up as he recalled first seeing Oral Roberts work the leg length scam on Indianapolis' Channel Four. Faith based bike fitting was coming to Louisville. Forgetting yet again that facts have no purchasing power in Cycling Wonderland the Self posted that almost everyone has different leg lengths and that it is mostly superstition that supports the correction of minor (up to half inch) leg discrepancies. The Self's favorite response was a personal email noting that "Bill, you are poison to cycling" and "I am never going to read another thing you write." These kind remarks continued until the Self was saved by a respected professional lady writing in that the Self was most likely correct. She kindly pointed out that this leg length piffle was similar to the "orthotic craze" that swept up runners in the seventies and eighties and which upon examination proved to be at best pure placebo. Not that we at the Chronicles took any pleasure in being correct. As for being poison we note the receipt this week of an announcement that our itinerant bike fitter is taking appointments- and we might take him up provided there is time between the waxing appointment, spiritual awakening seminar, the weekly colon cleaning session and of course going over the charts of morning temperature fluctuations (they tend to be higher when Lazlo is sitting on the Self's head.) Next time the Chronicles will examine the necessity of having a "life coach" to augment the "cycling coach." After all, you can't ride a bike without having balance. But, for now we'll turn our attention to racing-a distinctly off balance enterprise. It gets confusing.
Anyway, it was darn impolite of the break to take off without Druber and we were ready to write it off as just another case of everyone riding wrong; but, then we observed Drubs trying to correct the situation as he attacked a few times and then a few times more. As Self detached his head from his stem he smiled while observing the Duber being welded back into the pack by his favorite college professor who announced afterwards that "I knew I was doing wrong but couldn't help myself." Professor, "teach thyself". Druber and Self both underestimated the number of broken bones but did correctly predict that Bobby Kronkite would fall down-though the odds on such an occurrence are never worse that like eight to five against- but falling all by himself in a straightaway was beyond even the Self's prescience. Parenthetically, at Green Bay Heidi advised that those wearing radios, i.e. Robert and the other Paper Clips, might perhaps want to keep their hands on the bars and not on the speaker button. A request met with the anticipated "what me" pout.) Masters racing should probably be categorized as "Old Men with Mommy Issues. To be fair-as if that ever bothered the Chronicles before-it should perhaps be noted, if only for the symmetry of education as folly, that in the Evanston Thirty Plus Still Dreaming Race the Druber's own Leaky Faucet teammate Kelly Sparkler was observed at the front of the race with his hands draped over the bars as he kept the race welded shut for the sprinters. We spoke to the Sparkler after he had gone on to complete two thirds of the Pro Race Throw Down-mostly because he was in the presence of a mini shirted young lady named Wendy. Why the Self even endured ten minutes of "velodrome talk" about kilometer times and using criteriums to train for the upcoming "important races." The Self may take up "the track" as a way to excuse his otherwise flailing efforts on the road as track takes place in private without anyone to record the disgraces. Why not even the Self can bring himself to watch much less report on the non happenings at the "boringdrome." III.
Here is Druber making nice with long time bête noir Paper Clips before Green Bay. Druber and McKeen attacked the field on like lap two and were the beneficiaries of the Tyranny of the Points as those competing for the overall "Racers With Mommy Issues" title keep welding the day away. That and the fact the break went really fast. Unfortunately, Druber has all the sprint of an aged greyhound on Chinese dog food. But, it was nice to see him make up with his long time hero. Rumor had it that Gary let him touch his Olympic Gold Medal. CODA On a happier note Mr. Superweek, Chris Black, turned fifty at the Sheboygan Flash Flood and Body Surfing Exhibition. He splashed to the finish in first place and the Self smiled. Thanks for the pushes Chris. Finally, in a "you read it here first in the Chronicles moment" the news last week was that the prosecutor in the great Lemondade scandal would not be filing any charges against Bad Will Hunting for his late night Drunken Dialing. (Credit to Hawkstar for the character Bad Will.) As we wrote here last month, it is simply not a crime be stupidly drunk-and certainly not in California. Ride
Fast and Take Chances
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