G-Spot Trifecta: Laborite Racks Up Three Js in Three Days
Labor's G-Spot all teeth and
quadriceps after fetching the Gold
at Master Natz under an overpass
somewhere in Fontucky.
Filling the ancient sky,
giant stars burn in cooling red.
While at a pinpoint, tiny,
the super-nova explodes
in blinding white:
G-Spot. --- Genghis Hahn, Nexus 7
It's work. It's not a game. You play a game. A game doesn't leave you weary, flat or empty. Playing a game is fun. You can laugh. You can drink cold beverages. You can eat candy or wings or Philly cheese steaks. You get to lounge alot between the action.
It's no wonder my 7 year old hates bikes. Bucky sees what it does to his Dad. He sees a maniac who's either hot-tempered or too lethargic to give a damn. Why should he like bikes? Bicycles only seem to invite suffering and scabbiness, flatulence and anorexia, plus a parade of house guests who are peevish when not totally insane. Tony Hawk's eyes are not bloodshot. He doesn't look like he's just returned from a 72 hour firefight. He's not gritting his teeth, denying the agony, driven by a barbaric logic telling him the closer he gets to myocardial infarction or blackout the better he'll feel. Bucky’d rather be like Mike. Why would he or anybody want to be like Lance?
Bike racing requires work. Racing is brutal, it savages the body, it trashes the mind, it offers no comfort, it exposes all weaknesses and worse of all, it's voluntary. Bike racers are but self-absorbed, self-indulgent a-holes who choose to torture themselves and then expect their friends and family to heap praise or shower with pity. It's a low and nasty sort of work with a reward that even the most hardened cyclo-path can scarcely describe, not because we're inarticulate, but because when we actually do try to put in words "the glory" and "the rush" and such rubbish what we really hear is the bleating of a pathetic dreamer in need of serious counseling.
And yet it's fun... See? Here I am: blown out and beat up after 85 miles of criterium racing in 90 plus degree heat, didn't sleep last night because my heart was pounding and my head was throbbing and my feet kept cramping -- Christ I didn’t even know I had muscles in my flippin’ feet -- and I'm using the word "fun"? It's a game we play. It's a lie. It's got to stop. But not now. Not yet.
First, MKA's got to talk about Labor Nationals and all the peckers and pounders for whom I have forsaken so much.
CBR State Championships. Carson, CA.
40 Plus Crit. $1,000 Kash, plus the J and the lifetime supply of Viagra and Thorazine. Field: 80.
Labor's credo has and always will be "pound your guts out and all is forgiven." Usually this works. But today we were roasted on our own spit over hot coals we lit and we fanned. MKA chooses to treat this as a mere aberration, like the proverbial loaded gun that accidentally goes off killing everybody. Attacking, for the most part, is good -- but here’s the catch -- so long as there’s a swift and lethal counter-attack which contains at least two crowbar-chewing Labor lunks who absolutely will not stop until all memories of peace and comfort have been obliterated. Notice the lack of any reference to careful, solemn, strategic thinking.
Idiots. This is the method of a big arrogant beast who by ignoring the talents of his foes ends up empowering same and insuring his own terrible but not unjust defeat. The mindset of pig-faced generals sending waves of grunts across no-man’s into the hail of bullets. Yes, we were cognizant of Skweeker, Perturbo and Horseteef, all of whom performed well at Fontucky Natz but not well enough to overcome the burning desire to beat a hasty retreat back home where the real money, glory and talent awaited. Smart money says just mark these t-breds who want and need it most. But Labor don’t mark, monitor or monkey with the hindquarters. Unless you’re the Hipp Star, for whom we’ve got a separate code. He’s allowed to have “fun.” The rest of us are consigned to the boilerroom with a shovel.
You’ve heard the pre race skull sessions: “Attack in twos.” “Ride at the front.” “Head on a swivel.” Labor understands theory, we’re just more comfortable with chaos. About half way through Genghis bolts solo down the left curb. Deviant minds conspire alike. MKA about the same time bolts in the right gutter. Genghis is not looking back. MKA does, sees a trio of nimbobs clawing closer. MKA throttles back. The nimbobs hop on with that stupid glazed expression that says, “Now what, Sargeant?”
A wrinkle in time later the angry snake devours our mousy bridge pretenders and is primed to inhale a brain-feverish Genghinoid. Before MKA can say “Curses Foiled Again!” there goes a counter-attack about a click up the river with but one Laborite embedded, Stankinator. Stank’s got potato sacks of cruising and closing speed so Labor pretends to settle in, but to be sure we silently beg for a flyer to tow us up river. Two’s better than one. But the point of the pel suddenly flattens like a dum-dum smashing into steel encased depleted uranium armor. Labor orders a round of milk and cookies.
In no time there’s little time left and Stanky’s been flicked along with Horseteef and Stan Bunghole, who last I heard was sherping water and soiled TP up El Capitan. Labor fails to generate a chase train and, consistent with the fossil record spanning the past 10,000 races, Perturbo drags Sqweeker around so the latter can pip him for the Vee. As per.
The only Laborlight was the return of our Dark Lord -- Der Hippstar, who shrugged off the pulmonary embolisms and the caved in face of a few months ago and lit up the Spee - R like a pyromaniac in a firecracker factory.
The 40 plus Bored: Labored Gored and Poured Out
1. Richard “Hiz Prittiness” Sweeker, Postal Prima Dees (pounced on Labor’s autoerotic pudd pounding like a Hulked-up Tomcat raiding flock of bird bathers)
2. Perturbo Rogers, Highest Bidder (Monex yellow brick or fools gold?)
3. Der Hipp Starz, Labor Power (ready for 12k time on 100 miles per week)
4. Cap’m Krooger, YellowJacks (boycotted BlueCoat Natz, thanks Labor)
5. Stricky Dicky, Labor Power (so fired up head blew clean off)
CBR California State Championships, 35 plus criterium. G-Money, in the House.
And now the sweetener. His name is G-Spot. He does in fact ride for Labor, he was spawned in a bio-med lab across the border, and he did win the Starznbarz at Fontucky. But that doesn’t matter. Gspot understands that the Labor camp is sullen on account this is our race, this is our town, we just got slapped silly and if Labor don’t win Agro don’t spout, grease or jiggy.
G-Spot is one of those wunderkinds who to look at inspires neither envy nor dread. His legs are short, his torso long, and he’s got a mug that looks like he’s always suppressing a chuckle. He likes to fold over the hem on his bike shorts and no matter how hot or how cold he insists on wearing shoe covers. His bottom bracket is immaculate and he swears he’ll never eat another Little Debbie Snack Cake about 7 times a week.
He could be the adorable child of Ozzie and Harriet except for the fact that you put him on a bike in a race and he will shove his fist into your stomach, pull out your small intestine and wrap it around your neck until you turn blue and die. That is, unless he gets sick of smacking the nimwits around in the field sprints and decides to solo off the front where it’s quiet and he doesn’t have to swat the annoying horseflies hovering about his arse.
G-Spot’s presence raises Labor’s entoosiams. We know that if we can just get G-money close to the finish line -- say, somewhere between the 1st lap and the last lap -- we got a good shot at the winner’s cup. Which is sort of like the bat boy taking credit for a Barry Bonds homer. After the 40 plus flail, whether because we’ve learned patience or are just plain tired, Labor stifles the need to jump and jerk. With about 5 to go, G-Spot, our ace sprinter, decides to attack solo.
Nobody on Labor questions the audacious move. Labor moves to the front to slog an clog. Gspot opens up a 200 meter gap in a flash. Gspot pulled the same move in Reno and almost closed it (hobbled with a separated shoulder). Oddly, Gspot is not a time trialer, except when he’s racing a criterium. With a few to go, he still looks strong, but the heat, wind and building resentment in the field are conspiring. Horseteef takes off, Genghis and MKA latch on. Pterodactyl and another reptilian ancestor infiltrate, but seem more inclined to chew on horseapples than chase. Horseteef shouts at his reluctant confederates: “You got to work if you want to stay away.” Only in bike racing, a sport rife with flat-headed slack-jawed pictograph-challenged cud- chewers, would this sort of advice count as both cerebral and necessary.
The pelaton catches the lame chase with about one to go but Gspot has found that mystical reservoir with the never ending supply of go-juice. He’s got a full half lap. With one to go Choko Loko breaks through the barndoor, horns lowered, and MKA hops on. Through the third turn MKA senses that Choko, with the entrails dragging, is seconds away from ground chuck but, perhaps as a favor, our mortally wounded raging ruminant gives a little more. And I would have thanked him except that the “little more” turned out to be the final nail in my own coffin. As we approached the final turn, the always cheerful and polite Horsetoofus jack-hammered me into the curb with the gentle statesman Perturbo on his wing.
MKA gets up to go when a sneaky voice from on high whispered, “Agro, let me in.” I know that voice. The voice of a rugged rat bastard who never asks for anything unless he intends to pay it back plus the vig, the voice of a quiet assassin whose victim learns of his deadly presence only after the bullet has passed through his skull -- I’m talking about Der Hiptler, of course. Hipp Starr takes Turbo’s wheel, Agro looks for a manhole to hide in, and Labor’s Dark Lord proves the darkest of the lot.
Meanwhile, Gspot has nearly passed out on the grass (again, to you mothers: hide your kids’ eyes). A good samaritan was so alarmed she reached for the nearest cold beverage and poured it on his steaming head. The beverage turned out to be a Coke Classic, but at least her heart was pure and truth be told I don’t mind feeding the native ants a little sugar as long as it’s not from my face.
The 35 + Bored: Labor Gets it’s Bear
1. Mark GSPOT Scott, Labor Power (All Hail the King of Kings!)
2. Chris Hipp Starr, Labor Power (“No. I don’t want a lead out. Just get out of my way.”)
3. Turbo, Smack Daddy (curb shimmied Genghis for allegedly brake checking sister)
4. Arm N. Hammer, Baking Soda (says he can beat Arnold in Ca’s Total Recall)
5. Eric Post Toasty, Taylor Flail (thanked Labor for sponsoring the race, thus spoof-proof)
6. Woodchuck, Labor Power (Killing with kindness, like mentor, Steven Segal)
7. Horseteef, Monex Gold Digger (No matter how hard I try to win his affection...)
***Pending further investigations: During the race Turbo attempted to shimmy Genghis into the curb, accusing the latter of brake checking his sister. Genghis responded with both alarm and confusion, not having much experience with inflicting bodily harm on women and children. The two bickered until the pack separated them. Turbo swears he saw Genghis commit the infraction, which means he’s either got x-ray vision or a third eye in the sky. Now, MKA likes it when siblings stick up for each other, but this author wonders if Turbo’s guardian reflex was extra twitchy on account earlier another speed-dialer wearing sister Turbo’s colors smacked the pavement but hard when her cleats failed. In any event, the only thing Ghengis is intentionally chopping is the chunks of raw beef he’s mixing in with his pesto, tomato and corn gruel. Turbo urged to bury the hatchet or prepare for a life behind bars.
Sidenote: Genghis, who really did graduate top of his class at Berkely Law School, did win the field sprint with one to go. Glory’s where you make it.
CBR State Championships, 30+ Criterium: Psycho Killer, Qu’est Que C’est... fa fa fa
John Wike was bitter. In the sprint finish at Fontucky Natz, as he was preparing to come around the leader, the latter presented Wike with a choice: hit your brakes and limp home or barrel forward and come out of the wrought iron fence like a bratwurst shot through a cheese grater. Wike chose life, for which he was awarded the bronze. The Blue Coats of course refused to examine the evidence, deciding that actual photographs showing the infraction could’ve been doctored, what with the ubiquity of Microsoft photoshop and Labor’s propensity to cheat.
Wike is both fresh and hungry. KB (aka Skippy) also relatively fresh, and always generous, handing out Hansen’s gingko shooters like a hoola dancer handing out fresh cut leis at the Maui Airport. Gspot has revived but just barely, vowing to throw it down for Labor and Country. From the gun, Wike blasts off like an errant Hellfire missile, obviously in no mood to stop and smell the flowers.
What happens next doesn’t matter, fill in the blanks, it’s a bike race, there are millions every year, they’re all about the same, and I’m wasted -- wasted physically and tired of wasting my time rehashing a bunch of nonsense for a bunch of noodle heads who don’t appreciate high art. Besides which I’ve never been contacted by the Coen Brothers to ghost write a script despite my Labor Power billboards dotting sunset strip, so what’s the point?
Yes I’m bothered. Three races in one day. Wasnt’ fun then and I’m more miserable now. Get home, feeling like my insides have been carved out with a pumpkin scoop, like I used to feel after spending 12 hours a day getting nibbled to death by a flock of nattering defense lawyer ducks in Mobile, Alabama, when Darling Wife announces that my priorities are “all screwed up.” I want to defend myself. I scroll through the arguments but in the end decide she’s right and zip it. The two most important words in any marriage? “Yes Dear.”
Bike racing’s a stoopid sport, yes, but this is a happy ending, so I’ve got to finish. The pack splits. All the usual hammers up the road, including Evander Testicles (looked like a nuclear cannon ball in the dreamer race until his chain snapped, catapulting him onto his top tube, resulting in name change from BRB’s to BRB, singlular), Pharmaceutical (who won the dreamer race), McFiddy, Arm n Hammer and Jason Von Pale Skin. Plus Wike and Gspot.
The break continues to cleave off riders, including Wike. Evander drops out. Pharmaceutical drops off. Five racers lap the field with about 5 to go, including Turbo, who just won’t die (government agents checking spittle sample for alien age-reversing nanochips), and Gspot, for whom bike racing offers the same kind of erotic pump that drove the our future governor to heavy weights, loose women and dope.
With two to go, Stanky keeps the speed high, discouraging Jason Von Paleface from launching his patented kilo attack. On the final lap, HippStarr ramps up the rpms with Gspot locked and loaded, attacks into the final turn and Gspot slingshots around for the 2nd state championship jersey in three hours.
The 30 Plus Bored: The G-Spot that Roared
1. G Spot, aka G-money, Labor Power (Just getting warmed up)
2. Turbo, Undecided (three races, three podiums, truckloads of cash)
3. Chris Demarchi, Velosnotty (no tickee, no talkee, no nickie, no knockee)
4. Jason Von Pale Face, Specialized (Mess with the Bull, Get the Horn)
6. Psycho Wiko, Labor Power (“We are vain and we are blind, I hate people when they’re not polite.” David Same as he ever was Byrne.)
7. Arm N Hammer (searching family records in Austria for unsavory affiliations)
8. McFiddy, Velocity (has Labor’s vote for Best NonBlue Coat Official of Year)
9. Agro, Labor (limped in with KB and two other zombies after 31 minutes in the Mojave Desert, suffering silently and stoopidly, thus completing 85 miles of racing in 3 crits in under 51/2 hours. MKA says this with full knowledge that DW’s opinion on the matter is fixed: bike racing is neither a sport nor a job, it’s neither play nor work, it’s simply a silly obsession which left untreated can tear a family if not a nation asunder).
Special thanks to Chris Lotts and Vera for their labor, patience and good humor. As a sponsor, it was a pleasure working with these two visionaries, and Labor vows to repeat next year. As a racer, it felt good knowing I could crinkle my race number without getting the death penalty.
Reaching for the Prozac