Man Down! Kool Aid Takes A Digger in the Name of The Dream. 
“Hey, check out my cool bump!” Bumpfuk, Texas

Februay 5, 2008

[3rd Part of a Multi-part story]

BumpFuk, TX - Kool Aid’s well financed quest to Live the Life has drawn harsh condemnation from purists who have questioned whether the Professional Cat IV has any true grit. This weekend Kool Aid responded to his critics by allowing a herky-jerky hack-fuk to chop him into a curb, which resulted in a vicious crash that left our upbeat hero broken but vindicated.

“Well, we got that out of the way,” said Kool Aid, with a sigh of relief. “Everybody knows in this sport you cannot achieve The Look without a grotesquely deformed shoulder. Now when the conversation turns to blunt traumas endured, I can stoically point to my own battle scar.”

Bump of Honor. Welcome to the Club, Noble Warrior, but note that Pros shave everything.
For weeks now we’ve been following Kool Aid’s trajectory from a nervous unlicensed public racer to a cagey cat IV veteran. He has scrupulously adhered to a strict lifestyle regimen handed down by a elite corp of gurus, Olympians, and Prophets who, according to critics, have elevated the importance of trinkets, toys, creams and graphs over raw junkyard dog bitterness. 

“No grit? Bullshit. I got grit,” Kool – Aid said angrily from a noisy waiting room in a country hospital near Laredo over the din of chickens and drunks. He raptly described The Crash, sparing few important details. “I saw early on this idiot was a bomb waiting to explode. He couldn’t look over his shoulder or drink from his bottle without causing a tire-popping pile up. I knew the gobbler was skittish and dead-bang dangerous, I knewhe posed a clear and present danger to my $5,000 wheel set, so I clung to his wheel.”

Asked why sucking the wheel of a chicken-brained beginner with no bike handling skills was a sign of grit, Kool Aid explained peevishly, as if talking to a neophyte: “Icould have broken away. I could have attacked. Probably could have soloed. I wasn’t’ even tired. But Hipp Star warned me – there’s no glory in pounding peckerheads off the front, where they can’t see you. Wait for the sprint. Let them think they have your number. Let them try to take you out. Then whiff by them – cackling – just before the finish. Whiff by them. Make sure your eyes meet. And make sure you’re not breathing hard.” 

It was clear to MKA that the narcotics had yet to kick in as Kool-Aid continued. “I had it all down, just like Hipp Star taught, who’s on the payroll, on account I bought him a fish taco off a roach coach in Guerneville. I wanted to teach this peckerwood a lesson – a lesson. But when he made a sudden move, pinning me against a curb, I had no way out. I hit the curb and as I was flying through the air I remembered with relief that serious bike racers always have an orthopedic surgeon on speed dial.”
Get Your Finger Out my a-hole, Bindajo! Do you have a Ph.D?


True to form, Kool Aid had prepared for this critical stage in his metamorphosis from amateur to pro dreamer. Within seconds of auguring his shoulder in the hard Texas dirt, Kool Aid called up his pilot and ordered him to chart a course to Salt Lake City. He had already discounted whatever lame diagnosis the local sawbones would offer. He had his own bone guy on the payroll -- a doc with sterling credentials and iconic thunder-thighs described by a salivating Darling Wife (another jock who got out of Madison) as “yummy.” Kool Aid had the foresight to put Dr. HugeHams on retainer last year when he sought a professional opinion whether his tendency towards portliness was a function of being “big boned” or simply a weakness for deep-fried pecan pies.

As of this writing, we don’t know the extent of Kool Aid’s injuries. “The local dummies said it was a separated shoulder but they only charged me $500 so I’m not going to agree with any diagnosis until I’ve dropped at least five digits on a team of pros that includes at least one 5 time gold medalist.” 

Fitness, we know, is a hard fought thing that quickly evaporates. Kool Aid had put in his miles. He’d logged many hours watching all sorts of Tour de France videos, and now he was worried it would all slip away. We’ve all been there: the shocking realization that our carefully planned and meticulously exercised ritual had just been flushed down the toilet. The entry fees checks already cashed by grabby promoters. The planned peaks and recovery days. The big races, the big trips, the milestones and targets. We could actually feel the cold bony fingers of dark ghosts scooping out big gobs of our precious fitness, replacing the divits with peanut butter and jelly.

Kool Aid approached his crisis gamely. “My upper body’s unimportant. My legs are taught, chiseled and ready for more, “ he assured, as if fitness was a beast that must be fed. “I’ll be on the rollers as soon as my Cal Tech engineers get back to me.” Kool Aid related that he had ordered a custom made erg that would be tailored to his self described highly unusual neuro-muscular-skeletal profile. 

It’s well known that one reason Kool Aid has been able to bring corporate giants to their knees is his ability to put his AD/HD to good use. Like all high achievers, his brain tends to race, which can interfere with the single minded focus required of elite cyclists. He had noticed a few months ago a strange phenomenon when he was on his erg while watching TV. “I noticed that my average wattage dropped when I looked away from the digital display to devote full attention to Spankervision.” 

To prevent his mind from wandering to matters of comparatively low consequence, Kool Aid has ordered his engineers to devise head gear that channels his field of vision exclusively to the digital display, sort of like the blinders you see on those big dumb big city carriage-pulling clod horses. That’s good to block out the peripheral vision, but it still leaves open the threat of the bing-bang chaos of random images flooding the brain. For that, KA’s ordered his Bright Boys to come up with a way to scan his brain waves and institute proper electrical stimuli should those waves depict anything fun, exciting or remotely unrelated to robo-spinning monotony. 

“I know it won’t be easy,” Kool Aid confesses with the weariness of a professional athlete who is prepared to sacrifice. “I generally don’t compromise. I know the machine will have to remind me to focus, and I don’t mind electrical shocks too much. But the focus part, that will be tough. I’m pretty much wired all the time. I might be able to shut down my I-phone, my I-pod, and even Spankervision for a few minutes, in stretches. But I simply got to have my Racing Chronicles’ podcast. Look, with my AD/HD, I’ve dabbled in all of it – the ritalin, the prozacs, the goofballs, the Peruvian flake, even crystal meth – but none of it compares to the brain-calming madness of Billy Stone on a red faced rant. I need him in my earphone. I need his batshit craziness. He quiets me.” 

MKA for one is very concerned. Cleveland’s dead, Hipp’s Star has burned out, and reasonably hearty men can only stomach so much of Reverend Billy’s bile. Make no mistake. MKA is competing with serious players, heavilycredentialed players, in the battle for Kool Aid’s soul. Progress had been made. Kool Aid is angry. A nit of a nobody for no good reason has robbed him – stolen his fitness. Did he convert it? Did the robber use it? Did he pawn it? No. The cat 4 nitwit simply tossed it away, assuming he even knew that he had just crushed at least the short term hopes and dreams of our shooting cat 4 comet. 

Now this sickens me. And MKA senses that small droplets of bitterness are beginning to pool near Kool Aid’s duodenum. After a long phone call, KA finally upgraded his goals. Instead of merely competing in 35 races, he now wants to “cat up.” He is beginning to regard each opponent as a potential sniper or suicide bomber – a dream crusher, who must be dealt with, harshly and without remorse. This is good. 

And yet, the battle rages. Kool-Aid has been under the influence of Team Pritty now for the last several months. Hundreds of thousands have been invested. It will take time and plenty of MKA grade hate therapy for the bitter ball to reach combustible proportions. We have made progress – witness the infiltration of Der Hiptler’s punish-for-fun pedagogy - but victory in this war will only come from savage door to door, close quarters combat. The first text message MKA got from Kool Aid, enroute to the hospital, illustrates the tough slog ahead. He wrote: “Man down. Probable c-bone. Maybe shoulder. Frame scratched. Wheels fine. Send bibs.”

Friends, the lipstick is on the pig. MKA is standing by, one hand clutching the Ajax, the other a swath of 12 grit sandpaper. We will peel back the layers. Lop off the fat. There is a warthog in there, and he will come out. That swine is mine. For now, Kool Aid’s on lockdown, hunkered down up there in his castle in the snow-caked Chugatch Mountains. The Gentlemen Land Rovers have been turned away and the snowplow’s in the ditch. It’s getting colder, and the supplies are running out. He’s a man in the hole, in solitary confinement, totally desperate. The walls are closing in, as the lungs squeeze and the heart begins to race. The drugs aren’t working like they should, as a shrill whine can be heard from the furnace room and the Ipod’s signal begins to flicker. 

Who will emerge from The Black Hole? A man? Or a mole?



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