Fall Training, The Season of Hatred Cometh

It’s no flash of news that the tentacles of cyberspace squeeze us into an ever increasingly enlightened state of being–we all now exhibit proficiency in most all fields of creativity, fabrication, fitness, and fornicational prowess–however i still take extreme delight in discovering what, for competition’s sake, I consider true rivals of valor.  Most would surmise that given my deep pockets of influence upon the alta strata of bicyclery, my handling of esoteric minimalist design principles, and seasoned knowledge of artisan bread craft, that I must already know everybody in Portland.  This just isn’t the case.  I know — I can’t believe it, either.

During an afternoon of webside toe-dipping sponsored by our very own Caveman, the existence of a well-reckoned and iron-sided club of gentlefolk clicked its way gracefully into my snobbishly short list of Facebook Likes.  At first I was annoyed with Cave;  Though most everything he splats upon my RudiProjects is incredible, I thought, “Goddammit, I’m beta testing a prototype Cervelo smartphone app that measures compression jersey chafe at output wattages ~/> 250Watts per hour.”   But as I continue to digress, i must tell you, this is some serious shit.  What Cave dropped on my doorstep is nothing short of legend.  It turns out that Due Awesome from the heart of the City of Bridges, lie the secret training laboratories of a formidable cycling squadron known as JVA, or the Jens Voigt Army.

Let’s just say that the first time my eyes delivered the JVA juice to my glycogen uptake functions, the flavor profile was so intense, so complex and developed, so . . . . artisan, that I literally seriously noticed a visible spike in my resting HR of about 38.  What followed next, I can only equate to a firmware glitch in my Bluetooth enabled wireless power meter – yeah – mental mayhem.   I used to think that perhaps I am the most seriously training cyclist in the land.  Day in, day out – I sweat chemicals that have not even been created by the laboratories of victory.  I go to incredible lengths to ensure nary a calorie ingested meets with the tainted air of this earth – from the test tube to a shiny silver packet with a tear-off top to my championship-generating fitness factory – I eat to win.  I ride to win.  Every waking muscle twitch, be it slow or fast, is well-protected and measured by my wireless crotch harness and uploaded via 5g intertrousal broadband to iamchampion.org.  Though my corporate job flogs me daily, when the weekend comes…. oh, when the weekend comes….. I repolish every flake of tarnished self by dropping the entire county on what will someday be known as the most brutal rides in the history of North Earth Cycling.  Literally.

At least that’s what I thought until my empire touched borders with that of JVA.  Let me introduce you all.

A wayward gaggle of hearty longshoreman, the ancestors of JVA made the road to Testosteroliniar Domination a short one.  Sired by the very Stevadores that unloaded this country’s first barrel of brown rice glucosamino6-hydra-deltide, their genes were sure to spread championships like so much lice through a public school.

Fast forward to 2012, and we clearly see the fruits of shipyards past fully ripened and ready for the podium.  JVA’s rolling dopebox muscle lab, below.  Though their blood cocktails are paralleled by none, they tend to affect a queer curbside demeanor.  It’s literally worth it.

Below, behold  The Paisley Possum, aka the French Manicure, aka Truman Coyote, aka Pigglesworth, mentally battening hatches.  Once the dopebox is up to adequate speed, he will hit the pavement running, cycle ashoulder, in what is known circuit wide as the meanest rolling remount in the history of cyclocross.  Sick.

Admiral Longpour, aka Longjohnson Bronson, here seen emotionally prone on the mat, reaching for the ropes… WITH A HATCHET.  When you reap the harvest of science’s best, it’s only fair you train with it close by.  I’m not giving away secrets, which means I will abstain from telling you that he is riding through the woods with 23L of fresh blood – that’s right, 24.38 kilos.  You bear the burden of victory in this club.  Literally, man.  Serious.

If you don’t take a second to pause, you risk missing a moment to admire yourself and place your greatness in perspective.  And even a fool wouldn’t stop for a moment in what the whole of Oregon knows is a wi-fi deadzone to ensure the complete uploading of numbers.  It’s all about the data, losers.  Axe somebody.

Risky maneouvre, exposing your science drink to air like that, LjBronson, but stylish nonetheless.  Even with the end of a training unit in sight, I never let my guard down.  The top of the mountain is a precarious position.  But flair and panache in measured dispersion, do a victor enhance.  Onward, soldiers.  Over bridges may you fly, for tomorrow I will bomb them.  I just got a new program, new firmware, new organic compounds not yet known to the free market.  Here’s to an endearingly serious relationship of competition, Strava chatting, gram one-downing, and serious, serious literally friendship.

In short, all racing tech aside, these dudes at Jens Voigt Army are running a tight commentary on what it really means to ride.  If you laugh at yourself as much as you laugh at the dudes riding in the other direction, then you need to go poke around and enjoy who could well be considered cycling’s newest, sharpest antiadvocates of seriously literally riding bikes.

 

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About Snake Hawk

good, bad, funny, sad, stupid, rad, has, had. non-joining funhaver from coast to coast(er brake). buster of the chops, drawer of the logos. North Carolina, USA

16 thoughts on “Fall Training, The Season of Hatred Cometh

  1. Thomas Friedman murdered Snake Hawk, is wearing his internet persona around like some kind of sick Snake Hawk suit.

  2. @Finktron: I don’t know if this was Friedman dude. At no point did he make sweeping generalizations about the state of the international economy based on a conversation with a cab driver in Calcutta.

  3. …snawk…as you mature & your work becomes better recognized in the art world, (‘hey, ain’t them paintin’s on the wall there that snake hawk fellers stuff ???’…yep…‘though i recannized his shit !!!’), i feel it would behoove you to wash down your morning cyalis/extendez/amphetamine cocktails with remy martin rather than the usual cheap whiskey you’ve so always preferred…

    …i feel it will add a certain dignity, a certain “je ne sais quoi…”, if you will, whilst contributing to your overall mystique’…
    …yours, in great admiration,
    a concerned critique’…

  4. I can tell you for certain, JVA are drunkcyclists. Back in my racing days, I became a passable Cat. 1 by attempting to chase the Admiral up hills.

  5. I spell like shit when I’m sober.

    And I’m really fucking drunk right now.

    That should be Bad.