A friend, a good ol’ chap here in Madison, goes by Samwhich, eloquently shares his account of what transpired just moments before one of his super serious cyclocross races.
Cyclocross. That’s what you do in Autumn if you ride bikes and wear skinny jeans, right? Well, that’s what I do, on a decidedly non-ironic machine. It’s carbon. Hipsters don’t ride carbon bikes. And it has derailleurs—not just one, two. No mustache. Legs shaved. Skinsuit. That fucking skin suit.
It’s where it started. A skinsuit. Fuck all, I’ve never worn a skin suit, it’s got no pockets, so I got no use for it. But there was a left over in the team kit box so I grabbed it.
I watched the Cat 4 race. The race leader, and eventual winner, was wearing all black, on an all-black bike, with black wheels. My kind of man. But he had too many disc brakes and way too much carbon. So I let him know what I thought. He also rode away from the field. I asked him if he’d ever heard of category 3.
This was all before the tragedy of course. A long way after the race and only slightly before my own, I decided it was time to pretend to be serious about this racing thing.
Bike leaned against the car, right where I left it an hour ago. A bit of potatoes and asparagus to stave off the strong, dark beer I was pre-racing with. Changed in the parking lot, I had no towel, so stood for all to see. Stuffed my fairly new, kinda pricey—but I got them at employee cost (you still pay MSRP for bike gear?)—Giro Bravo full finger gloves (black, is there another color?) onto my debilitated and neglected pectoral muscles.
Then came the urge. Those New Belgium Abbey’s had worked their way through as fast as I’d expected, yet failed to prepare for. All sails set for the nearest Port-a-potty. Walked in the door (latch broken), where tragedy stuck like Zeus’s missile of baby fluid into an unsuspecting virgin. I foolishly unzipped that goddamned skinsuit and watched a glove, only one, sink into the blue-green-brown fluid occupying the bowels of that blue box.
I paused a moment to contemplate my predicament: one glove, quickly sinking into an abyss of human excrement, nothing to wash it with, the other in the pool of liquid near my feet. Pause. Pause. Pause. I poked it to asses it’s rescue. Hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless.
I took moment to wonder if it was even a good idea to buy them. They sucked ass and gave me blisters. I don’t even like wearing gloves. Fuck it. I pissed all over it, grabbed the other one from the floor and hung it from the I-have-trouble-taking-a-dump railing. Someone else can go fishing.