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Just when you think you can't possibly bury yourself any deeper, you do. Oh my, that Mount Lemon is a dandy. I made it to the 10 mile marker. Before you write me off as a completely lazy bastard, know that I broke a spoke at before the 8 mile marker and rode the rest rather tentatively. One broken spoke I can true up enough to get home, but any more than that and I could be in trouble. And, as some of you know, you can get the rim pretty straight by fiddling around with a spoke wrench and loosen the brakes to get that fucker on home, but she ain't gonna be perfect. Ten miles of pretty fast downhill with a wide open rear brake and a wobbly wheel does not confidence build. Add that to the bandages I'm still wearing in three places from a wreck last week and you've got yourself a recipe for slow going. Anything over 35 felt a wee bit on the scary as shit side of things. So I tried not to do that to much. Good times.
No, its no coincidence at all my initials are BJ. I happen to enjoy a good blow job now and again. It's just my thing, I guess. I'm glad to see I'm not the only guy around here getting his ass handed to him. Oh, it's a blast. Thanks for the link. I love drunk chicks.
Holy shit dude. I'm glad to hear you're alive after that one. I can't believe the guy blew a .27. Can I assume he's going to be spending some quality time in the pokey. Going on a little vacation. Up the river. That sort of thing. Here's to your quick recovery, big jonny hoists Ten High Coca Cola cocktail in a coffee cup and drinks. Smooth.
I succeeded in one thing today. And that was to ride myself straight into the fucking ground. I can rest easy now, knowing full well that I did exactly what I had intended at the onset. You think you know racing? You don't know shit. Click here to find out just what in the hell I'm talking about. Tomorrow I'm going to get dropped on Mount Lemon by the Gnome and that freak Justin. God damn guys are gonna kill me. I'm bringing a lunch this time because my time in the mountains will be long. I might even bring a pillow in case the urge to lay down a cry overcomes me. Again. I love having big scrapes all over the side of my body. It's really boss. Showers are an exercise in self hatred. I scrub, I scream, I scrub some more. I'm quite convinced my elderly neighbors think I killed someone in here this afternoon. The cops ought to be here any minute. And when they show, I'll pull the 'ol Nagel on them. I'll answer the door naked and bleeding. Then I'll back out slowly with my wrists together behind my back challenging the cops, "Go ahead, put 'em on me. Do it. C'mere." It worked once. Why not twice.
Another day in the books at the White Stallion Ranch. I slept till I was no longer tired. I drank coffee till I had my fill. I rode around by Gates Pass without ever actually suffering the embarassement of trying to climb it. Four hours later I went home to a cold ultra fuel and a hot shower. Then I had a mountain dew just because I can. That, and Justin left ten of them here last week. I don't even know what to do with all these things. Throw them at the neighbors trailer? Clean the counter top with it? I can't be expected to drink all this, it's way to extreme for little old me. And let me tell you, showering with pavement burns all over the right side of your body is one dark trip, brother. I was practicing my deep breathing exercises as a scrubbed away the gunk. Oh, it's a fucking gas.
Yeah, that got my motor running and then some. I think a certain Laura in Holland might just like that link. At least I hope she does. I live to please her. Hoo Ahh. My man Heff sent in this link. It's funnier than all hell. If you like to make fun of riced out imports and trucks sporting every bolt on accessory known to mankind, you're gonna love beaterz.com. I know I did. In the thread better late than never, here is a Valley of the Sun race report from my the glorious garden gnome.
We're talking big time water under the bridge at this point, I mean like old news city. But at least he wrote something. All I can do is say thank you form the bottom of my heart to the great golden garden gnome. Man, I love that guy.
Don't forget us little people when you get all rich and famous. Or at least kick us down some dollars when it's donut thirty, you know, half past donut hour. 'Cause I love a glazed donut from time to time. And so does my big fat ass. Remember those bullshit ads the ran during the Superbowl about how smoking a joint was somehow tied into killing innocent people? Like, I went out last weekend and helped kill a judge in Mexico. Basically if you do drugs, you support terrorists. Remember that shit? I do, and so does the Libertarian party. They want to run this ad in USA Today and the Washington Times. Doing it just to piss people off is a good enough reason for me, but they've got bigger plans. Click here to find out more.
I love being hurt. It's just great. At least the swelling in my friggin hand has gone down. I thought I had broken my girlfriend for a few delicate moments there. But, as they say, all is well in spankerville. God Bless America. I've decided to be a total schlep and not ride today. I figure, fuck it, I need a break. And what better time to take a break that when you're oozing out of four different contact points from you shoulder down to your calf? So instead of riding I've committed myself to updating the website in a big way this week. I've got some brand new shit for ya'll. A new gallery of fucked up pics and more hotties on bicycles. All in a days work around here. Aside from resizing sixty odd images and writing enough code to numb my brain for a week, the most challenging thing I've managed to pull off today was fixing myself a bowl of cereal. I must have had four by now, with no sign of stopping in the near future. I may graduate to canned tuna later this evening, and I may not. I might just take a nap. I feel I've earned it. How would you like a few jokes? They keep showing up in my mailbox, I might as well get some mileage outta them.
I've pretty much derailed this weeks plans to ride 20 something hours. So far today I've barley make it out of the fucking motothome. I'll have to drive over to the internet café tonight so I can upload all this shiznit. Maybe that will encourage me to do something tomorrow. Then again, maybe not.
There was to be no race for the fat man this Sunday. I figure I can ride for two hours like a turtle. A big fat turtle. With bandages. I can't friggin race. My right hand is so bitched up I can't really grab the bars, I can just sit my hand on tip of it. I took a lot of shit from Randy on that one, but fuck it, I'm staggering around with a limp and shit. Fuck me running. I was hopping to get railed out of my mind on a fist full of blue, yellow and purple pills, but I only managed to scrounge up a couple of Roxicets. They work just fine. I took a half of one when I got to the Cricket Pavilion for day two of the traffic cone follies. I rode around in big, lazy circles for two hours. Just like a turtle. I accomplished my goal for the day. Big Gay Randy jus didn't have it today, so he did not accomplish his goal. The cute little Garden Gnome bagged a third place behind a really strong Nathan Mitchell. First place was a guy named Chris. I forgot his last name, but I can tell you that he can go like all hell when he wants to. You should see his eyes light up for a twenty dollar priem. The man is built like a brick shipyard. Learn the name Nathan Mitchell. You will hear it again. You have been warned. After a little ridey ride it was time for some food and the drive back down south to Tucson. I'm all bandaged up like a homo mummy, seeping questionable fluids through the bandages on my ass. Oh, it's a moment of pride to seep gunk right through ones pants on onto the sofa. Ugh. Fucking gnary shit. We took a pit stop on the way back. I threw down about four shots of Vodka over at Nic's to wash down some Naproxen. Don't worry, that last one is available over the counter. Then I had Chinese food and Randy did all the driven. It worked just fine.
The only news for today is that I crashed out with 2 laps to go in a crit. And, yes, it hurts. It was getting all jiggy and single file as we wound it up for the field sprint. Victory wasn't an option as there were two guys up the road already with at least 25 seconds on us. It was between those two now. One was our young gun Chad, and the other I don' know but he was from White Mountain. As you can imagine I wasn't doing much of anything but following the wheels. As we entered the chicane, a quick left-right combination, all of us were freewheeling in single file. Well, almost all of us. I've got to be 6th or 8th in line, way out of it really. There is only three more corners to the finishing straight. All of the sudden, some bozo comes up the inside and yells, "On your left!" I give him some room. I have to. If I don't he's going to run into me. So we make it through the left hander and approach the right. Now it gets ugly. He's got his shoulder up just past my bars now, and my drops are banging against his thigh. He's coming over the top on me in corner, it sucks, and I've got nowhere to go. The inside of the corner is a big cement cylinder holding up a light pole, so I can't go there. The outside line is now a guy leaning on me, hard. We make it through the corner bumping each other and the whole time I'm just trying to thread the needle. I've got this guy smothering my left and I'm just trying to get my shoulder by the light pole, oh please, oh please, oh please. Just as I think to my self, fuck, I'm going to live, I'm on my side and sliding. I can't believe how far I'm sliding. Am I ever going to stop sliding? The fancy wheels I borrowed just before the race sure were a good looking set of wheels. I shoulda known better. The tubular rolled off the back rim. I might have gone down no matter what I was riding. Maybe I was just doomed from the start. And, I can't really blame the guy who glued them up. Most of the base tape stayed on the rim, just the rest of the tire separated from the base tape. That's what you get for borrowing wheels five minutes before you start I guess. Jesus Fucking Christ that sucked.
I like zdenka. Yes sir I do. Check this shit out: "A 31 year old Chicago man has been sentenced to 45 years in prison for killing 26 year old bicycle messenger Thomas McBride in 1999. Late last year, Carnell Fitzpatrick was found guilty of first degree murder after a jury deliberated for 16 hours over the case. He was considered for reckless homicide, a lighter charge than first degree murder, however the court eventually rejected the former after the killing was deemed to be deliberate…" Send that bitch up the river, where he belongs. You can read more about it at cyclingnews.com. I've got some incredible people reading my site. They have lives filled with excitement and glamour. I have a bike and live in a trailer. Here are some recent emails detailing the sorted lives of these proud American patriots. I think you'll agree there guys live like fucking rock stars.
And since I'm totally blown out from riding me ass off all week, I'm just gonna keep cutting and pasting my way right through this update. Just because I can. This one I had to edit down a bit, only to showcase the utter brilliance of this man's writing. We had been firing stuff back and forth about how stupid it was to put a disc brake on the front end of a bike just to hit a price point. Gonna run disc's, run a pair. Anyway, read this:
How's that shit grab ya. Kinda makes you wanna get out and ride doesn't it? Or at least drink beer and break something. I've got one more for ya, then it's time to start packing up for the weekends races. I'll be doing two crits up in Phoenix. Ugh. I'm going to fucking die. The best part is it's entirely self inflicted. I'm paying good money to drive out in the west valley and ride around in a parking lot as fast as I can. Maybe if I'm really lucky, I'll crack, get dropped and wipe out into a traffic cone. One can only hope.
OK, that's it. I'm done. Ya'll have a nice weekend. Ride fast, swerve lots.
I found one picture of Dru dressed up like a girl at the 24 hour race. You can see it too, by just clicking here. I watched Jim Shea fucking blaze a skeleton run last night. It was incredible. Go Jimmy. I didn't stay coherent long enough to find out if he medalled or not, but homeboy looked good as gold to me. I had never even heard of the guy until I got an email a few weeks back. I posted it back on the February 9th if you want to read it. They guys a friggin riot. He likes to get pumped up before his event by having his coaches yell at him. He likes to be angry. He was all yellin and shit. Fuck great stuff. Go Jimmy.
Yeah, baby, the red sled. You were still pissed when you told me that story. Fuck, I'm pissed now. I just figured out a few more things those pricks go outta me. Ugh. And, you're absolutely right, It can always be worse. At least I can still ride. All that material shit doesn't really matter once we lose our health, does it? I was thinking about the Karma police when I got dropped climbing Gates Pass today. I was looking at the various trash on the side of the road, thinking that if I found a purse or a wallet, I wouldn't feel right taking the money. Even though I just got hosed and could use a couple extra bucks, I couldn't keep it in good conscience. I guess that's the difference between me and the pieces of shit that robbed me. Here is today's joke, compliments of June and T-Jay.
Oh, stop, my sides hurt. Really. Thats what they call a good one.
Right on brother. I hope that wheel collapses too. Sorta. I laced it up myself, and in a way I hope it lasts forever. Maybe we'll cross paths again someday. Who knows, it could happen.
Another glorious morning in the trailer. I missed the usual Wednesday group ride 'cause I got up to late. Oh well. Maybe the usual group missed me instead. I'll still get my miles in. Its not like I have anything else to do today. Weeee. It seems that I forgot a few details of the race in my last post. Good thing 'ol Nate was there to pick up the slack.
How could I forget? I guess I'm just a fucking dumbass. The story goes a little something like this. At 22 minutes into his first lap, yeah, he checked, it was 22 minutes, Nate's seat feel off his bike. He stops, picks up the pieces, releases, fuck me, I can't fix this and goes onward. He comes in at 1:16. Not bad considering I only pulled one lap that was faster all night. Nate, or Beef, starts eating, stretching, and eating more, trying to get his hammered muscles back in order. A miserable lap like that would've broken lesser men. Men like men for example. Nate recovers and proceeded to light that mother fucker up all night long. And for his last lap, he pulls a 1:06, our fastest. The guy is a fucking animal. Somewhere during the night, round about when I came in from my third lap, Nate looked miserable. He was running second and I was forth, so we had this weird symbiotic relationship going. While one of us was out on the course, the other was asleep. Or, at least trying to sleep. 24 hour races are weird like that. You ride a lap of a little over an hour, not so bad really. Then you get back and you're amped out of your head. Personally I always feel like I'm ready for another lap. Then, once you start eating and sitting around, it hits you. Like the side of a building. Thud. We had a strange little dance going on through the night. I got back and Nates deep in the pain cave. He's sitting in a lawn chair, mouth open, drooling a little. I'm firing on all cylinders, going a mile a minute trying to help him get going. It worked, he left, and I proceeded to fall apart. So while Nate was riding I was in a coma. When he returned, all happy as shit and excited, I was in a dark, dark place. He's cooling down while I tried to rev up the old engine again. Nothing is working for me. Coffee, soda, ultra fuel, nada. I'm dead. Nate puts my bike in the trainer, and lights up a propane heater to point at me. He's got an apon tied on and he's making me cookies. I'm trying to pedal, trying to wake up. I don't think I've ever been this deep in the pain cave and I don't like it. How the fuck am I gonna get out of this mess? The coffee I'm drinking is about as productive as throwing bricks in the Grand Canyon. I'm doing something, but there is no discernable effect. Ugh. Fuck me. At this moment I completely understand the issue of doping in the pro peleton. I would take anything right now just to make this all go away. Fuck it, cut me Lou! Do it! I somehow get it together enough to get out on the course, and you know what? It went pretty well. I felt good as soon as I hit the start tent. Especially once I got a look at all the other sorry ass bastards waiting to go back out. It was grim for some of those guys. Me, I was ready to lock and load, baby. Bring it on. So, Nate pretty much saved me on that one. I was fucked nine ways to Tuesday and he grabbed me by the collar and shook me out of it. It really was my darkest hour.
I'm not only a client, I'm the player president. You better ask somebody.
How fucking hot is that? White shirt, pigtails and a plaid skirt. Forget about it. I'm dying over here. I pretty much just broke my penis in half over that shit. This is her website. And you've gotta check out her diary. I think I love this girl. It's like my birthday came early this year. If you're like me, and I'm afraid that many of you are, then you know how much that forwarded pity party sob story email thing can be. You know the shit I'm talking about. Well, check out this one my man Tom sent me. It's the King Hell forwarded email.
Yeah, yeah, fuck Billy Evans. You wanna help somebody, send money to me and the Gnome so we can eat something other than this fucking mac and cheese bullshit. I'm getting sick of this trailer park and canned tuna. No, I'm just kidding. This is fucking great. It's cheaper than dirt and I can just ride all my time away. Please don't send me any money. Spend it on beer for yourself. You deserve it. Today I rode over to Mount Lemon for the first time. I won't lie and say I climbed the whole thing. I turned tail and packed it when I saw a sign reading elevation 6000 feet. It was right past the sign that said something about a ski resort being 15 miles away. Jesus, what a hill. I heard some guy in town rode the whole friggin thing in an hour forty. You won't be seeing me do that. Ever.
Another week, another opportunity to ride myself into the funking ground. Yee haa. Let's get into some reader mail. Oh, I should mention that I'm hitting up an internet café a couple of nights a week, downloading all my mail at once, and sending the replies later. What does that all mean? I've been replying to emails a whole lot slower than I used to. I'm reading all of them, and trying to get back to everyone that takes the time to write in. It's just a couple of days turn around now. And, sometimes I have trouble relaying mail off my internet provider up in Moscow, whom I still send a check to every month by the way. I've had a few messages come back as undeliverable a day after I sent them. I'm trying to fix that annoying little issue, but in the meantime, some mail isn't getting through.
A very interesting link indeed. And, yes, that would make a nice story. How much fun would it be to say, hey guys, I went for a ride last Tuesday and the strangest thing happened. I've even got pictures to prove it. Hey, it could happen, couldn't it? Why can't I come across something like that? All I ever get on rides is dropped. And, sometimes, if I'm really lucky, I bonk. On the theft front, Mr. Cuth Baby drops a little knowledge. I don't know what this is all about, and I don't care.
That letter so on point I just don't have anything to add. You my friend, have a way with words. Lets see, what else is going on. Oh yeah, the 24 hour race. Where do I start? I got there Saturday morning. The rest of my drunkcyclist teammates were already there and had set up a killer camp spot. These guys have is covered top to bottom. Twice even. We managed a fine fifth place last year in the 24 Hours of the Old Pueblo. In our sophomore effort, we expected to continue our record of unbridled ass kicking. We're realists. We accept the fact the 4 man team is a very competitive category and we're not doing ourselves any favors by tackling it on singles speeds. But while we may not burn out the fastest lap times of the day, we sure as shit keep on pounding through the night. Men are separated from the boys at 4:30 am, my friends. That crack of dawn shit will make or break your weekend. And who bats clean up on our squad? Me. I'm the last one picked for kickball, the fat kid no one wants on their team. I go out forth, virtually guarantying a race heavy on the night laps and short on easy street. Fuck, it sucks. My slowest lap last year was the one I took where the sun came up. This year was almost no exception, but I'm getting ahead of myself already, aren't I? As per instructed by my other team members, I went to a second hand store on the way out of town to peruse the ladies garment section. Savers, the thrift that shops like a department store. I love that place. I scored a wacked out flower print shirt adorned with the tassels you tie up on the side. In a word: Classy. Not satisfied with cross dressing alone, I also snatched up some fine golf gear. Green plaid pants with a 48 inch waist and some white Arnold Palmer shoes. I had in the car already a big honking collared blue polyester shirt and a visor with a flipped up brim to complete my Jesper Parnivik look. In a word: Pimp. Eight ultra fuels, a half gallon of coffee and a borrowed front wheel later I was ready to race. What did I find to replace my kick ass Chris King Mavic 517 race wheel that some asshole stole out of my car last Saturday night? Staying with the Mavic theme, I got my hot hands on a Cross Max demo wheel. Demo like demo-olish. I gave it hell, and it's fucking still rocking and rolling straight as an arrow. Nice wheel, real nice. Did I run tubeless? Um, no. There is a metric assload of cactus in and about Tucson, and this race course is no exception. If you ride like me, with no regard for personnel safety, you're gonna blow a few corners. Like most of them. I hit pieces of cholla and paddle cactus on each and every lap. I also hit a couple of suicidal desert rats, but they don't so much cause flats as just go crunch. Icky. In two years, no flats for me because I use slim tubes. I'd way rather deal with a little more rotational weight if I won't have to fix flats out the dark. We hit the start dressed up like a bunch of transvestites. And we looked damn good. Kyle rode first decked out in a tight little raver top, skirt, a wig and stockings. Fucking scary when you think about it. After the initial excitement of the start, I had to sit around and pic my ass for three and a half hours before I could ride. You have no idea how much it sucks. Anyway, my time came and I went out for my one daylight lap. I had better pay attention, because the next three are gonna be in the darky dark. I turned a respectable 1 hour 13 minute lap. I was satisfies, thinking at the time that I could not have gone any faster. It turned out that I didn't. My first lap was my fastest. The rest of them were more along the line of 1:18, 1:19 and 1:21. As the day wore on, more and more people began to show up in the drunkcyclist compound. I hesitate to call them support staff, because they were only there to do one thing. And it wasn't to fill water bottles. It was to get totally fucked up and break shit. And did they ever. Dane from Maine and the husky midget brought down their dirt bikes and proceeded to teat shit up. I saw Dane out on the course about 2:30 in the morning yelling encouragement astride his Honda. Yardsale came all the way out from wherever the fuck he lives now on the east coast. I think its North Carolina. Nic and Casey were there too, and in rare form. Husky is getting even husky-er. He can't even fit into his riding pants anymore. Casey was calling him Michelin Man all night. I found a nice pin with Mr. Michelin riding a bicycle and gave it to husky. He wore it all night. Those guys are awesome. It was great having them around the start tent when I finished screaming and yelling my name, spilling beer on everything. Oh, the pride. There were more of us there to get loaded than to race. We feel it's a winning ratio. We were there to take all the day and night points both on and off the bike. Just because we can. Missing Link Racing had a keg, just like they always do at the races. Just because they can. I was so deep in the pain cave, I couldn't even think about drinking. It would have derailed the party train for sure. As it was, I was heading full tilt for Hurtsville. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. I was having enough trouble just trying to eat after I finished my laps. I never thought I would have trouble with that. Eating is one of my strong points after all. Maybe I should start smoking weed again, just for racing purposes. I hear it opens up the lungs. Fuck, I hear it gets you high too, so it's gotta be a good idea. Big Nate pulled our fastest lap, a 1:06, out of his ass in the morning. This set the stage for Dru to totally fuck me over. All that bastard had to do was ride a 1:25, or slower, and I could pack it. But no. Dru goes all out and gets back at 11:53 am. Just so I have to do another lap. Thank you very much. I went out and rode a 1:28. I was done. I rode most of the lap with a guy from Vegas with a couple of broken ribs. Cool guy, I'm bummed I forgot his name. I heard he rode a :58 minute lap too. I would have liked to ask him about that. Unreal. Big Gay Randy rode for one of the U of A teams and put in a 1:00:30 lap that threw them into first. They kept their edge through the night and stood atop the podium Sunday afternoon. Fucking kick ass. That guy just likes winning I guess. That's going to have to be it for now friends. I'll have more reports from the trenches tomorrow, and maybe even some race reports from the Valley of the Sun. I want to make sure I thank the following people in no particular order for making my weekend kick ass from top to bottom: Tall Paul for the lights and endless Cliff Shots, the Mavic demo-olish program for the Cross Max front wheel, All my team mates for throwing it the fuck down all weekend long, Lee, Todd and everyone at Epic Rides for another smooth edition of the 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo, Domenic's Cycling Imports for the tents and Astroturf, everyone who supports drunkcyclist and yelled at me on the course, everyone who came just to get drunk and act like a maniac, Kelly and Lisa for just being there and doing what they do, Pounds of Bounds for showing me what pain looks like, Avid for making the best brakes on the planet, Bell helmets for the fine head gear, Specialized for making the tires that kept me out of danger, Intense shoes for the comfy foot wear and last but not least the makers of Slime. Two years on the most cacti strewn course in the world and no flats. That shit works.
Top ten rejected Valentines day cards. From me to you, one day late. And a buck short.
Fun, fun stuff for sure. And so close to the truth it almost hurts.
Thanks Jim, really. And, that is the Squealer Jim's talking about. An even I missed last year because my fat stinkin ass had to work. I'm not going to miss it again. Click here to check it out. I'm getting ready for the 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo race tomorrow. I'm sure it'll knock my dick totally in the dirt for about three days, but, it'll be great fun. Not as much fun as this. But fun non the less. I think we'll do pretty good this year. I quite convinced that I'm going to come back friggin crippled, but it'll be worth it. I'll let ya'll know how it went on Monday.
I rode for four hours yesterday. Apparently Gord Fraser is tapering down, because I got dropped. I also learned that just because coffee refills are a quarter it doesn't mean you should drink tens cups and then go for a ride over Gates Pass. It won't be much fun when you're ears start ringing on the climb. But at least you get some quality "jonny time" when you get dropped by Gnomey Gnomenburg. You know, sit up, spin an easy gear, sip a little water and ride by yourself for awhile. Good times. Here is today's Valentine joke. Little Matt comes home from first grade and tells his father that they learned about the history of Valentine's Day. "Since Valentine's Day is for a Christian saint and we're Jewish," he asks, "will God get mad at me for giving someone a valentine?" Matt's father thinks a bit, then says "No, I don't think God would get mad. Who do you want to give a valentine to?" "Osama Bin Laden," David says. "Why Osama Bin Laden," his father asks in shock. "Well," Matt says, "I thought that if a little American Jewish boy could have enough love to give Osama a valentine, he might start to think that maybe we're not all bad, and maybe start loving people a little bit. And if other kids saw what I did and sent valentines to Osama, he'd love everyone a lot. And then he'd start going all over the place to tell everyone how much he loved them and how he didn't hate anyone anymore." His father's heart swells and he looks at his boy with a newfound pride. "Matt, that's the most wonderful thing I've ever heard." "I know," Matt says, "and once that gets him out in the open, the Marines could blow the shit out of him." When you're done laughing your ass off to that one, check this out. It's all for a good cause. I've gotten a lot of email this week offering support and condolence in regards me getting jacked for a ton of shit. Those mother fuckers.
Thanks man. I'm thinking of looking around for a duck blind some hunter had in his backyard just taking up space this time of year. We could wheel it out on the sidewalk, get a few cases and hunker down for some serious blasting. It'll be great. And speed-freak thieves make an attractive wall mount that can be enjoyed for years to come. Click here. And then click here.
I am shot to shit right now. I did the nice little easy spin Wednesday ride that meets down by U of A. It's a piece of cake, let me tell ya. Nah, it ain't that bad, but I am cooked. I found an internet café I can use to update the site. Outstanding I'm pretty stokes about the 24 hour race this weekend. It's gonna kick ass from top to bottom. Just like you know it should. Fuck it, I'm hungry. More tomorrow.
Day one in the gay-bi-curious hostel on wheels is in the books. We came, we saw, we went for a ride. This place is gonna be like pressed ham in about twelve minutes. You should see the trailer park we're in, the Desert Shore. It's high class. Like crack cocaine. I have no idea where and how I'm gonna scam up some internet access. I'll find some internet café, or some shit I'm sure. Setting up something in the big gay box is gonna be expensive and therefore unappetizing to both the gnome and I. Speaking of unappetizing and expensive, the car break in of last Saturday night is getting worse and worse. As many of you know, I came down to Arizona with some new drunkcyclist t-shirts and, this is the real bitch, socks I had made by the 'sock guy'. They were badass, black with the dc logo in yellow on the cuff. My cost on the shit that got stolen was over a grand. No shit. And my insurance will only cover 250 of it. No shit. I just got fucked in the ass, hard, with no Vaseline. Life really is a bitch. The good news is that the two sets of race wheels, tent, sleeping bag, therma rest, and sunglasses will be covered. Minus a 500 dollar deductible, of course. At least that's something, right? I can't tell you when I'll have more socks, t-shirts or anything else. I took it in the ass on this one. I don't see me having the money to print up much of anything for a long, long time. Like never, probably. If anyone really wants a drunkcyclist shirt, just do what we did last year for the single speed race series. Get a wife beater and a black magic marker. Write drunkcyclist across the front and your name one the back. Then get out there and start kicking some ass. Make me proud.
The Gnome and I are living fat. Large like Jan Ullrich in February baby. I'm so stoked I can't see straight. I hardly even mind that some dickheads jacked me for all the shit in my car Saturday night. OK, I lied, I still mind. I'm madder than hell. But fuck it man, the sun will still come up tomorrow. At least I still have my bikes and my health. It could be a whole lot worse. All I'm gonna do this week is blow my fucking brains out on the bike. I don't give a shit about anything else. Can ya blame me?
If anyone got one of the new drunkcyclist shirts or a pair of the socks from me in the last week, consider yourself lucky. You now own a collectors item. My car was broken into last night and all of the remaining clothing was stolen. That means there are about a hundred pairs of drunkcyclist socks and 40 shirts out there somewhere, probably in a dumpster or at Buffalo Exchange. That shit cost me a lot of money. Fuck me. I could not be more pissed off. What a fucking pain in my ass. I'm out wheels, tires, clothes, sunglasses, tent, sleeping bag and all types of other shit I haven't even figured out yet. The good news is that I still have my tool box, shoes and both of my bikes. Although the did steal my totally badass front mountain bike wheel. Fucking radial laced Mavic 517 on a Chris King hub. Shit was totally dope. I'll miss that wheel. Fucking bastards. I don't even want to talk about what race wheels got jacked. Let's just say it's a good thing I've got insurance. Whoo boy, this is gonna hurt. They even pried open my Thule box thingy and fucked it all up. Sons a bitches, that thing was fucking expensive. All my camping gear is gone, but they left me a lawn chair. Good, now I can sit down and get drunk. I have a list of everyone I sold a shirt to. I'm thinking of publishing it online so if anyone out there notices some asshole wearing my shit who didn't pay for it, you can bring me his head. It'd be a nice gesture, I can piss on it and kick it around like a fucking soccer ball. Now I can't even ride because I have to wait for the cops to show up. Ho hum, la te da. That's about enough for now, I'll rant more later.
You want a peak at my life once I head north again? Click here. That's what I have to work with. Looks like the Kendrick - Deary ride I used to do last fall is rated at 4 ½ out of 5. I'm jonny big dick from now on. I didn't see the two climbs out of Asotin on the list, but they should be. They are friggin huge. By far the biggest and best I've seen around those parts. I went out to the White Tanks race today. No I didn't race it. Forty five dollars is just too much money for three laps around in a circle. So I spectated, like a man I did. I rode the course with Bensey and a few others whose names I've forgotten. One of them was named John, I think. The name rings a bell for some reason. And there was some beer involved. (of course) The Missing Link Racing guys always seem to have a keg. In fact, they're sponsored by a brewery. Smart, real smart. Good bunch of guys, it was a pleasure to hang out with them. I tried to sign up for the Valley of the Sun stage race today as well. And when I say tried, I mean failed. Cat one through four is full up. I'm so fucking lazy. The good news is that I've gone from an alternate to a full blown member of the drunkcyclist squad for the 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo. I don't know what I was ever thinking with this road bike shit. I should have been gunning for the 24 hour race the whole time. I'm a fucking moron. What else is new. I won't be able to update the page for a few days. But, I got a new mp3 up and some new sites of the week. What am I doing you ask? I'm moving from my sister's plush Scottsdale digs to Tucson. Me and the Gnome are shacking up in a motorhome. Yes sir, an R.V. Nice, huh? Click here for a picture of our humble home on wheels. I'm sure we'll have more pics as soon is we get down there and start clowning around like a couple of fucking jackasses. 'Cause we are a couple of jackasses when it comes right down to it. I can't wait. It's going to be killer. We've got everything a man could need. Cheap rent, a couple of bikes, lawn chairs and a Bar B Que grill. Get up at 7:00, ride at 10:00, home at 5:00 and grill up dinner at 6:00. I can get used to that. I feel it's really going to play to my strengths.
So I'm riding home from my nice little four hour ride today, feeling a little sporty and some son of a bitch gives me the 'ol "honk and swerve" routine. He's got two girls with him in his Suzuki Samurai and he's out to impress. I catch him at the next red light, roll past slow, make eye contact and flip him a big old bird. Fuck you, buddy. So now he's coming up on me again. I'm looking over my shoulder at him and he starts honking and driving up on me. I spit on his windshield. I fucking hate people sometimes. On the other hand, we do have some great reader mail today, do dig in.
It looks like you guys found a little slice of happiness right there. Nice work, gentlemen, nice work. You guys are fucking heroes. No doubt about it. One man, one keg, one dream. Awesome. Get 'er done.
Yeah, that sounds right. I'm pretty sure that's about exactly how they did it. I love how the guys who play it fast and loose walk away making money on the deal. Actually showing a profit. I think that's the best part. All they leave behind in a smoldering pile of ashes and a whole bunch of poor fucks saying, "what happened?"
Thanks for sending me that story. I hadn't heard that one, and it's about the shittiest thing I've ever heard. Bad news, man. I'm all for Jimmy Shea from this moment forward. I hope he gets the friggin gold. I'll be watching him for sure.
Nothing says "I love you" like a letter from Yardsale. You're like that one mother fucker on fat albert, mush mouth. Oba Kabe Fatba Alba and so on. But, I'm picking up what you're putting down. And, Jesus Christ, everyone is gonna be here soon. We should burn this fucking town to the ground. I say we rape the horses and run off the women. Or something along those lines. And stop calling me a gay deer.
Holy shit, what a fucking nightmare. I just tore my eyes out with a fork.
Man, that thing is capital PIMP. I'm defiantly feelin' it. I saw a Kelly single speed cross rig at the trade show I couldn't take my friggin eyes off. It was lean, mean and green. Absolutely beautiful in every way. And this on-one is just as cool. Fuck, talk about another useless addition to my already swollen stable of bikes. I want on of those rigs in a bad way, baby. Fucking totally cool. Fuck, I need to start selling plasma and all this semen I'm just wasting. Here's the link to the on-one webpage. While I'm totally riding on-ones jock, have you seen the forks they make? They look a lot like the old Yo Eddy Fat Chance forks of yesteryear. Fucking bad ass. I really like rigid forks. I can go faster downhill on suspension, but that doesn't mean I'm having any more fun. I'm so sick of all this gimmicky crap that is always in need of constant reassurance and massaging. It's all fucking bullshit. I just want a bike I can ride that doesn't fuck up constantly and require piles of cash to be thrown at it periodically. My next bike will be steel and rigid and have one gear. That's the way cave man did it, that's the way dad did it. Anyone for some motocross? I totally spaced signing up for the White Tanks mountain bike race today. I had to drop my car off for a whole varied assortment of repair and service this morning and I didn't turn in my entry form on time. I guess I had till around noon. Too bad I'm such a fuckup. I hope they allow race day entry. And, I'm sure if they do, they'll dick me for a couple extra bucks. Staying with the "dick" theme, check out these two letters.
I don't know how to keep Mister Happy feeling, well, I'd settle for just feeling. When I ride my rollers, I go from 'free and easy' to 'so numb it ain't even there anymore' in about 40 minutes. I'll tell you this much, if anyone knows how to fix this little problem post something on the message board. Inquiring minds want to know.
Buddy, I don't know if that's going to end the rumors or just start more. Fuck me, I'm glad to hear you're still alive after that tumble. You say you never let go during the whole thing? You are a man with priorities. And at the risk of sounding gayer than a tennis helmet, what's this small penis crap? You are the holder of the Texas Package after all, be proud. I've seen you in your lycra, hell we all have. It looks like you've got a friggin water bottle stuffed down there for Christ's sake. Who are you trying to kid?
Some things just piss me off. Maybe it'll piss you off too. I think everyone should read this. If anyone wants to know just what kind of tank heads show up at a Wednesday group ride in Tuscon, let me tell you they are much tougher than I am. Oh yeah. If they're a ten, I'm a negative 412.
My man, that is one fucked up game. But, I still played it twice. Maybe I should drink about ten beers and have another go. It ain't doin much for me now. And I like the Wesley Willis reference.
Not to mention he once got a forth place in Paris - Roubaix, best showing by an American to date. A feat only matched by George Hincapie. Just like his three tour victories has only been matched so far. And, was it twice as World Champion? Two words: All rounder.
You know me like a fucking book, don't ya? Great site, just great. What a crack up.
Anyone else want to know what drunkcyclist is all about? I didn't think so.
I had heard about this, but I still can't believe it. I guess it was inevitable when you miss a bunch of drunk mother fuckers up with a pair of 72's. Poor bastard. At least he went out with his boots on, so to speak. Here it is folks, death by boobs.
My vote? Its gotta be bullshit. Funny bullshit, but bullshit none the less. This next letter is not bullshit.
Thanks, and I will keep up the good work. Because at drunkcyclist, quality is job one. We build excitement. Tonight, make it drunkcyclist. Something like that anyway. And you're right about LeMond. Between Armstrong, LeMond and Museuw you've got about all the comeback stories I can handle. How cool is paul katcher? Well, he linked this in his last update. Can I get a "hell yeah"? I'm heading down to Tucson to ride a bit with Big Gay Randy and do some on site trailer park inspections. I gotta find a place with trashy broads and low rent that isn't so ghetto that the Gnome and I get friggin killed. I let you know how it goes. I figure where ever we go, we'll be straight running shit after about three days. We're just like that.
I was offline for about 30 hours and 40 new messages showed up in my inbox. Since I'm completely ruined from this weekends racing, and can't come up with anything coherent and witty, I'm just going to share some of these gems with ya'll. Good shit this week. My fans fucking rule.
Good work gentlemen. Those girls look like fucking trailer trash. I love trailer trash. I hope the gnome and I can find some of our own soon. There is a pretty good chance I'll be in Tucson living in a motor home by the end of the week. White trailer trash bitch pimpin', here I come.
You're right. That is horse shit. Yeah Jenny, you go girl. That Lance guy, he had it easy. What a pussy. Now take a tennis player hopped up on goof balls... Now that's tough guy stuff. Fuck you guys, really.
Husky, if you want it, you fucking got it man. You had me laughing so hard I'm fucking crying. Oh God, you are my hero. Stay away from my wife. And my dog. Oh, and we ain't even close to done yet. Oh hell no.
I don't even know where to start. I'm stoked to hear you're rockin a single speed. Fuck all that gear shit. And, thanks for the links. I'm diggin it. Hoo Ahh. That's a whole lotta big saggy boobs to look at. My friggin head is spinning over here, whoa. Good night.
I'll tell ya, you never miss something till it's gone. Like my sisters 300 channel digital cable and high speed internet connection. No bueno. For some reason, it isn't working and it blows. I am such an internet junkie. Sad but true. I don't even know what to do with myself without it. Big jonny trainwreck. Yes, the big man raced Usery. And the big man got his ass dropped. Like a frigging stone, I tell ya. Of course, I didn't really come down here to get popped, dropped and rolled, but thems the breaks, pardner. Like my old man likes to tell me, "Tough shit? Chew harder." I love that guy. I hung in there for awhile, but no long enough apparently. I just can't climb. The short ones aren't so bad, but the four miles (whatever it is) up Usery were enough to tail me off the back like nobodies business. It was grim. At least I got high fives from Bensey, Marsha and the Gnome when I came through the feed zone. Bensey even offered to give me a hug. I wish he had a ham sandwich. Or, a cold beer. But, the encouragement was nice. It's tough riding around in the snow and cold in Idaho, driving all the way down here and getting dropped. But, like my man Snake told me today, "Dude, coming from Northern Idaho down here where everyone is riding balls the wall already. These guys are flying, what did you expect? Don't worry about it." I know, I know. I'm here to get my ass kicked. But I still walk away feeling like, pretty much, I suck. In other news, because I'm a viable news source now, the Tour de Heart crit is a well put together event. I would recommend that race to anyone. All put together by one man named Bill. Good work there buddy. Jonas Carney took the big dog race in a sprint, with Little Green Dave Herbold in second and Big Tex Tallous in third. Talk about a fast finish. It was like watching cars drive by. Them boys is speedy. You can read the results here. The Usery Pass race is a hard one to miss too. But, the 7:00 am start time sucks. It's a road closer, traffic control deal. But it still sucks. It's friggin dark and colder than a witches tit. 31 degrees this morning. I did not drive 1400 miles to ride in 31 degree weather. The elite race is a who's who of all the AZ big boys. All the local and out of town, just here for the winter talent shows to hand out beat downs. Fun to watch. Hard to do. Ol' Randini took the field sprint for 13th. Maybe. It looked like a field sprint anyway. Coulda been ninth or eleventh, but it wasn't first. I could check, of course, but I'm just not that thorough. You can read the results here. And thats about it for now folks.
I raced Saturday for the first time this year. I sucked a mile of cock. I made it for 25 minutes, in a race the was to last for 35. No bueno. Like my man Big Tex Tallous told me today, "It's good to get that first race under your belt, so you can see where you need to be." I hear that. Where I need to be is in a strip club getting all shitty. I can handle that. In fact, I could excel in that arena. I race again today. I'll probably suck another mile of cock. More news at eleven. Speaking of news, here's what everyone is clamoring over: The Gnome done went green. No more rumors, it's a done deal. And good for him. I hope he has a great year. I always thought he'd look good in a little red suit with a pointy hat. Maybe holding a shovel, standing by a potted geranium or something. Perfect little addition to any garden. Randini is not green. He's kinda blue in a rock and role kinda way. If ya know what I'm saying. Same deal, best 'o luck my man. The Mighty Mitchell is seventeen going on pro dressed up like a candy dish. Or a plate of jelly bellys. You get the idea. Watch for that kid, he's gonna be somebody. I name for the future. And me, I suck a mile of cock. I'm the clown prince of cat. 4.
Steve, you're all right. You sound about as trashed as I am. Iowa kicks ass, don't let anyone fool ya on that one.
Check this out. Good stuff. I'm doing the Tour de Heart crit today. Or, maybe the crits going to do me. I'm not sure yet. Let me go take my beating first. Then I'll decide. Aside from that, I don't have much to say. It'll be my first race of the year. I've been living and training in the frozen wasteland of Northern Idaho, so my legs are great. I don't know how I'll do. I wish it was starting right now. Fuck it, I'm gonna go play some playstation on my brother in laws giant tv. Just because I can.
All I gotta say is God Bless America. If you want more of that action, and I think that you probably do, click here. I don't know about you, but I like it. I heard a funny story the other day. Turns out I sold a t-shirt to a guy at Interbike who had never seen the site. I guess he just liked the name, or something. So, the guy goes home and checks it out. Now he doesn't wear the shirt and tells people, "I don't know if I'm comfortable promoting that website." Fine by me. Have fun in church, bucko. Here are some nice pics to use as wallpaper. Whick one is my wallpaper right now? This one. Check out the e-card I got in the mail. Now that's what friends are for. I went to the local Safeway grocery up here in Scottsdale, to get the usual low budget bike dork stuff. I wasn't really prepared for what transpired. But, I guess I shouldn't have been all that surprised. I am in Scottsdale, after all. I parked down near the end of the row, as I'm not too concerned with a little walking. Most of these fat fucks could do with a little exercise in their day anyway. But, instead of burning a few calories, they battle it out for that elusive 'close as I can get' spot. At the end of the row nearest the store there are two handicapped spots. Just like you might see in any parking lot, anywhere. They were both occupied by cars that cost a whole lot more money than I've made in my lifetime. And, of course, neither had handicapped plates. I got a look at the couple driving one of these cars. They sneered at the world as they picked out a cart and entered the store. I sneered at them. I saw them again in the bakery department. I got what I needed and even managed to say hello to the woman who was working there. Like a person should. You make small talk and wish the people helping you out a nice day. It pretty much a common courtesy. Not for these rich fucks. The act like they own us. I was treated to a vision of the wealthy shitbag bourgeois landowner beating down his servants just because he could. It was then I realized two things: One, I'm much better off as a poor as fuck bike racer with a porn site than a rich cock sucker like that guy. And two, I had better hurry up and eat something, because I'm starting to fucking hallucinate. Amazing the things you can learn in a grocery store. Here is some reader mail:
Fuck me runnin that link is great. My fave? Without question, this one. It makes a nice background too, take my word on it. And I'll leave the 'I'm so cold I can't stand it' shit alone awhile. You know, since I'm in Arizona now and all that.
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