Today was the Big Mother. The Last Big Ride Before Leadville. The
King Of All Hurt. The Three Queens of Flagstaff.
I set out to climb everything worth a damn in the Flagstaff area. And
in succession. Line 'em up and knock 'em down. Just like that.
I had some simple criteria: It had to be over a half hour effort (for
me) and it had to be on dirt. I did the same ride two weeks before Leadville
last year. I thought, how much harder can the race be?
Ho ho, a lot fucking harder than you can ever imagine, my friend.
Finish up your pussy little training ride, slam your dick in a drawer
a couple of times, drink ten beers in two minutes, throw yourself down
a flight of stairs, and go ride what you just finished backwards with
two water bottles full of rocks and no food.
Then you'll know how much harder Leadville will be.
Here's how it went down: I rode up Elden to the clearing by the towers.
On the way up, I was turning an easy gear, thinking of what lay ahead
for the day. I got caught by a rider about half way up. I was able to
keep him in sight, and I began reeling him in after his initial push
to overtake me. At the false flat at the first turn for Sunset Trial,
and Upper Oldham starts, I caught him. We rode together till it got
steeper as the road turned left. I was able to put some time into him
by the top. I figured that was a good sign of fitness.
I turned left and headed down Sunset. The last picture
is what the top of Sunset looks like. NIce, eh? Finished off that bitch,
crossed Schultz Pass Road down at the tank and started up Waterline
Road. Took that up to Abineau Canyon where the road ends at the Wilderness
boundary. I'll write more about how much I hate Wilderness boundaries
some other day. Suffice to say, I think it's ludicrous that I have to
ride through piles of horse shit all the way down Sunset, and I can't
pedal my bike up as high as fat people can sit on a horse and let some
poor beast do the work. If I'm pedaling, I'm earning it.
shows the road ending at the Bear Jaw trail head. Let me assure you,
the road continues on way past that point. It could be two or three
miles farther. And I have no idea why I even bothered to link a map
that isn't accurate. Could be a sign I really need some rest.
I turned around at the top after surveying some of the damage from
last winters avalanche.
It straight up wrecked the place. Impressive stuff, trees snapped off
like match sticks and lined up down the canyon and around the bend.
I put on my rain jacket and started back down.
Filled up two water bottles and a 100 oz bladder at the spring,
then continued back down Waterline. On the way down I ran into Firefighter
Cory and his brother coming up the hill. We stop and chat. I notice
we both paused the timers on our heart rate monitors. He's not doing
Leadville this year, instead he's going to check out the Durango
MTB 100. He told me last year there were only something like 16
people that finished the event.
Holy shit, that's a hard one. I'll take my licks at Leadville, thank
you very much.
I saw they have a 100 k race, maybe that would be more my style. I
guess its the first two laps that the 100 miler uses. Yeah, that would
be a good idea. Sorta like ending the pain of Leadville at Twin Lakes
on the way back. Coincidentally, that's right about where I wanted to
die last year.
I got to the bottom, turned right on the pipeline. Worked my way over
to Weatherford Road, turned right and started climbing. Topped that
one off, turned left on Freidlin Road and worked my way over to Snowbowl
Road. All this time I'm eating good and keeping my energy levels up.
Another good sign for Leadville, also known as the Stupid Fucking Bonkfest
Race From Hell.
Can you tell I bonked last year?
Anyway, right about here is where it started to rain on me. Not just
a little teaser, but full on angry as fuck, torrential downpour. I hid
out and stayed under the meager protection offered by a pine tree for
a few minutes before venturing out in the deluge. After four minutes
of feeling cold and just standing there, I decided it was time to get
on with it. Down the road for another half mile till I hit pavement.
And, you guessed it, I turned left and climbed Snowbowl. I felt pretty
good even if the rain and grit were giving me a nice case of baboon
All told it took me seven hours and forty five minutes door to door.
It was hard. And I feel I'm ready for Leadville.
At least as ready as I'm going to get.
Thank God it's Friday and all that jazz. I thought the weekend would
And, of course, now it will end in a blur.
|| From: nate
Subject: sorry, just one more thing…
I was just listening to the news about CAFTA and the energy bill
passing the house. So, GWB has some more laws to sign, how many
has he vetoed? I believe it's one, in five years of presidency.
Some of the provisions in the energy bill include subsidies ($11billion)
for oil companies to drill in the gulf. Oil companies are recording
record profits, why do they need subsidies?
It's no wonder that npr needs to be censored, it's causing trouble.
So, what exactly is the problem? the policies of our administration?
or the media reporting it? There would be alot less dissent if
the public was kept ignorant of the complicated inner workings
of our sophisticated government. It's really too complex for us
to understand. Just fill 'er up and go buy milk. I'm pissed. (but
i do love milk) thank you for your attention,
What is it about a Friday? The fact that it comes like a reprieve
from the governor saving a condemned man from his untimely end? Or,
is it the promise of a new beginning?
|| From: jaime
Subject: is it just me?
or does it seem like whenever there's a story like this, the driver
is some kind of slack-jawed booger eatin' moron, while the guy on
the bike actually has something on the ball? It's like reverse Darwinism
Check the story: boston.com/...repeat_offender_tied_to_crash
The guy's kid must be thrilled: heroin-addict Dad gets busted
after running down the Harvard prof & gives son's name to the
cops to stay out of the clink. Thanks, Pop! At least the cyclist
Keep liftin' 'em, Jonny. You're doing God's work...
I like the guy who "tried to act like a bystander at the scene..."
Yeah, that one always works for me.
Dumpin' some links.
|| From: Corey the Courier
Subject: Kent Peterson
That's one badass dude, not in the kick your ass way like Tex Cobb
in Raising Arizona (now a Philly resident), but the same dude who
won the Alleycat from San Fran to Portland a few years ago then
rode home to Seattle afterward 'cause he had to go to work. I was
a shell of a man after that ride. Him, doing another hundred or
two miles to shower and go to earn some cash. I need to be drinking
from his flask...
Corey the Courier
Two weeks ago, I had never heard of the guy. Now all I hear is the
same thing: He is man of iron.
|| From: Kate
Thanks so much for posting this Jonny. My college's cycling team
is in bad need of some sponsorship-- freakin' Dartmouth is sponsored
by everyone at interbike and their mothers, while we are forced
suckle from a single LBS. We have the phattest kits east of the
Mississippi; if you're in NE you have probably seen those weird
ass purple cow spotted kids at races. You know you want your company's
name on them. Check out our website for details.
P.S. Any bets for which ProTour rider is going to be the first
to start sporting the black? My money's on Floyd--he's still wearing
those goddamn Elvis aviators. He is the AntiLance. All hail Floyd.
I'll say this much, the Williams College kit is unmistakable
in the bunch. Check out their illustrious race
resume. If you can help out this small band of determined overachieves,
you'll be doing a very good thing.
What is this, hump day? I'm not humping. More like fuck day. Not that
I've spent the last several hours diggin' in the crates. It's amazing
what you can find in your garage when it comes time to build up a new
bike. I've got so much cool shit, I forget half of it's even there most
of the time.
Life is like that sometimes, isn't it?
I guess it's true what they say: You don't miss it till it's gone.
Like all those seven speed freewheels I pitched back in Tempe six years
ago. That one impulsive act haunts me to this day.
Now I try not to throw out anything. Keep it all. Nice and safe and
hoarded. Like cats.
Ok, not like cats.
Mostly what I regret lately is the stuff I've sold. I've love to have
half of that back at twice the price.
When it comes to bike parts, I'm my own worst enemy.
|| From: Carl
Subject: LiveWrong hits the big time
So I was thumbing through the August edition of Reader's Digest
the other day and I found this tidbit under a section called 'Only
in America': "......The Lance Armstrong Foundation and Nike have
sold more than 50 Million yellow "LIVESTONG" cancer awareness bracelets
so far. And they inspired pink ones for breast cancer, and a black
"LIVEWRONG" spoof." Now I'm sure that since you are not a woman
who is 60 or older you wouldn't come across this mention on your
own. The only reason I found it is because my Grandmother, who means
well, put me in for a subscription. Now my
First we were in Cyclesport. Then USA Today. Reader Digest and now
the NY Times.
Step back baby, Poppa's getting his groove on.
|| From: Sean
Subject: black is the new yellow
And if you were president, would you really say to the nation, in
the face of the chaos in Iraq, that "if our commanders on the ground
say we need more troops, I will send them," but that they had not
asked? It is not what the generals are asking you, Mr. President
- it is what you are asking them, namely: "What do you need to win?"
Because it is clear we are not winning, and we are not winning because
we have never made Iraq a secure place where normal politics could
Oh, well, maybe we have the leaders we deserve. Maybe we just
want to admire Lance Armstrong, but not be Lance Armstrong. Too
much work. Maybe that's the wristband we should be wearing: Live
wrong. Party on. Pay later.
Friedman swings for the fence and puts that one in the bleachers,
ladies and gentlemen…
The transition from sportsman to political will be an interesting
one. For a man who is as hungry for victory and completely driven, as
Armstrong is, he will be a force to reckon with.
Would you believe I got all of these emails today? You'd think I has
saving them up for one big push. But no, they hit me all at once, just
like an avalanche.
|| From: Moishe
Subject: GDR pics
I noticed you linked to Kent Peterson's pics from the GDR... just
want to call out that he's the first guy ever to ride the Great
Divide on a singlespeed, and he did it in fine style. He rode his
goddamn singlespeed a few hundred miles from his house in Issaquah,
WA to the start in Montana -- then did the race, apparently subsisting
entirely on M&Ms and PayDay bars. And missed 2nd place by just a
A few days later, a bunch of us met him for coffee in Seattle.
Since he hasn't owned a car in 20 years or so, he rode out to
meet us -- that's a 50 mile ride, all told, on that same heavy-ass
Monocog, a few days after finishing the Great Divide Race, just
to get coffee and shoot the shit. Kent keeps it real.
I knew anyone who participated in that event was a complete bad ass.
But now I have even more respect for the guy.
|| From: Joey
Subject: A free plug for LiveWrong
Hey, is it ok if I call in a favor? For several years now I've been
sending you funny, stupid or political shit for you to post & I
sport the DC gear proudly. I'm riding in the Pan Mass Challenge,
the gold bar standard of athletic fundraisers (nearly 97% of money
raised goes direct to Cancer research), & could use a little extra
help to hit my goal.
You can read about the ride here.
If anyone wants to help out they can do it here.
If you can post the link I'd appreciate it, if not I understand.
Good looking out. And of course I'll post that email. Click the links,
and help a humble man raise some bucks for a good cause.
Link dump time:
One in from Ragbrai.
|| From: Dave Evil
Subject: Weather has cleared
Weather has cleared, the organ harvest has begun in earnest.
I can't close my eyes…
Another day, another dollar. Isn't that what they say? Sure. Whatever.
I'll take that dollar.
And you can shove it up your ass.
I've got nothing. All I did today was work, pick up some used tires
from Bensy to try out and get a new Dueter (or something) pack from
Nik the Dick. Yeah, I'll look back years from now and wonder how I managed
to do it all.
And do it all so well.
At least I rode my bike to work today. I'm already ahead of the curve
with that one. And I didn't get rained on to badly. Just a little rained
Just call me "lucky".
|| From: Big Tex
Subject: No Regrets on January Decision
Thursday, I reentered the world of racing NORBA nationals after
a 3 year hiatus. I entered the Snowmass Marathon, which so happened
to be exactly half of the distance and climbing of the race you
entered called Leadville 100.
Wednesday night I got off of work and drove 3hrs to Independence
pass--12,041 feet and slept in my car. The next morning, I rose
with the sun and drove down to the local grocery store for some
pre race eating and coffee. I got my number, 621, and warmed up
by looking for a place to stash my feed bag. The race consisted
of 2 laps so I figured 3 bottles per lap plus some needed carbs.
At the start, I saw old friends and rivals like J. Henry, T.
Brown, and Little Fabio. The field was small but stacked and it
was mass start----men, women, children---GO! One thing of note,
racing is Aspen is very steep. The start was muy tranquilo. I
wanted to hold back with the race being long. I expected a 4 hr
finish time. Brown and Henry quickly established a small gap of
less than a minute. I stayed with 3 others including Etough. On
the descent, Etough and I separated from the others and then I
went on alone to bridge the gap to the leaders----I'm riding a
full suspension Voodoo Canzo---How can I not descend faster than
So I'm riding with the leaders. We're talking having a good
time on some killer single track with creek crossings, roots,
rocks, dust, everything you want in a MTB ride. We start up and
with in 10 minutes I realize this is faster than working man's
speed. I let the leaders go in hopes that I'm saving myself for
the last lap. At the end of the lap, four riders had caught up
to me. Not bad, I can ride with these guys. I stop to feed my
self with a few more water bottles and powergels. I never see
anyone again till the finish.
At the 2hr mark, my legs quit. I can't breathe hard or even
push myself because my legs don't have the strength to push the
pedals fast enough to breathe hard. I paid $65 to suffer like
this?---I finishing the race. There's the downhill---I'll be fast
on this section. That goes well but I still have 1500 feet of
climbing to the finish on a barren ridge line with high altitude
temperatures above 90 degrees.
I begin to wonder when the women will catch me. I ride my granny
gear 24X34 for the next hour and still no one catches me but I
see the finish at 4 hrs 10 minutes. Whew! It was good to blow
my legs out like that and to get back into the racing scene a
little but it sure did hurt. I immediately thought of you and
I wish you the best of luck in a few weeks as you ride double
my distance and climbing. I'll cheer from the sidelines or I'll
be somewhere else cheering---there's a nice little Fat Tire Festival
in Los Alamos that same weekend.
Good looking out, tough guy.
Today's funny videos:
A man scanned the guests at a party and spotted an attractive woman
He approached her and asked her name. "My name is Carmen," she told
"That's a beautiful name," he said. "Is it a family name?"
"No," she replied. "I gave it to myself. It reflects the things I
like most - cars and men."
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Beerfuck," he answered.
Ho ho ho, Merry fucking Christmas with that one.
|| From: Bike Punk
Subject: Introducing the New Comeback to Anything
Dude... this one is so far, the best. I do miss living in a big
city, and especially one where shit like this gets said in a language
Title: Introducing the New Comeback to Anything
And the hits just keep on coming here at K-Billy, super sounds of
|| From: Marco
Subject: who's muthafuckin next?
"Make some room for the next generation of American talent. Who's
it going to be?"
bitch, I'M next! 1 win, 5 GPMs last year with tha muthafuckin
real pros. betta recognize muthafuckin game when it's in your
face jonny ;-)
EU's most wanted, muthafucka! straight outta muthafuckin northcentral
italia, baby! fuck tha carabinieri!!!
of course, now that i've got my muthafuckin italian citizenship,
i guess i'm not a true muthafuckin american.
just haven't gotten around to muthafuckin "ex-pat"-ing yet...yet.
i'm muthafuckin out!
The Great Divide race is in the books. God damn if that ain't a hard
one. Check out some blog entries here and some pics here.
I'm going to wrap this on up with a short update from Ragbrai.
|| From: Dave Evil
Subject: Violence and murder
Violence and murder. The weather has broken, Evil has begun the
slaughter of the innocents. And by innocents I mean beers. Fuck
Kill 'em all. Let God sort 'em out.
And the Tour is over. Done. Kaput. Just like my man Jan.
Jesus. What a beating.
Lance. Seven. Total domination for years. And years. A record that
will stand for a long time. It's been like watching Michael Jordan play
basketball. Just a man head and shoulders above the rest. Unreal.
Next year he'll be gone. And in another year or two all the "new"
cycling fans will be gone too. Just like how you don't see Bulls jackets
everywhere anymore. Or Lakers gear. Or whoever else was driving the
bandwagon for awhile. Less Trek and less Trautwig. It'll be a good thing.
Make some room for the next generation of American talent. Who's it
going to be? Danielson? He's got the talent, but he's bit old to jump
into the whole Euro thing and not get eaten alive. Discovery is the
best possible team for him to develop. Top notch program and support
staff. Emphasis on the "program". He'll be fine.
Hincapie as a Tour contender? Bitch please. He's a good rider, great
in the classics. But win the Tour? I don't think so. That is a whole
different animal. Same with Landis. Crazy talent. But top rung at the
Tour? Yeah. Sorry. Don't think so.
It may be a few years before we see another American claim the top
spot. It's going to be another countries national anthem choking up
the man in yellow. And that's ok. We've had it for seven years. We can
spread it around a bit.
It's only fair.
And speaking of fair, here is another couple of pic of Basso's sister.
Can a brother get a witness?
|| From: sarah b.
Subject: rocking out
i almost got run over by a fucking hummer today who passed me on
the road and then decided not to use their blinker while turning
into the gas station to fill up fo the fourth time today. the fun
really never stops here in Bend, OR. How about flagstaff? i was
thinking about trying my hand in northern arizona sometime in the
near future. we'll see what happens. not much going up here these
days, i'm homeless and looking for a change and who needs a new
house when you can have a whole new state?. although i would be
leaving my fabulous job in a daycare at the ritziest health club
this side of the rockies. it's such a joy to hobnob with the bigwigs
in this town, jonny...it's just this whole different world i've
never experienced in my life growing up in middle america. an eleven
year old boy was talking to me the other day about square footage
of his friends house. i believe the conversation went something
like this, "it's like a five thousand square foot house. we're going
to get one like that, well ours is going to be 4700 sq feet so not
quite as big and they have like 20 video cameras and a lock down
room, it's pretty cool." eleven. i don't even now the square footage
of my house now. you just have to laugh sometimes...when it doesn't
scare the shit out of you because here comes another generation
of hummer driving republicans.
We'd be glad to have you around.
I heard the Live Wrong bracelets make OLN the other day. Maybe there
is hope for those guys after all.
"History shows that the willingness to curtail America's freedoms
during national challenges ultimately leads to regrets about betraying
our fundamental values," Lisa Graves, a senior counsel for the American
Civil Liberties Union. Read the rest here.
suck dick like a pornstar
Andrej is the man.
|| From: Andrej
The time had come for me to pick up my ticket for Montenegro. The
JAT office is near Arbatskaya, in the belly of the Moscow beast.
The weather alternates between rain and sun. I am in my traditional
attire and I am lost. The streets here aren't marked, and a compass
is very helpful.
I'm practically naked and walking in an underpass. At the end
of the underpass is a stately old woman wearing a Soviet army
uniform, sitting on a box and begging for change. As I approach
her I'm already fishing around in my pocket for change. Then she
suddenly comes to life and shouts "Hey sportsman...nice pecs!"
"you look like you're new in town." Yes dear readers, she was
hitting on me.
She tells me that she's 80 years old and that if she was a few
years younger, she'd just love to jump my bones. I tell her that
she too is a hot little ticket. She is flattered, and she tells
me that back in the day she was a champion sharpshooter and that
she personally killed 27 Germans in the Great Patriotic War. She
says that she begs as a hobby; something to do to get her out
of the house. She is saving her beggng money to buy a new set
of teeth so she can be beautiful again. I can tell that she must
have been incredibly sexy back when she was one women slaughterhouse.
I give her one hundred roubles, because she is the first Russian
girl that hit on me. Finally!!!!
(Remind me to tell you guys about O)
As I'm naked and chatting with one-shot-one-kill Natasha, two
wicked hot young blonde hotties approach me from behind.
"Spechenzee Duetch!?" they ask
"Nyet." I say
I could not believe my luck. It was like a tag team hit-on-Andrej
Ho-Down in the underpass. Russian girls are usually very shy and
they seem to be afraid of me.
God bless German girls (and Irish girls). They truly are the
salt of the earth.
I tell the two little hotties that I'm an American and that
I also speak Serbian. Their giggles fill the underpass. I'm giggling
too. They also speak a little English.
Turns out they are Russian, not German, and they study languages
at the university, and they are eager to practice their English.
So I insist on buying them some beers. I say good bye to Natasha
and go above ground with my new little friends.
And so there I am, in my underwear, in an outdoor cafe in the
Arbatskaya, sippin a cold one and giggling with the ersatz-Olsen
One of them was exceptionally attractive: Anna is her name and
yes, I got her number.
From there I drift in to Sector Southwest. As I leaving the
Sector Center, it begins to rain, hard. But what do I care? I'm
I think that walk through Sector Southwest, in the rain, ranks
in the top ten of the greatest days in my life. As I walked, I
meditated on Rutger Haurer's improvised and haunting last lines
If you haven't walked naked through the rainy streets of Moscow,
you haven't lived. I've done the Paris in spring time thing, and
it doesn't even come close.
Then, suddenly, I enter a huge square; it isn't really a square,
it's more like a gigantic intersection of five eight lane roads.
And in the middle is fucking super cool monument to my nigga Gagarin.
This is definitely my favorite monument in Moscow. And across
the square is the extremely interesting looking Soviet Academy
of Sciences. I don't know how to describe this building. Imagine
Viennese art nouveau meets David Lynch's Dune. I explored its
From there I entered a mighty wood and walked for two hours
until I reached Moscow State University. There I sat, on the dry
fountain in from of this awesome building in the middle of a forest,
and meditated on my own academic future.
And, for reasons I cannot explain and barely understand myself, I
am not done with tonight's update yet. Kill me please.
|| From: A Bomb
Subject: DailyCandy NYC - Run for Your Life
July 22, 2005
Run for Your Life
Calling all wannabe assassins. Your mission, should you choose
to accept it: win a three-week, citywide water-gun assassination
The dossier: You will meet an agent of the Shadow Government
in an undisclosed location. The agent, upon verification of your
identity, will disclose your target's name, photo, contact information,
and home and work addresses. The game is afoot.
You will eat, sleep, and breathe the name and likeness of your
victim until you terminate him or her with your weapon of choice
(Super Soaker, water balloon, water glock, gat).
Choose your method wisely: e-mail alias (email@example.com),
disguise (fake mustache and accent), phony death threat (beware
the tricky reaper).
Your mark is safe at work (and the surrounding one-block radius),
in the subway (the MTA might not appreciate your sense of humor),
or a bar (a haven in more ways than one). Everywhere else? Fair
territory. Attack at home. On the street. Day. Night.
Most of all, when it's least expected.
Once you successfully snipe your target, report it to the Shadow
Government within 24 hours to receive the profile of your next
Just be warned, soldier: At all times, someone will be trying
to nail you, too.
This e-mail will self destruct in five seconds.
The deadline for registration is Monday, July 25. For more information,
go to streetwars.net.
Team options are available. Should you have a complaint about
your experience, you can hunt down Team Candy - unless we get
you first. Which is not to say we endorse killing of any kind.
We're talking squirt guns, people.
The registration may be full, but the inspiration lives on. Throw
an event like this in your town. Fun till the cows come home.
I like the Santa's
Bitch shirt. Not so much the girl, but the shirt is the tops. Maybe
that's what I'll get Bensy for his birthday.
I mean, what else do you get the guy who has everything?
Oh shit, it's the Cult of Scalia.
|| From: John M.
Subject: Brownie Death March
So, you actually bit on the preservative-laden convenience store
brownie. Those never even look that good to me. In one town where
I used to work there was a company which stocked little honor system
boxes of snacks in various offices. One of the featured items was
the "Fudge Brownie", a nasty little square about 3" by 3". or so.
I have it on good authority that one office actually staged a "Fudge
Brownie Death Match. There was a near -choking incident involved.
Sorry, no pictures.
Yeah, I ain't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. If you catch
Check out the Republican Nemesis, a site called
buyblue.org, and this NY Times article, Eight days
Hooray for Canada. I especially like the following line from the article:
Maybe we should discount remarks from the president of the Toronto-based
Automotive Parts Manufacturers' Association, who claimed that the educational
level in the Southern United States was so low that trainers for Japanese
plants in Alabama had to use "pictorials" to teach some illiterate
workers how to use high-tech equipment.
Oh, you can't make up shit that funny. Trust me, I try to.
Last thing up tonight, an update from Ragbrai.
|| From: Dave Evil
Subject: Tornado in camp! one dead
Tornado in camp! One dead, lots of damage. My tent collapsed and
I had to stay in the bus. Everything soaked.
We weathered the storm with Old Milwaukee. Evil camp in ruins,
personnel intact. Keeping the powder dry. Joints solve everything.
And to think I'm missing it again.
Looks like the Tour is in the books. Sure, there is one more day to
Paris. But at this point, nothing short of a plague of locusts and floods
of biblical proportions would knock Armstrong off the top rung. He's
far and above the best rider in the Tour full stop.
Also in the books in another edition of the Taylor House benefit ride.
A brand new course this year
took us east of town instead of playing with traffic on the west side.
We dicked around off Cosonino Road before crawling over the hump on
89 then dumping down and around the Wupatki National Monument.
If you've not ridden into, and climbed back out of, that big old hole,
you simply haven't lived yet. I was completely overhauled on the climb
It was hotter than fucking koika
down there. And, in case you're wondering, that is pretty damn hot.
I was pouring water over my head, unzipped the jersey all the way
down, didn't matter. Still hot.
Once I got to the last sag stop for two full bottles, the rain came.
True to monsoon fuck-you-in-the-ass style, I got hammered. Wind, rain,
pain. I got hailed on. Again.
Fucking ice cubes falling out of the sky. Yeah, that's fun.
I went from being uncomfortably hot to being uncomfortably cold in
the span of about a half hour.
Anyway, rode the last 15 miles in better weahter, even dried off a
bit. Made it over Cedar Hill in fine form, down the other side, finished
up, had a brat. And it was a good brat. It's allways a good brat at
the end of a century.
Another fine event by the fine folks at Absolute
Bikes. You should definitely make an effort to check this one out
|| From: theneech
Subject: good Iraq info
Have you seen:
We have a good radio station in Berkeley, CA..... KPFA that
is a member of the Pacifica network. It is one of the great sources
of English language reporting on the real situation in Iraq. Also
How about that George Hincapie? I love to see such a hardworking
guy get a little glory in the Tour for himself. keep up the good
|| From: Sov
Subject: Ragbrai (you pussy)
We at Evil feel great woe for your gigantic puss-filled oozing ass
sores. Surely this is the reason you have ONCE AGAIN denied the
Ragbrai rider inside you.
Perhaps you, like the retarded Texan winning the Tour, have
a raging bout with testicular cancer going that you're too courageous
to share. You are so brave.
Maybe you've been incarcerated and are now a pretty prison yard
Have you developed an allergy to alcohol and fun?
We will lift one (or maybe a half-a-one) in your honor. Your
courageous battle with (insert courageous battle) will forever
motivate us to ride, drink, shit, and barf.
Oh damn it all to hell. Time for another link dump.
One from Andrej and I'm out.
Like Eddy Limonov, in "It's me, Eddy," I have undertaken an epic
walking tour of mighty Moscow. I have divided the city into five
1. The center around the Kremlin
2. Sector Southeast
3. Sector Southwest
4. Sector Northeast
5. Sector Northwest
I got an ass pack, my red short shorts, my short goggles, a
compass, a blade, and a fist full of babki (grannies=money). I
still have my Arctic tan, and I am determined to maintain it.
Day First: Sector Southeast
It's hot and humid and overcast. Blue sky and clouds fight for
territory. From my residence in Sevastopolskaya, I walk due east.
The roads here are extremely wide; easilt eight lanes wide,
and few stop lights. So crossing them is perilous. There are plenty
of underpasses everywhere. As a result, women here are forced
to climb lots of stairs, and that probably accounts for their
fantastic legs. (They should change the name of the this country
to Leg Show.)
Every block, there is a playground, where I do a set of pull-ups
or dips. Eventually I get to a huge park. This park sits on a
300 foot bluff overlooking the third bend in the Moskva River.
On the bluff is a little heavily wooded hill. In the midst of
this thick forest is the pogoda like Cathedral of the Beheaded
Forerunner; that's what the Russians call John the Baptist. It's
interesting that the very tall trees grow almost to the walls
of the Cathedral, so it is impossible to get a full view of it.
On the key stone of the brick arch gateway is an adorable little
mosaic of the Forerunner's head in a bucket.
But there many little fairy tale churches in this park. Pick
up a stick, chuck it, and there's another one!
And it's hot and I need a beer. I see a girl standing next to
an ice chest under a big Lowenbru sun umbrella. A cop is hitting
on her. I walk up and buy a Klinskoe lager tallboy. There is a
new law in Russia banning public drinking. I wanted to see if
this law was being enforced. I take a sip and continue along my
merry way. The law is a dead letter.
I continue up Andropov street, and into the center of Moscow.
By the time I get there, five hours latter, I looked like a
Socialist Realist sculpture. Along the way I had done two hundred
pull-ups and one hundred dips, and the sun had turned my skin
(And I had about three liters of beer in me.)
In Red Square I sat and stared at the men restoring St. Basil's.
I wished I was restoring St. Basil's. But those guys probably
wished they we me, chillin and drinkin a cold one in the furious
heat at the foot of the Kremlin.
I haven't been inside of the Kremlin yet. I'm gonna wait until
I come back and speak Russian, so that I can appreciate it a little
On the northside of the Kremlin, there is a little narrow and
deep fountain, filled with statues of Russian fairy tale characters.
The place is swarming with hot chicks. I see a kid in the fountain.
And that was all I needed. And so there I am, in deep emerald
water, enjoying a cold one. Next to me is a statue of a maiden
mourning a drowned lover. In front of me are the battlements of
the Kremlin and the Eternal Fame.
After a while I realized that no one else was in the fountain
with me. So I thought it would be best to move on.
But I was hot
Thirsty Thursday and all I am is tired. Go figure. At least the Tour
is exciting. Not. Ullrich closing in on the Chicken. That's about the
whole enchilada right there.
I'd never make it as a Tour commentator. I'd be trying to fill in
the slow spots by ripping tubes and getting lap dances. I don't image
OLN would much go for that. Although, I could give a rats ass what OLN
would go for.
Next year, when Armstrong is working on his golf game and singing
backup vocals for Sheryl, OLN will air a half hour recap show which
will consists of Al
Trautwig muttering incoherently about Trek bikes and Armstrong's
superior training methods. The train will have left the station, and
Al will still be stammering on about the gum on his shoe.
In a fair world that bastard would be damned to pumping gas for the
rest of his days. Hey Al, I would say was I rolled up in the shit box
I lovingly call the Big Gray Whale, check the oil for me, won't ya buddy.
Even that may be to kind of a life sentence for scum like him. He
should have to work the Carnie Circuit, always trying to squeeze one
more weekend of life out of some clapped out death trap thrill ride.
Sucking dick for one more tank of gas. The next town. The next carnival.
Just trying to get over that far horizon and the promise of a better
tomorrow for ever and ever. But never really getting any closer, all
the time wallowing in shit like the rest of us.
Mother fucking link dump:
Shit, if it had been me that shit would say "poor".
|| From: John
Subject: Livewrong @ tour Day Frog
I was watching the extended coverage and they did a little ditty
on mechanics. The gerstoliener wrench appeared to have a livewrong
bracelet on his right arm.
Cool. Glad to see it's getting around. Like a disease.
It's road bike month at Mile
A new one in from our man about town, Dejay.
|| From: dejay
Subject: cookie new
when the sun is in your eyes, don't stare straight ahead, you wo't
see it coming
Not exactly a race report, now is it? In fact, I have no idea what
he's talking about.
Jesus. That was pretty crazy.
|| From: Richard
While looking for information on something I am interested in I
came across this story.
The guy was riding his bike across the street in the crosswalk
and one of the cops had this to say, "Bicyclists should be reminded
that bikes are to be walked, not pedaled, in pedestrian crosswalks."
Which I would like to know how it would of prevented the accident.
He would of got smacked either way.
You have a very good point there.
Like my man Anthony likes to say, two in the pink, one is the stink.
Good looking out.
I'll be winding it up with this one tonight.
|| From: Angela
Subject: A little reading for you
An essay by E.L Doctorow
Edgar Lawrence Doctorow occupies a central position in the history
of American literature. He is generally considered to be among
the most talented, ambitious, and admired novelists of the second
half of the twentieth century. Doctorow has received the National
Book Award, two National Book Critics Circle Awards, the PEN/Faulkner
Award, the Edith Wharton Citation for Fiction, the William Dean
Howell Medal of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and
the residentially conferred National Humanities Medal.
Doctorow was born in New York City on January 6, 1931. After
graduating with honors from Kenyon College in 1952, he did graduate
work at Columbia University and served in the U.S. Army. Doctorow
was senior editor for New American Library from 1959 to 1964 and
then served as editor in chief at Dial Press until 1969. Since
then, he has devoted his time to writing and teaching. He holds
the Glucksman Chair in American Letters at New York University
and over the years has taught at several institutions, including
Yale University Drama School, Princeton University, Sarah Lawrence
College, and the University of California, Irvine.
I fault this president (George W. Bush) for not knowing what
death is. He does not suffer the death of our twenty-one year
olds who wanted to be what they could be.
On the eve of D-day in 1944 General Eisenhower prayed to God
for the lives of the young soldiers he knew were going to die.
He knew what death was. Even in a justifiable war, a war not of
choice but of necessity, a war of survival, the cost was almost
more than Eisenhower could bear.
But this president does not know what death is. He hasn't the
mind for it. You see him joking with the press, peering under
the table for the WMDs he can't seem to find, you see him at rallies
strutting up to the stage in shirt sleeves to the roar of the
carefully screened crowd, smiling and waving, triumphal, a he-man.
He does not mourn. He doesn't understand why he should mourn.
He is satisfied during the course of a speech written for him
to look solemn for a moment and speak of the brave young Americans
who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.
But you study him, you look into his eyes and know he dissembles
an emotion which he does not feel in the depths of his being because
he has no capacity for it. He does not feel a personal responsibility
for the thousand dead young men and women who wanted be what they
They come to his desk not as youngsters with mothers and fathers
or wives and children who will suffer to the end of their days
a terribly torn fabric of familial relationships and the inconsolable
remembrance of aborted life.... They come to his desk as a political
liability which is why the press is not permitted to photograph
the arrival of their coffins from Iraq.
How then can he mourn? To mourn is to express regret and he
regrets nothing. He does not regret that his reason for going
to war was, as he knew, unsubstantiated by the facts. He does
not regret that his bungled plan for the war's aftermath has made
of his mission-accomplished a disaster. He does not regret that
rather than controlling terrorism his war in Iraq has licensed
So he never mourns for the dead and crippled youngsters who
have fought this war of his choice. He wanted to go to war and
he did. He had not the mind to perceive the costs of war, or to
listen to those who knew those costs. He did not understand that
you do not go to war when it is one of the options, but when it
is the only option; you go not because you want to but because
you have to.
This president knew it would be difficult for Americans not
to cheer the overthrow of a foreign dictator. He knew that much.
This president and his supporters would seem to have a mind for
only one thing --- to take power, to remain in power, and to use
that power for the sake of themselves and their friends. A war
will do that as well as anything. You become a wartime leader.
The country gets behind you. Dissent becomes inappropriate. And
so he does not drop to his knees, he is not contrite, he does
not sit in the church with the grieving parents and wives and
He is the President who does not feel. He does not feel for
the families of the dead; he does not feel for the thirty five
million of us who live in poverty; he does not feel for the forty
percent who cannot afford health insurance; he does not feel for
the miners whose lungs are turning black or for the working people
he has deprived of the chance to work overtime at time-and-a-half
to pay their bills --- it is amazing for how many people in this
country this President does not feel.
But he will dissemble feeling. He will say in all sincerity
he is relieving the wealthiest one percent of the population of
their tax burden for the sake of the rest of us, and that he is
polluting the air we breathe for the sake of our economy, and
that he is decreasing the safety regulations for coal mines to
save the coal miners' jobs, and that he is depriving workers of
their time-and-a- half benefits for overtime because this is actually
a way to honor them by raising them into the professional class.
And this litany of lies he will versify with reverences for
God and the flag and democracy, when just what he and his party
are doing to our democracy is choking the life out of it.
But there is one more terribly sad thing about all of this.
I remember the millions of people here and around the world who
marched against the war. It was extraordinary, that spontaneously
aroused oversoul of alarm and protest that transcended national
borders. Why did it happen? After all, this was not the only war
anyone had ever seen coming. There are little wars all over the
world most of the time.
But the cry of protest was the appalled understanding of millions
of people that America was ceding its role as the last best hope
of mankind. It was their perception that the classic archetype
of democracy was morphing into a rogue nation. The greatest democratic
republic in history was turning its back on the future, using
its extraordinary power and standing not to advance the ideal
of a concordance of civilizations but to endorse the kind of tribal
combat that originated with the Neanderthals, a people, now extinct,
who could imagine ensuring their survival by no other means than
The president we get is the country we get. With each president
the nation is conformed spiritually. He is the artificer of our
malleable national soul. He proposes not only the laws but the
kinds of lawlessness that govern our lives and invoke our responses.
The people he appoints are cast in his image. The trouble they
get into and get us into, is his characteristic trouble.
Finally the media amplify his character into our moral weather
report. He becomes the face of our sky, the conditions that prevail:
How can we sustain ourselves as the United States of America given
the stupid and ineffective warmaking, the constitutionally insensitive
lawgiving, and the monarchal economics of this president? He cannot
mourn but is a figure of such moral vacancy as to make us mourn
So I missed a day. Shoot me. The Taylor
House Century is this next Saturday. Check it out.
Yesterday afternoon a group of five wheeled up Snow Bowl. And I was
the fifth wheel. I didn't suddenly find any climbing form that's worth
a damn, but I did feel at the bottom like I could sure do it again.
And that in and of itself if an achievement for Fatty Beerbuckle.
What did Vino jump today, two spots on GC? And that's what we're reduced
to, watching seventh, eighth and ninth place shuffle on the leader board.
On Saturday I think we're going to see a lot more shuffling on the
lesser CG spots. The only action is whether Ullrich can make up the
better part of three minutes on Rasmussen. And how far Mancebo will
drop. My money says he'll drop like a stone, but my money has been wrong
And it'll be wrong again.
So it goes…
The Gnome and I rode out to Clint's Well Saturday morning. Since we're
both suffering with the thought of actually riding Leadville in another
couple of weeks. Jesus, what did we get ourselves into.
He dropped me on the first climb. Not the steps. The one where the
feed zone was for the State
Championship race last year. Don't worry, I somehow managed to drop
him on the second climb. Then he was drilling it on the way to the turn
around I had to drop off and ride my own pace for the last mile. My
heart rate was 158, 164, 162, etc over those last few rollers. And I
really wanted was a Pepsi. Just one Pepsi.
Actually, I forgot about the Pepsi and bought a .50 cent brownie instead.
I told Gnome as I ate it I didn't know which part I liked better; that
it really didn't taste all that much like chocolate, or the fact that
it was making me want to throw up.
Call it a tie.
Gnome stared drilling it again after 5 minutes of easy riding reprieve,
and again, I had to back off. That brownie was in my throat and wouldn't
sit down like a good brownie. I rolled up along side of him and told
him I would ride my own pace and I'd see him back in town. In about
50 miles. Whatever.
I thought I was going to puke for about a half hour. I went slow and
sipped water, wondering why I ever ate that fucking brownie.
It's because I always eat the fucking brownie. And usually they are
good. Great even. Next time I'm sticking with Little Debbie. None of
this off-brand bargain basement shit for the big man.
Somehow I didn't puke. And I started to get my stomach in order. Then
I could start revving it up. And rev it up I did. I felt pretty good
for the next two hours. Then, I caught back up the Gnome, who had made
it all the way back to the boat docks and turned around to find fatty.
We rode together, trading jokes for the last hour or so. The first
part was hotter than shit. We were both getting low on water. The Lake
Mary Store was just ahead a couple of miles, and we could see the storm
clouds boiling over Flagstaff. The shit was coming.
We get to the store, I pony up for some water and a Gatorade. We sit
down and chill for a few minutes. So it's about to rain. It's going
to rain whether I sit here of not. At least if I sit here my feet will
stop hurting. At least for a little while.
We start up again, and it promptly starts raining on us like all hell
was breaking loose. Hail too. And that shit hurts. I but it in the big
ring, stayed in the drops and took it on home.
And went straight to the shower.
Seven hours ride time. I've done it faster. But then, I've been in
a group of five or six guys as well. Riding by myself and trying not
to puke up shitlog brownie doesn't exactly burn up the miles.
Sunday, I rode up Waterline Road to the Cabins. Topped off my water
bottles and went home. Don't sound like much, but it took me four and
a half hours.
Yeah, big weekend for fatty.
Check out Jan's journal.
Dead man walking. Soul
Ride coming. Registration for the one and only Soul Ride is open.
Get some over at gearwerks.com
Check this one out by Greg
Palast. And don't miss this one by Frank
Rove Death Watch Part Three.
Why Wilson was thrashed?
Something about marriage.
|| From: Big Pun
Subject: Big Pun Weekend Adventure Posting
Big Pun here.
Seems as thought there has been a whole lot of political commentary
on your site as of late and not too much drinking. I will therefore
attempt to merge the two in a symbiotic relationship as only I can
do. The current race breaks down as follows:
Pun electoral votes: 219
Gin electoral votes: 219
Undecided alcoholic votes: 100
That's right folks, it's a dead heat with the tie breaking votes
falling to whiskey sometime tonight.
I just got back from a road trip to Salt Lake City, SLC as the
local drunks might refer to it. I happen to know all about the
local drunks since I have just spent the last few dozen or so
hours sitting on a porch overlooking aforementioned city and drinking
gin and tonics mixed by an 18 year old superstar skier who evidently
thought that a 50/50 ratio of alcohol to mixer meant put the gin
in halfway and then add ice and tonic whenever it was convenient.
But I digress, as per usual. Let me start from the beginning.
I convinced Fitty's bitch ass to take a road trip this weekend
in order to meet some fellas in Utah for the weekend. Now, one
might think that a trip to Utah is a safe haven for sobriety with
a guy like me in a place like that. Turns out that one would be
wrong. Utah is fucking drunk. Now, I don't know how many of your
readers are of the Mormon persuasion, but holy shit, they haven't
evidently found the house on Campus drive. These guys are going
straight to hell on the fucking express train with one of those
ACME rockets that the coyote gets strapped to the locomotive.
I now know, based on experience, that there is a fairly substantial
population of people in Salt Lake who are there for the snow and
who ski all fall, winter and spring and then drink all summer.
There were a few skiable areas visible from I-15 up in the Wasach
Mountain Range; however, skiing was not on the agenda…drinking
was. We rolled into town at around 7:00 pm after deciding that
it would be a good idea to drive 4 hours to Hurricane, UT, ride
bikes on the Tour of the Storm TT course for an hour, and drive
the rest of the way into Salt Lake from Flag. All went well until
we got suited up for a ride in Hurricane and I started sweating
my balls off. Just imagine how hot a rotund fella such as myself
would get in weather that makes a skinny son of a bitch like Fitty
whine like a hooker getting short changed for a blowjob.
So, anyhooters, we made it in to Salt Lake, Senior Sty-tez greeted
us with enthusiasm and mirth. We brought a couple of cases of
local and favorite beers as payment for a few nights stay. The
Senior returned the generosity of our gifts with offers of gin
purchased straight from the local state liquor compound. We proceeded
to get absolutely welded. From what I have heard, I decided to
take the small motorscooter that these fellas use for beer runs
down to the 7-11 and for a spin around the block for a bit. Word
on the street is that I returned to the garage rather calm and
collected and politely asked that they close the garage door since
there was a police officer chasing me. To be quite honest, I don't
know if there is a governing body out there that records time
in Utah before the cops try to pull you over, but if there is,
I would hope that my 5 hours deserves at least an honorable mention.
Following that introduction, we get to talking about things. Keep
in mind that I have only met these friends of Fitty's that night
and I am therefore still the social equivalent of a high school
slut at a college frat orgy…pretty and enthusiastic, but still
just a novelty. This is only true until either Sty-Tez or M.C.
mentions their allegiance to www.drunkcyclist.com. Fitty, in all
of his misguided wisdom proceeds to then ask if they are familiar
with the Big Pun of Drunkcyclist fame. After both of them affirm
that they are indeed familiar with the mythical Big Pun, Fitty
introduces me and all hope for sobriety crosses back over the
border into AZ. We drink our way into oblivion that night cursing
you and your sand filled vagina for being sober as of late.
Next thing I know, Park, the 18 year old skier/ pro bartender,
is inviting his girlfriend's sister over and we are pounding G&T's
like fucking kool-aide at a mass suicide.
The details are severely blurred after that, I recall proclaiming
my never-ending love for the girlfriend's sister followed by the
Senior or Alex telling me that she is all of 16 years old. Turns
out that "never-ending" can also be Pun-code for ending real fucking
quick as soon as you find out how old she is. From what I can
piece together this evening, I then proceeded to call my pool
to make sure that it wasn't overflowing from the rain back here
in town (not a typo by the way, I didn't call a roommate to make
sure that all was well, I called my own fucking above-ground pool.
The pool's lack of opposable thumbs made it physically impossible
for the pool to call back even though I'm sure that it really
wanted to. I can assume that it wanted to at least since I was
yelling loud enough into the answering machine for both the pool
and all of my neighbors to hear my pleas for attention)
All in all, a trip well deserved and spent. I will forever be
indebted to drunks on Campus Drive in SLC for there hospitality.
I hope that you can appreciate the level of self-control that
is obviously required for a guy like me to not call your sober
ass on a Saturday night and to instead call an inanimate body
All well, fuck the bozos. The guys in Salt Lake told me that
you need to drink more. I concur.
Holy shit, will you look at this folks, the electoral votes
are swinging all over the place, both the Pun party and the Gin
party were in a dead heat for the victory. It's however beginning
to look like the Whiskey party is a serious competitor now that
the race has moved back to Flagstaff. Our newest exit polls show
Whiskey in a close third with just under 100 electoral votes as
an independent and threatening to make this a tough race to call
until the last vote is counted.
OK, seriously, this political shit sucks. Get back to drinking
and I'll buy you a round or five, don't make me say it again,
I will pull this car over and whoop you ass if I need to, don't
Peace Love and Otterpop flavored blowjobs.
-Biggus Punnis VII
Big Pun. Keepin' it real.
|| From: Andy
Subject: Tour Humor
A buddy of mine is posting commentary on the tour as he watches
it on TV while housebound with the second baby. The dude is absolutely
hilarious. Thought you might like it.
Like it? I love it.
Sorta like Playboy's topless
joke of the day.
Some really lame news out of Maine. A car somehow ended up driving
into the field at the 25th annual Yarmouth Clam Festival Bike Race.
I'm not joking, an 88 year old driver swerved around the two cars in
front of him, and straight into the race. He "apparently did not understand
earlier instructions from officials directing traffic."
Yeah, I'll say he didn't understand.
It was an open course, and one can only assume there was a center
line rule. So either the cyclists or the car crossed that center line.
Or, maybe even both.
What a horror story. An absolute nightmare. You're in a race, two
laps to go, and all of the sudden the riders in front of you are bouncing
off an oncoming car like so many bowling pins.
It's enough to keep you awake at night.
|| From: Brij
Subject: bracelet sighting
Not sure what to make of the graffiti-writer-turned-Nike designer,
but in any case it appears Lenny Futura is down with Livewrong,
at least I hope so. Check out the pic and interview:
Live Wrong baby.
Another day, another dollar. Isn't the the way the saying goes? I am
also a bit fond of the line, thank god it's Friday.
If you know what I'm sayin'...
And , oh my fucking God did you see the news today?
"Rove told the grand jury that by the time Novak had called him,
he believes he had similar information about Wilson's wife from another
member of the news media but he could not recall which reporter had
told him about it first, the person said." From cnn.com/2005/POLITICS/07/15/cia.leak.rove.ap/index.html.
You have got to be shitting me. That's the line? That's what they're
I never cease to be amazed at the way these shit merchants can flip
the script. First, say Rove wasn't involved. When evidence comes to
light that he was discussing some very sensitive issues with members
of the press, say he heard it from the press first. And not the other
way around. And if he did tell a reporter anything, well, that was just
to correct the reports inaccurate assumptions. If fact, Rove was setting
the record straight. He is a hero.
Which, of course, is ludicrous. If he confirmed that Valerie Plame
did indeed work for the CIA, he is guilty. I can't see how it matters
whether he was the first to tell the reporter or not, if he discussed
it at any length, and offered confirmation of the fact, he is guilty.
It's all smoke and mirrors. What to these people have to do, fucking
kill someone before the American public gets upset about this?
Rove and the rest of them must think we're nothing but a bunch of
stupid fucking idiots if that's the line they feed us.
And it's playing great in the flyover states...
More of the same at the following websites: TPM, Krugman, New Donkey, Bull Moose, and Just One Minute.
'Who controls the past,' ran the Party slogan, 'controls the future:
who controls the present controls the past.' We have always been at
war with Eurasia... 1984.
The old Baghdad
And the new Baghdad
Because we got ourselves a real cowboy.
One month to Leadville. I am so going to die. Whatever. I put in two
hours this morning before work. From the looks of things, I ought be
be putting in twenty.
Not like that's going to happen any time soon.
But fuck it, I'll do what I can, when I can. That's really about all
you can do when it's all said and done, isn't it? Some hard hitting
stuff on Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib and the rest of the water boarding fun
over at Andrew
|| From: deejay
Subject: angle fire
Well for all that didn't know we had a world cup event here in the
good ol' u.s.a. this passed weekend. I was lucky enough to attend
and tempted to race, but the pooch got screwed.
I had a problem with my brake so i dropped it off to Jude at
the Magura tent and set off to watch the 4cross event. The 4cross
ran a little longer then i thought, so by the time i got back
Magura was all packed up and nobody home. Given that i had a 7am
start time(what the fuck) on sunday, i missed my start, do to
the fact my rig was locked up in the trailer. Oh well, i guess
I made the best of things and worked the #3 feed zone(9.300ft
highest point of course) for the pro races, Trek and Fisher being
my responsibilities. 4 gals and 6 guys good thing they were not
on course at the same time. all went well and no one got mad because
i missed them, sorry nick.
But on the funny side, Chris Sheppard rolled threw and yelled
the words have you ever cramped so bad that you almost shit yourself.
Dam thoughtful for a guy who just rode 20miles and 4000ft. But
i'm going to have to give best in show to Todd Well. He came through
lookin pretty bad, so i asked if he needed anything. as he was
spitting sweat he spoke the words porta potty, the only reply
i had was sorry. In between feed #3 and #4 Todd fell of the radar,
only to give up several spots and shed a pair of gloves. Again
sorry Todd almost made it.
Makes me feel like taking a link dump…
|| From: Brian
Subject: CSC Documentary
this looks pretty good. Apparently playing in theatres in Europe
right now and available on DVD by the summer. Don't know if it 's
going to play in theatres over here.
I've been hearing a lot about that. And it ought to be good, if the
trailer is any indication.
The GOP southern
strategy turns the corner.
|| From: Jonathan
Subject: 5 Cyclists killed in Portland so far this summer.
Man...I know you already posted something about a guy dying in a
race in Portland a few nights ago....but can you believe he's the
FIFTH fatality we've had this summer already!?
The other four where all car-related. This is craziness. What
can we do? I went ahead and posted this "Freedom from Cars" Declaration
(initially did it to sort of coincide with the Fourth of July).
Not sure what will come of it, but it felt good to get those thoughts
out into the world. Hopefully people will sign it and pass it
That is some very depressing news.
And I really like the Declaration you wrote.
|| From: C.
I was watching the Tour this morning. Damn, I didn't know Lance
Yeah, me neither. But I'm stupid like that.
So much for taking the fight to the enemy, eh? Kinda hard to do that
when the suicide bombers were born and raised in your own damn country.
And what will George Bush say when it happens here?
Yeah, I know, it'll be my fucking fault.
|| From: Chris
Subject: Holy Fuck
So my stoney email last week was wack eh?
Sorry man. I fucking hate listening to Carmichael and Frankie.
What a couple of dumbasses. Where did that dude with the Oakley
Scripps and the goat go? And I hate to say it but Roll is tired.
What was the latest from Chris? Oh yea, about nutrition and bonking....
"They go hard, the Alps are hard, They have to eat a lot and digest
it. They use re-hydration drinks better than Gatorade..". errr
Did you see that Kirsten Dunce in a Brunette now? She looks
fat in that wig.
Prediction: OLN goes to weekend coverage without Lance next
Your favorite Lab Rat Jan has nothing. He has got to retire
too. Or go to Riis at CSC.
Why did Riis pull the "Luck" card? Memo to Mr. EPO: Dude, Riding
at the front and pulling until guys explode one by one is not
luck. That is called laying the wood.
Vino to Discovery? Holy fuck.
Holy fuck indeed. And Yaroslav Popovych is the fucking man. That kids
And, speaking of my favorite lab rat, Jan ain't giving
up quite yet.
|| From: eric
Subject: Yet another WTF from South Carolina
This story came out two weeks ago, but the local Fox affiliate (who
else) has an update on it. I really don't know what to say other
than that I must get out of this state immediately after I get my
degree...counting down the days until next May.
Blind people killing cyclists and getting off essentially scot-free
F'ed up kids raping dogs.
I'm just waiting to see what's next in good ol' SC.
Jesus titty fucking Christ…
That one takes the fucking cake. Absolutely the worst ever.
I was supposed to ride tonight, and I didn't. A little too hot today for
my tastes. Not too hot to ride, but too damn hot at work. And it killed
me. I came home in a daze and passed out for a good hour. Just like that.
An hour studying the back of my eyelids.
So much for riding this afternoon.
Rove Death Watch. Parts one and two.
Just a matter of time, right?
No way in hell Bush fires that fatback slime merchant. He's way to
valuable. What was it the Bull Moose
who so eloquently stated: "For Bush to get rid of Rove would be like
Charlie McCarthy firing Edgar Bergen."
Well said indeed.
And while I'm throwing quotes around like it's going out of style…
"What we know is that we're looking at another scandal about the White
House and a woman…
But this time, it's the woman who got blown..." From the TPM Cafe.
So much easier than actually trying to be funny myself. I'll just
piggyback on the comical phraseology of others. Because I'm a wheel
|| From: mud flap
Subject: clam digger
This fool you call Clam Digger... If he detests all that is current
in the state of professional cycling, maybe he should become an
accountant, and leave his job, whatever it is, to someone with a
love for the sport who would enjoy working in the industry.
Yea, sure, Sheryl Crow is a jackass and shouldn't be anywhere
near a Tour camera. And sure, there are probably plenty of better
cyclists than Lance out there, and in the Tour... but the problem
is that as of yet they still have to prove it. Clam talks like
Lance is somehow at FAULT now for being good, and for having the
right team. Jealous?
Speaking of jealousy, as far as Bob and Phil are concerned,
they have done great things to increase the viewership and overall
fanbase of the english-speaking minority. Any announcer out there
can be ridiculed for any number of misgivings, but at least this
isn't baseball where you can almost hear the spray of Jim Beam
hitting the microphone. If a guy like Bob beat you to the announcer's
booth, and you think you have more and better things to say, then
instead of bitchin you should probably just try harder.
I just appreciate that all these guys, despite their shortcomings,
increase the popularity of a sport I love. Oh, and as far as little
regional anecdotes every now and again... I personally prefer
they break up 3 hours of a flat stage with something more interesting
than stats of first time domestiques. I happen to like sausage,
just ask Jonny.
Rick Santorum is a complete and utter tool. Did you hear the one
about Liberals are behind the Catholic Church sex abuse scandal? Yep.
He said it. And he stands
And Kennedy just slammed him on it.
Good looking out, Teddy. Keep both hands on the wheel there boy.
Looks like the bidding is over on that one. No matter, it's still
|| From: drew
Subject: el courto supremo
Someone who has Satan's ear should tell him, "confirm Andrej for
the O'Connor's spot on the bench." This will be cornholed into Cheney,
who in turn will whisper it sweetly into Dub's ear during one of
their festive circlejerks around a warm pile of fresh Halliburton
Forget that, make Andrej ambassador to the UN. He has got to
be the slickest, sickest, most pimpingest diplomat this world
has recently seen. Anyone who throws down high-octane fortified
beer, only to chase it with "the dreaded KGB-style road trip"
and survive could certainly handle a room full of nambypamby fruitloop
Perhaps in a perfect world...
I must admit, I *miss* OLN Tour coverage. Why? I live, sans
cable, out in the motherfucking boonies. OLN's NBC Olympics-style
suckfest is pure cycling sex compared to the dreck CBS puked up
for us on Sunday.
Keep rocking the 'penos, dude. You'll eventually build up a
tolerance akin to that which I imagine you must have for The Booze.
Either that, or you'll burn your ring out and be shitting in a
bag for the rest of your life. A bonus to the latter is that you'll
always have a bag of poop with you, perfect for those times when
some stupid fuck in a H2 tries to run you off the road.
Andrej is mother fucking going places. If ever there was a man who
should be given the keys to the city, who is the heir apparent, and
the devil incarnate, it is him.
|| From: Woodward N. Bernstein
Subject: The Tour sucks
O Icon of Immensity and Inebriation,
Never, under any circumstances, respond to anything a "sports writer"
scribbles on a page, whether digital or torn from an actual dead
tree. It distracts them from tugging on their withered genitalia
while slobbering over pictures of Barry Bonds and wishing there
were some drug, damn the cost, that could make a player out of a
short, fat, bald honky with bourbon breath, a hacking cough from
the three packs a day of whatever's on sale at the Quik-Mart, and
the literary skills of a crack-addled gang-banger tagging a freeway
overpass with a stolen can of Krylon.
I have worked with a veritable herd of these swine over the
years, and only met two who knew the difference between sports
and entertainment. One was a tennis player who became a cycling
fan once I filled him in on the Tour and started covering the
local scene for free in my spare time, and the other was an amateur
rugby player who thought American pro ballplayers were poofs,
girly-men and wankers. Quite a difference from, say, the fat bastard
who actually had a monstrous sandwich named after him at one of
the local grease troughs. He finally got his stomach stapled,
trying to lose that first ton, then ate so much that he popped
Hacks like this revel in outraged letters; the angry correspondence
lets them know that someone is reading what they type, other than
the undercover coppers who are pretending to be 13-year-old girls
in some Internet chatroom frequented by hairy-eared child molesters.
Give them no pleasure. Deny them all recognition.
But by all means, find out where they live and deposit flaming
dung-bombs on the porch after shoving Idaho spuds up their Ford
Probes' tailpipes and shooting out all their windows with a Ruger
Mini-Thirty. Just don't leave a note saying why you did these
things. It makes them crazy.
Yours for better urinalism,
Woodward N. Bernstein
Deep Shoat Book Club, LLC
What happened to unilateralism? Is it no longer in vogue? When did
I get out of the loop?
Can you say GOP
I wish someone would write these things for me to use. Flip 'em. Bounce
'em. All that shit. I mean, think of all the time and effort I'd save.
The way it works now is I have to get all worked up, hot and bothered, search out links and rant and rave until
I get something together that kinda makes sense. But not very much sense
to be honest. Honest like a Mormon. Word to Moroni.
With the help of my own GOP slime machine,
maybe even a printout like that, I could just cut and paste the damn
That's pretty much what Fox News does, right?
And TPM is taking
out the slack on that one.
Ain't it the truth. If I knew where to reach him, I'd just give him
one of the damn things.
Looks like the fine folks at Soldier Ride are going for a repeat performance.
|| From: Chris
Thought folks on your drunkcyclist site might be interested in this
What do disabled veterans do after coming back from the war
Ride their bikes across the country of course.
These soldiers and friends are raising money and awareness for
Pics and info from the 2004
ride. And more of the same from 2005.
|| From: J.
Subject: first time
So here I sit reading the site and I realized that there is nothing
left to do but quit "working for the man that don't even know my
name" and ride. This is of course after I read the lifeaftertheoilcrash.net
a book entitled The End of Oil and Blood Oil.....I look at my bike
and realize there is no way I would have a bike without petro and
tons of it. Tires, tubes, carbon fiber (and you purists, steel doesn't
come from "magic") all petro. So what the fuck am I going to ride
when we stop using oil for everything?
In other news: I too have wondered what the hell is going to
happen next year when Lance ain't riding....and Tell Al Troutwig
that a fucking Trek Madone 5.9 is not the greatest bike ever.....his
comment on going to a bike shop in NYC and the shoppie telling
him they had better bikes was "Stupid and arrogant" was only proof
as to why this numbnuts shouldn't be commentating on our sport.
I too have grown tired of the Sheryl Crow bullshit....didn't LA
have a wife before this idiot tried to revive her career? Hell
I own a bike shop and could give a fuck about Lance (my shop is
in Texas no less)....I just wish I'd thought of the Livewrong
sooner than you guys. I rock my everyday on the opposite arm from
my Wipperman chain bracelet (took that off my bike after I got
T-boned last year)...
So there you have it my first time sending something in and
I've had a link to your sight from mine for about three years
You rock and I'm fucking cool.
|| From: Cody
Subject: sad news
Jonny this kind of story sucks to hear about but I thought everyone
should hear about this:
My buddy Jon was in the same field as this guy. From what he
heard the front tire blew on the guys bike and he went into the
barrier. Freak accident. I don't know what else to say. Sad sad
day in P-town.
My condolences to his family and friends.
One from Ambassador Andrej and I'm out.
|| From: Andrej
Subject: Atom Tan
When I say I'm going to Metallic Beach, you all have to remember
that I'm wearing a fur coat to the beach. The city is on a steep
hill and the beach is just a little stretch of sand at the base
of a 90 degree cliff. There I go to collect my thoughts. And meet
the ell-gathering underbelly of Magadan society.
I recently learned that this beach is very radioactive, particularly
in the exact location I like to sit and enjoy the view. You're
probably asking yourselves; "how radioactive is it Andrej?"
I'll tell you.
On a Geiger counter, a virgin forest reads 12. Downtown Manhattan
reads 30. My Metallic beach reads a whopping 420! Nice. As I'm
catching rays from above, the ground is seething with Cesium ash
No biggie though. The locals don't seem to mind.
So what do I do here when I'm not street fighting, preaching
abolition of absorbing radiation?
I've started translating a 9 year old issue of Russian Cosmopolitan.
It's fun! So far I've translated an Estee Lauder ad, and now I'm
working on an article about legs.
I have six more days in Magadan. Then I'm off to mighty Moscow.
So I buy this can of jalapenos. 'Cause I'm a man and shit. And men eat
jalapenos with their burritos. I'm having a burrito for dinner, and
munching away on the jalapenos. Happy as a pig in shit.
So far, so good, right?
I'm chomping away, having a grand old time. Now I'm all out of burrito.
Still got some jalapeno.
And the shit starts to burn. I mean really start burning. I'm like,
oh shit, maybe that was a bit much. I'm on fucking fire.
I'm in the kitchen. Standing in front of the fridge. What do I have
the will stop this agony? I start eating ice cream. Right out of the
carton. Spoon full after spoon full. Just make it stop, please Jesus,
Then it happens. I get an insane ice cream headache while my lips
and tongue are burning off.
I'm dancing a jig around the kitchen saying, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh
My wife is loving it. Funniest thing she ever saw in her life, judging
by her response to my situation. Even the dog looked at me sideways
and left. Ah, the level of entertainment I was providing.
Some guy ripping on the Tour. Cycling is not a sport and all that.
Yeah buddy, what the fuck ever. There is one every year, isn't there?
|| From: The Most Factory Blog
Subject: jagbag journos
"It's as though the Chicago Marathon were a bunch of 3- to 4-mile
races spread out over nine days" motherfucker puuuhllleeaassseee.
Happens every year. some douche reporter has to spout off about
cycling not a sport, le tours' not a race, yada yada.
he really wants your feedback: firstname.lastname@example.org
The poor bastard. Oh course, you'd be wasting your time to actually
email the guy. It's always just a bunch of horse shit, some assbag trying
to rile up the masses and show his online editor his "stories" get tons
of readers and he's really got his finger on the pulse of American.
Whatever. If that guy was on fire, I wouldn't piss on his leg.
Or maybe I would.
|| From: Andrej
Subject: A Rough Ride to the Balls
The Onyx Bar is very small. There are two seats at the bar and three
tables in a small room with a TV hanging from the ceiling. There,
I know, I can always find the two Maxes; Handsome Max and Big Max.
They are both big, but Big Max is extra large. And Handsome Max
is handsome, if you ignore all the scars. The Onyx Bar is on the
edge of Gorky Park, where I recently mowed down a band of aggressive
So one cold night (which is day, here), I'm sitting in Gorky
Park, with eyes in the back of my head, enjoying a refreshing
two liter bottle of Far East malt liquor. The girls are wearing
mini skirts and stillettos despite the weather. But they fear
me; on account of my beat up Soviet-era bomber jacket, shaved
head and goggles.
Then I remember the Onyx, and I head over.
Handsome Max is at the bar pawing Xhenia, the lovely bar maid.
He greets me and congratulates me on my victory in the park; somehow
he heard about it? He asks me what happened. I tell him that a
malenka sukka (little bitch) malchek clocked my friend Pavel,
so I laid into him, and all his friends, like Mormon at a pizza
party. Max told me the special word for coming to the aid of a
friend, but I have forgotten it.
He orders a vodka and milk.
Yeah...just like in the movie.
I must admit that this is an unexpectedly refreshing combination.
Then the KGB arrives. Now they are called the FSB. Two guys: Andrei
and Serge, off duty, and drunk, and they're full of cash and looking
for a good time, and they're full of that certain feeling that
comes with knowing that you're untouchable. Andrei is a real charmer
ace. He has a ghoulish scar running down that middle of his jug-head
forehead, and his upper front teeth are black stalactites.
After a couple o'drinks, it's midnight, and the sun is just
beginning to dip behind the mountains.
The four of us go next door to the little convenience store
and buy vodka, tomato juice, pickled gherkins, bread, and tomato
juice. This could mean only one thing...ROADTRIP!!!! The dreaded
KGB-style road trip.
I felt as though anything could happen.
We jump into Andrei's YAZ, pronounced ooo-Az. This is a Russian
made jeep, with very interesting triangular doors. It retails
for about 7000$, new. And off we go, out of town east, and into
the mountains. I ask Max, who sitting next to me, and offering
me a Baltika tallboy, "where the fuck are we going?"
And Max says "To the Balls" and points his index finger into
the air. Magadan is surrounded by mountains on three sides. Directly
south is the radioactive beach and the mouth of the harbor. On
the ridge of the eastern mountain chain, there are three white
balls, some kind of radar installations or observatories. Whom
ever I ask tells me something different.
We come to the edge of the city, and get on a trassa (gravel
road). Andrei is driving very fast. Then the trassa ends and Andrei
warns me that things are about to get "extreme."
Now we're in a dried up river bed, full of boulders the size
of love seats, and Andrei is still driving as though this was
a company car. It is impossible to describe the shaking I experienced
that night. I was sure that the YAZ was going to shit the bed.
I was willing to bet my return ticket on it. After the third time
my head smashed against the headliner, I realized that holding
on to the little handle above the back door, with white knuckles,
was not enough. So with the hand that wasn't holding the frothy
Baltika, I reach down under the seat a feel around for something
to hang-on to. Thank God I found a bar down there and clutched
it for dear life. It was like riding a mechanical bull, while
Finally we reached the summit.
And the view can only be described as science fiction.
Ok here we go: I'm standing on a mountain peak, the sky is clear,
I'm facing west and the sun is day glow orange three degrees above
the horizon. On my left is the mouth of the harbor and the Pacific.
Below me is Magadan. But the tooman clouds have completely swallowed
the city. These are weird terrestrial clouds that roll in from
the ocean. But in the middle of the city, the tooman clouds form
a huge vortex. Wow! Behind me is the other harbor, known as Nuclear
Beach, and off in the distance is the Horses peninsula. Oh, yeah...
and I'm standing next to a three huge white domes. The domes are
abandoned. It looks as though they were never used. Inside the
largest one, I entertained the others with my famous Chevy Chase
impersonation. The echo in the dome made it all more amusing.
I think Andrei wet his pants, just a little.
There is always something to do in Magadan.
Snake finally cracks the top twenty out at Super Week.
Twentieth is top twenty, right?
Didn't see Hoyt mentioned anywhere. Musta been covering breaks all
day. Or taking breaks. Your pick.
Looks like those two Krystal boys will be working for John Murphy,
currently in tenth place overall with 38 points. That is, if Hoyt can
get out of his own way.
I am so going to catch hell for that one.
I can't help myself.
Its funny when friends hurt, isn't it?
And it's really funny when the worm turns and Rove fries
like the slab of fatback he is.
Bring on the clam!
|| From: "Clam Digger"
Subject: lance's gym
Jonny: when checking out the link to why the tour coverage is so
boring (and it is) I found another article from slate.com. Good
I am late for work so don't have time to fully expound upon
my true feelings. Maybe an Ice-T type rant will suffice: "Fuck
Lance, Fuck OLN, Fuck Al Trautwig, Bob Roll, and that washed up
hack Phil Ligget."
Naw, really, I do like Phil Ligget, but he should let Paul Sherwin
do most of the talking. That said, why not turn the sound down
and listen to some good music instead? Those guys have been doing
a horrible job announcing this year. On the third stage when they
couldn't find Boonen in the sprint, right in the middle of the
screen? Okay, his green kit might have looked similar to the C/A
kit, but come on. Then when Bernucci was away and they kept calling
Kirchen? Okay, I didn't recognize it as Bernucci straight away,
but it sure didn't look like Kirchen.
Oh, yeah, late for work. I really do want to rant about this.
-featuring Sheryl Crow, unless you will also feature other girlfriends
and wives. See, you don't want to see that, so nix Sheryl.
-stop 'interesting' features about local sausage makers. I think
the guy that did that story (Hochman?) was looking for some other
kind of sausage. How cool was it when he tried to open the champagne
bottle with the sabre? At least Bob Roll can do one thing moderately
-Phil, stop winging it. When Dekker passes under the 2km to
go banner, don't tell me they are at 1.5km. When the sprint is
winding up, don't tell me it is 'about 1km' when they have just
passed 500m. And stop taking the piss out of Paul, only to have
him politely one up you. When is the last time a Dane won a stage
of the Tour?
-Bob, the way you say Tour 'dee' France is not cool. Say Tour
of France if you must, or just Tour. We will know what you are
talking about and it will not result in us having thoughts of
killing you with a broken champagne bottle or rusty sabre. I must
continue to refer to you as 'Bob-key' since you said in your first
book that this is not the correct way to pronounce your nickname.
-If you insist upon showing us never-ending stories about Lance's
comeback from cancer (Apparently I was wrong, they didn't make
it up and it was not filmed on the same sound stage where they
supposedly shot the lunar landings) then how about a story on
Beloki's comeback from the crash in '03. Even just a 15 minute
show including his physical therapy, his adamant claims that he
needed an inhaler to perform and that he couldn't race effectively
for Brioches because the French doctor would not write a script,
his return to Manolo Saiz, and a story on how tubulars should
be glued to aluminum vs. carbon rims. Many viewers could benefit
from that as there is a slight difference between the two and
it is believed by some that his tire rolled simply because it
was not glued properly. Similar theories abound for tires rolling
at Track World's this year in LA.
Oh, yeah, the mountain stages are steeper at the Vuelta and
Giro both. Yes, I have worked races in all three countries in
question and have worked with other mechanics who have done all
three grand tours within the same year. Sure different riders
focus on the different races and yes, maybe some countries have
been more lenient on dope controls in the past, but that doesn't
change the gradient of the roads.
Lance has been great for the sport in so many ways, but his
continued dominance has skewed the coverage and all the hype too
far to one side. Will OLN even know what to do when they can't
give us the Lance/Sheryl split screen? Who will they 'chronicle.'
Heck, maybe that is why Jean Marie Leblanc is retiring; without
Lance, what is there left?
Sorry for the F-bombs. I will put on my yellow bracelet, my
Discovery jersey, 10/2 ball cap, tune in to OLN and return to
the cult, er, Tour coverage.
(Jonny, I am still working in the sport, so if you can, don't
list my last name as sender. Thanks pal.)
Don't mention it, Clam Digger. I do it all the time.
Bring on the Heff!
|| From: Heff
Subject: The Cheap flavour
I am very, very humiliated.
I've been riding for a long time. I'm also one of those cunts
who walks into your store, holds the fucked component in your
face and says "I need a replacement". as I've never had the $$$
to go "tell me what's good" its always been the "i'll take the
cheapest one you have".
This has given me false impressions.
so, I'm cruising for cycle parts. I just dug my old frame out
of the shed, and yeah, the rims are fucked, I need to replace
the tyres and probably the brake and gear cables too. not a big
so I go online, hunting for parts, cheap. 3 bits of wire. 2
rims. 2 rubber tubes and some treads. not a big deal, right? I
mean, I used to walk into the store, hold up the part and go "gimme",
and some dude who woulda been a surfer if he lived by the sea
squints at it for maybe half a second before laying it out for
me and asking my money.
I've just had to go back out to my bike with a tape measure.
I now know I have 24" rims. I've got to go out again because I
have no idea how many spokes the hubs take. I don't know the type
of gear shift I have. its a derailleur. its a shimano. after being
on their website I'm now very confused. my brakes are pads. apparently
I need more information than this, too. What the hell is a roller
brake? I'm hopelessly lost.
I feel confused. I feel very dirty and ashamed of myself, and
I haven't even had any fun, and I'm still sober. this is a first
Worse still, I know I'm going down my local cycle store with
the fucked bits in a bag. I'm gonna slap em on the counter, and
say "gimme the cheap flavour".
I need a beer.
Ah, yes, The Cheap flavour. I know it well.
What are you having? Whatever is on sale for me, than
Monday, Monday, Monday, big friggin deal. Weekend over, back to work
and all that noise. It's all overrated as far as I'm concerned. At least
we have the Tour to drool over. And that may just be enough these days.
Tomorrows stage from Grenoble to Courchevel is going to be an absolute
One that will undoubtedly separate the wheat from the chaff.
|| From: Bill G
Subject: slate writer
love the site, and the frequent philly tips (I used to live there,
now in Lancaster county).
anyway, so, I wrote this article for Slate.com about how the
Tour has gotten boring. it seems to have stirred the shit:
yes, I say: boring. nothing happens for the first week, and
then for the last week (or two!) the outcome is not in doubt.
at least that's the way it's gone since Lance started winning
(except for 2003). that spells boring to me. hell, even michele
ferrari thinks the french climbs are for pussies. meanwhile, the
vuelta and the giro have served up cliffhangers lately.
anyway, it seems our fellow cyclists are quite angry about it.
it also seems they haven't read it carefully. I'm not slagging
cycling (I ride, I race, road mountain cyclocross and singlespeed),
I'm saying it's boring compared to other bike races.
And they way they cover it on TV is just shitty. I mean, even
NASCAR does a better job, with car-mounted cameras and team-radio
listen-ins. Talk about a boring sport.....
so, I'm hoping you'll at least give it an intelligent read,
whether or not you agree.
They did seem to get a little testy in the comments section, didn't
they? Well, tomorrow's stage ought to give us some proper fireworks.
Geezers need excitement. Common sense, simple common sense.
No more Jens
Voight in yellow I'm afraid. He's got about as good of a chance
of maintaining the lead as I do.
And that ain't a very good chance at all.
Speaking of chances, what odd do you give my hero Karl Rove of staying
around? Is it time to send Rove back to Texas? Is Carl Rove going to take a fall for outing Valerie Plame? I mean, finally
going to take a fall.
Check out this brush up on some past statements vouching
for Karl Rove. Yeah. Good stuff. Even more on Rove over at talking
points memo. Video up at crooks
And finally, three more links in no particular order:
That fat bastard is going to sizzle like Sunday morning sausage.
It's a grand conspiracy isn't it?
And fuck Brit
|| From: Drew
Subject: the "ism"
First off, I'd like to thank you for drunkcyclist in general. The
information, entertainment, and sticky pink pictures all help my
days flow all that much more easily.
Second, I'd like to bring up something many of my cohorts and
I noticed about the way the UK bombings have been portrayed on
the news. To the best of my knowledge, the TV was attributing
these horrible acts to islamic militants before any group claimed
responsibility. Comments along the lines of "there are lots of
Muslims in London" were common.
According to the BBC online article you linked: "UK Foreign
Secretary Jack Straw said the bombings had "the hallmarks of an
al-Qaeda-related attack." Perhaps IRA bombs smell differently
than Islamic extremist bombs. Having smelled neither, I cannot
I am not trying to say that al-Qaeda or its fuckshit ilk are
not responsible for these atrocities; rather, I am alarmed by
the immediate "let's blame the Muslims!" response. The number
of different groups who might want to perpetrate such violent
acts, especially considering the G8 meetings and announcement
of the 2012 Olympics, is vast and varied.
The big media outlets have fully puckered up to the succulent
asshole of the Dubya Administration, providing an alarmingly unfiltered
conduit by which its venomous rhetoric can flow like the diarrhea
it is. Irresponsible reporting is doing a great job of waving
the stinky digit at the billion or so law-abiding people who happen
to subscribe to Islam. While every article has a "we know all
Muslims aren't terrorists" cliche' thrown in for good measure,
the overriding stench of "we don't care that they aren't all terrorists,
we'll pretend that they are" is unmistakable.
Anyway, that's my rant. My thoughts and sympathy go out to the
unfortunate souls harmed by these vile acts. I just don't see
an end to such violence if we keep buying what the warmongers
All the best-
-on an island in the Puget Sound
My man, I'm short on answers and long on questions these days. Check
out the latest antics from our man about town, Andrej.
|| From: Andrej
Subject: RE: The Bandits
I traded my 30-year old Nikon F2 for a shit load of really cool
but worthless Soviet cameras; including a KGB tiny document camera
called the Kiev Vega, and a 75mm Iskra 2, and a 105mm Moskva 5,
among others. Besides, pictures are liars. I could show you pictures
of Magadan and all the hotties here, but on your monitor they would
be diminished some how. I remember seeing pictures other bikers
took of this region and they all pale in comparison to the real
day-to-day charm of this city.
And guess what, my beach, Metallic Beach, has a Gieger counter reading
of 420. That's almost 40 times above normal background radiation!
Sweet?! A little Cesium never hurt anyone?
Today I will tan and drink fortified beer.
There are three types of beer here:
svetlo (light): light 3% booze
klasichno (classic): 5% booze
krepko (meaning unclear): 10% booze
I try to stay away from the krepko for obvious reasons. But
I do enjoy Moloko Plus. You heard me right. A bar called the ONYX
serves vodka with a milk chaser. I haìó grown very fond of this
combination. You should all try it, and raise a glass to your
humble narrator, out here on the Arctic circle.
A good weekend with a couple of good rides under my belt. I can rest
easy tonight. I did more repeats up Marshall on Friday, two half hour
efforts Saturday morning down on Schnebly
Hill Road, and a ride around the late by myself this morning.
Run. Nice ride Rasmussen. And Voight in yellow? Forget about it.
|| From: Gordon
Subject: Thursday's Porn Links
What the fuck? Just cause some fuckheads blowup a few Brits you
post no links. Terrorism does suck but, when you discontinue your
routine because of their actions, they win.
You are absolutely right. That was mostly because I was pressed for
time and wanted to get something, anything, up on the site. I'll try
not to be so neglectful in the future.
Actually, I'd rather not face the whole issue again, if you know what
|| From: Erik
You should take a look at this.
It is a history of the Tour de France that takes a short aside
into the Dreyfus affair and makes unfavorable comparisons about
our own government. Then goes back to the Tour. (Look for the
indented paragraph about a tenth of the way down the page)
Actually there is a ton of good information on the site.
|| From: Richard
Subject: London Bombs
I'm a 'long-time listener, first-time caller' kind of guy and I
work in the West End of London. I commute by train from a town about
30 minutes away every day. Yesterday, my journey was perfectly normal.
I got a cup of coffee at just after 8am, read a paper for a while
and walked to my office. I arrived at work about the same time the
first bomb went off, a couple of miles away near Liverpool Street
station. The first I knew that anything was wrong was that a couple
of my team were half-an-hour late for work. They arrived with stories
of power-cuts and evacuations. Then the radio was turned on and
we started to hear about explosions, casualties, deaths. At this
point, one of my team members still hadn't arrived for work. We
called his home and his mobile but got no reply. We started to seriously
worry. About 10.30am, he called in to say that he'd be late! He
had been stuck in a tunnel on an Underground train, for two hours
with no light and no air. Horrible; but we were just relieved he
That will be just one of the thousands of lucky escapes from
yesterday. Unfortunately, hundreds were not so lucky and were
injured or even killed.
For many Brits, terrorism is nothing new. I grew up in the 70s
and 80s when the threat of the IRA was always present, but never
more than at the back of your mind (at least, in most people in
England). Even then, the IRA would usually give a coded warning
so that evacuations could be completed before the bomb went off.
The threat lay in their ability to infiltrate society, destroy
at will and get away with it -- not in taking life.
Whoever did this -- and that hasn't yet been properly established
-- are just out to kill people. It's ugly, really ugly.
Thanks for showing restraint on your site today, Johnny. But
the message from me is that these guys have won if we stop doing
our everyday stuff. So keep on keeping on.
I'll keep keeping on on this side of the pond.
|| From: Heff
4 explosions , various knock on effects.
30 confirmed still a number being used here, estimates of up
to 70 being touted around. a lot of people over at BritishMedicalAssociation
[BMA] which was just across the street from the bus blast are
still not out of the woods.
judging from the state of the bus, some of those people are
paste. literally. the top of the goddamned bus is ripped off like
a can of sardines.
I'm amazed london got off so lightly. 30+ plus people died,
and that really fucking hurts, but I'm amazed it wasn't in the
I'm no longer in london, I'm 3 hours north of it and on the
east coast now, but...
...jesus. its fucked, man. has the whole world gone fucking
crazy? The towers, Bali, Madrid, and now this. its fucked. its
all just... fucked.
Yeah, it's fucked. Straight fucked.
|| From: Drew
Hey man, I just wanted to send out my condolences to anybody affected
in the London bombing. My girlfriend is currently in London working
an internship and takes the one of the bombed lines to work every
morning. Luckily she was 10 minutes late and didn't get on the underground
that she normally would have taken. I have never felt luckier in
my life. My thoughts go out to anyone affected.
I've read a lot of stories like that. People running late, sleeping
through the alarm, etc, and missing their usual train or bus.
Think about those who were late, missed their usual train, and got
on the, ahem, wrong one.
And now on to some more upbeat stuff.
|| From: John
Another great victory by one of your loyal readers. This humble
reader was 1st overall in the prestigious Adventure (off-road) Triathlon
held on the 4th at a Church camp, no less. OK, so it's not so prestigious
but there were like 40 people competing and most were able-bodied.
I even refrained from swearing. Good to be a big fish in a small
The lawyer idea is good, but Johnny Cochran is in fact taking
Good looking out.
Yep, see ya at the Worlds. And here's one from Corey himself:
|| From: Corey the Courier
Subject: Cycle Messenger World Championships
Me and a merry bunch of messengers decided to ride from Philly to
New York to compete in the World Cycle Messenger Championships.
There were 13 of us doing the group ride to the 13th Annual CMCW,
what a coincidence.
Our great pal Claire drove Stewey's van as the sag wagon so
we didn't have to carry a ton of crap on our backs for hours.
That was great news for me as I closed Sisters, the lesbian club
the night before. (There is nothing more thrilling for a man than
to be in a room full of two hundred drunk women all singing B-A-N-A-N-A!)
We set out from downtown Philly around 9:30. The first flat 9:45
two miles up the road. I was concerned about our group making
the entire trip in one day considering the shape of a few of the
bikes. Nice guys, but they had junk bikes for a long distance
trip. We fixed the fixies and resumed our journey to the Big Apple.
We were ordered to walk our bikes across a bridge from Pennsylvania
to New Jersey by the constables. Somewhere between Trenton and
Princeton some roadie on a titanium road bike in full spandex
rode along our bold group of adventurers. He asked what was the
deal with all of the track bikes. I told him we were headed to
the Cycle Messenger World Championships. He shrugged and harumphed,
clicking up a gear and rode off as if we were a bunch of chumps.
I didn't take it well. My pride wouldn't have it. I am the champion
of Philly. Damn if I was going to let this dude show me up. I
clicked up a gear, took off, catching him quickly and shooting
past him in a show of angry defiance. He countered and sped up.
I sat up laughing remembering I was on a group ride with guys
on junky bikes. When I looked back two of my comrades were right
behind me. The first words out of their mouths: "Let's get him".
The chase up the bumpy road resumed. The roadie began looking
back, and seeing the scruffy couriers gaining ground took a turn
off of the road. We regrouped and ate lunch in Princeton.
Two of our group competed in the R1, a stage race for messengers
from Boston to New York a few days earlier. There were three road
stages and three alleycat stages. My buddy Brian was telling me
about the trip as we were cruising up the road. He told me that
he had the edge on the road stages when the group hit the hills.
His track bike enabled him to go uphill faster. Just then a hill
came into view. Brian took off. My ego kicked in and so did I.
We laughed about it and then another hill came. That crazy damn
Brian took off again. I wasn't letting him go anywhere. Pride
took over. Chased him down. Sharky and Early Flat guy caught us
and the break was formed. Matt chased like hell for a couple of
miles to get on. The poor guys in the back could only watch us
ride away. We kept the pace high for quite a while. Somewhere
we eased off the pace. I informed Matt that in big time pro races,
this is where the team cars come up with food and race strategy.
Afterward someone from the back of the group makes an attack.
I demonstrated, ripping away from the group laughing knowing they
couldn't catch me. We stopped at a Dunkin' Donuts and regrouped.
I was satisfied with the eye candy behind us in line: Beautiful
blonde with big real tits and thin legs. She smiled and waved
to me as she drove away in her convertible. Aaah.
The ride broke up again with me and Brian riding way way off
the front. We got lost. We asked locals for directions, but no
one knew a thing. We found our way and got lost again. We found
a friendly policeman who gave us directions. We resumed our way
along rough roads. As we got close to downtown Newark, we caught
up to the group we dropped over an hour before! We regrouped and
took the train across the Hudson River into Manhattan.
Registration was a reunion of couriers from all corners of the
globe. People we'd seen at other alleycats and championships.
The registration crew misspelled my name on my ID card. My nickname
is the Brown Hornet. For the weekend I became the Brown Horney...
Due to difficulty getting permits in Manhattan because of security
issues, the main race was in Jersey City. The roads were rough
as a day in the Paris-Roubaix. There were 9 checkpoints in the
maze. One checkpoint was a flat fix stop. Everyone had to remove
the tube from their tire before going to the next checkpoint.
Two other checkpoints had fake poles. While you thought you were
locking up your bike, "thieves" would undo the poles on the scaffolding
and take your bike down the street.
During my qualifier, upon returning from getting my papers stamped,
I saw a little guy walking off with my bike. I started to chase
him. Helpless I was. Fast as I could go but couldn't catch him.
No wind in my lungs to yell while at full sprint. He laughed and
gave me my bike a block later. I continued and finished my race
sprinting to the finish line. As I turned in my manifest sheet,
I puked. It was a damn fine ride. I qualified third overall for
my manifest sheet. Third overall for my heat.
For the finals the 700+ couriers were whittled down to the fastest
150 men and women. Despite their best efforts, only my buddy Sa(n)tan(a)
and Elena were the only others from Philly to make the cut. It
was awesome to be at to the front for the line up. The start was
the usual mayhem of bikes and bodies rushing to make the hole
shot. Along the way some woman decided to change the course. As
I burned through the maze she told me I took a wrong turn and
was disqualified. I wasn't stopping going to stop mid race to
discuss someone else's misunderstanding. Next lap, she yells out
"I don't know why you are still riding. You are disqualified".
I flipped her the bird at speed. I never slowed down. A few laps
later I was approached by someone with an official CMWC Staff
shirt telling me I was DQ'd. It took every bit of patience not
to use bad language, but I explained to the gentleman I didn't
cheat and showed him a copy of the official course map. (Thank
goodness for carrying my clip board!) He nodded in agreement after
lobbying my case. As I got back on my bike I yelled a growl to
release the frustration of STANDING around while the competition
was flying along at full speed during the championship finals.
For the rest of the race I continued to fly along passing slower
riders on the rough stretches of road.
Final results: Basel, Switzerland wins the men's race. Brown
Horney Philly, USA middle of the pack. It was a let down not to
make the top 10, but I gave my all and had a great time seeing
old drinking buddies and making new friends. I've got a year plus
to prepare for the 14th CMWC in Sydney Australia in Oct/Nov. I'm
part of the organizing committee for the 2006 North American Cycle
Courier Championships in Philly May/June. Next year won't get
easier for the crusty veteran, promoting and racing the sport
from the front.
Corey the Courier
PS Most importantly there was a new world record for skids.
Squirrel from Texas slid his track bike 509 feet.
Five hundred and nine feet? What did he skid down, a fucking cliff?
|Thursday, July 7, 2005
| terrorism sucks
Explosions in London this morning. More than 30 killed. The radio has
it at over 45. Approximately 350 injured. Story here
and updates as they happen at BBC.com
No news as of yet from the many DC readers across the pond. I will
post any updates I receive.
No ridey ride today other than to work and back. I guess I did run a
few errands, so I did turn the legs over a little bit. Not enough to
call it more than a day off.
And after last weekend, I earned it. Looks like Bush
earned himself a day off as well. Well Bully for him. Here's how my
shit played out.
Friday, One Eyed Cross's Canada Party. I played street hockey and
got two goals for the US of A. I should have been the MVP. Then I drank
a shit load of whiskey right out of the bottle with Brinky and DK. It
Fitty took the title with 13 1/2 minutes in a City recycling can full
with at least a dozen bags of ice in it. Then we carried him upstairs.
Jesus, he was a mess.
Saturday, I did two hours with the group. Felt pretty good and all
that, after the first hour of being totally and completely hung the
fuck over. When I first woke up at ten till nine, I said fuck the group
ride. At five after nine I decided to go for it and chased all the way
to the mail boxes where I finally caught up. See, the ride leaves at
9:00. Funny how that works.
Sunday, rode up Waterline Road to the Inner Basin. That last pitch
past the cabins and into the basin proper is a total fucking whore.
Then we rode down Challenger. It's a whore and I had to walk a lot of
it. We all did. 5 hours at least. Maybe even 5 1/2. Oh, up and down
Schultz to the tank as well. Good times.
Monday, Cruiser Nation was fun. I didn't race it, I just took some
pics. Rode out and up Moto on a rigid one speed. It takes a while to
get out there from the side of town I'm living on these days, so I got
a couple hours in. Mostly just spinning along on a one speed. Felt pretty
good on the climb, even passed the kid who ended up winning the damn
thing. Rigid forks climb really nice. Rode down and thought I was going
to die about 40 time. Rigid forks decent really badly. Like whores.
Knocked a couple of beers back, eat a burger and talked mad shit with
the boys. Rode home went to bed.
Woke up a 9:00 pm with the Worst. Headache. Ever. Up to 1:30 drinking
and eating. Lots of salt. Lots and lots of salt.
And here I am. Not knowing really what just hit me.
|| From: Gentleman Jonny
Subject: that shit ain't water, bee-ach!
Big Jonny, Here is your pal Jonny the Cat enjoying a recovery drink
after the Boat Street Crit in Seattle. Instead of magnums of crappy
champagne the team that puts it on, Recycled Cycles (my squad),
gave out forties of malt liquor. photos by Amara
You sir, are a gentleman and a scholar.
Race report from the Amateur Nationals in Park City, Utah.
|| From: Love Dog
I was 6th in the TT.......I was hoping to do better, I was up in
the night with a stomach bug, but felt fast on the bike, but it
did not stack up.........I think it was just some really good competition.
In the RR I was 9th but my fitness was better in comparison
to the rest. I lit it up on the last climb, and after some regrouping
on a short decent we were 6......and 1 move later it was 3 on
3 ( I made the front group) and things looked really good to me,
but the riders behind were bolstered by regrouping on the approach
into town (headwind and slightly uphill)...we were caught with
about 1.5K to go and it was too tough to respond to the repeated
attacks after the efforts already made so I faded to 9th.
Gotta wait 1 more yr.
One more year…
|| From: DeJay
Subject: going deep
101 + 107 = geared bikes go to hell!! montazuma, co 009= mt. gunnison
from kebler pass, co
i made it to crested butte only to barely ride my bike around
the 10 mile lap 3 times. topping out at 10,500ft..ouch. what a
beautiful place. then on to eldora, co for the ss state championships,
again another 10,000ft+ effort. i managed a 4th and jake took
3rd. check this out $65.00 for third and a free burro. dam a ss'er
could live off that for a month. oh yeah then to breckinridge
for the firecracker 50. this time i decided to watch all the others
suffer. it was jake that took third again, about 15 min behind
not to bad for a weeks worth of riding..huh
i will be digging my claws in at the angel fire world cup this
weekend, then back to good ol' colorado for aspen.
balls and all,
Best flash ever.
Do podium girls wear livewrong bands? Check the pic
down at the bottom of the page. Sure looks black to me.
Arizona is on fire. Literally. Check out Mt. Lemmon. Ouch. Looks like Summerhaven is getting hammered.
And they make the best pie up there in Summerhaven...
Bret Lamberson took the 2005 Cruiser Nation in style yesterday. He took
it back in 2000 and told me he's waited all these years to beat Rhino
and take back the trophy. Beat Rhino he did. That's him on the right.
Good looking out, Bret.
Check out these fine looking shirts over at pilderwasser.com.
You win like he does, I guess you can do whatever you want. Show a
even dance the macarena.
And why are you looking at his crotch?
Man assaults cyclist, gets arrested
in Washington. Strike one for the home team.
|| From: Jordon
Subject: Supa Dupa Fund
Clifford has got a hell of a point. Cyclists? Working together?
Why didn't we think of that earlier?
Ok, that's it were starting the super-fund, here's how its going
Everyone who reads the site has two responsibilities, (a) to
tell EVERYONE they know that they need to read the site, (b) to
donate $100 to the fund every year in the month of their birthday.
We will make this retro-active to the beginning of the year to
make all things fair. Call it 'life insurance.'
Ok, now we got a shit-load of money, Big-Johnny, I vote for
you to be the executor of the fund. We will use the money to keep
oh, say, Johnny Cochran on retainer for when next soldier falls
in battle. Then Big-Johnny Cochran goes in, takes the driver for
everything, and leaves a wasted shell of a human being behind
stuttering, "but the last guy got away with it..."
I guarantee a more courteous driving population after that shit
hits the news stands. Then we will see who is watching out for
who when those fuckers in their lifted Dodge trucks figure out
that we've got Johnny C on retainer, just waiting to collect the
keys to that piece of shit car... and their house... and their
wife.. you get the idea.
Winnings will go to, as Clif said, the families and to keep
the fund going. Simply brilliant. Who's in?
You had me right up until I became the executor of the fund. Good
chance it ends up in the till over at Pay-n Take if I get the keys.
If not there, it'll be some strip club…
And isn't Johnny Cochran dead?
One from our man in the field, Andrej.
|| From: Andrej
Subject: The Bandits
OK. Time for a little confession. Please refer back to my story
about the Bear and the Skunk. That night somebody took my passport.
It was in my blue flight jacket (given to me by my beloved ex-girlfriend
Nina) and when I took it off to arm wrestle the Russian Bear, someone
must have picked my pocket.
This is a major problem over here. Ivan loves to look at passports.
I cannot leave Magadan without a passport. I cannot board a plane
without a passport. I am completely fucked.
There is an American consulate in Vladivostok, but how will
I get there? Not on a plane. I tried to get passage on a freighter,
but I failed. I tried to hitch a ride on a cargo plane, and failed.
I tried to find a groozavik to Yakutsk. No groozaviks go to Yakutsk.
Your humble narrator was in serious trouble. Faith, I tell myself,
faith, I must have faith, like the centurion.
Six days later, I'm walking down the street, the day is sunny,
not a cloud in the sky, and the tooman clouds are racing through
the city 20 feet off the ground: spectacular.
Towards me walk two men. One is seven feet tall and the other
is six feet tall. The taller man removes his sun glasses, and
I immediately recognize his piercing blue eyes; it's the Skunkman!
I found him!
That night in the Karim sashlik bar, I was with him when I bested
the giant Russian Bear in feats of strength.
"Where is my passport?" I ask him.
He says he doesn't know. He says he gave me a ride home that
night and that was that. His name is Serge. The guy with him is
Misha. He looks like the classic Russian tough: pin-stripped black
jeans, caesar hair cut, pointy elven (hatabitch) shoes, and a
black 3/4 leather jacket. He says I am a hero for beating the
Bear. I tell him about my missing passport, and he says "Beers
and to the Park!"
I buy a whole smoked salmon and two 40's of fortified beer and
we sit in the Arctic sun and hatch a masterful plot.
That night, at the Karim sashlik bar, after I left with Serge,
Misha stayed behind. He and two other guys were jumped and beaten
by ten other dudes. Misha tells me he thinks these dudes picked
my pocket and took my passport. Misha tells me he is a part-time
bandit, and that he know the Magadan criminal underground well.
As we drink more and more fortified beer, Misha's memory begins
to clear. He stares into the distance and stays, Da, Da Ya pomnim!!
(Now I remember!)
It appeared as though he now remembers the exact person responsible,
both for stealing my passport and for kicking his ass (he has
a nice bruise under his left eye).
He is now rather drunk and pugnacious. He says he will get me
my passport in two days, maximum. The three of us jump into a
cab and begin the hunt. To make a very long story short, we ended
up back at the Karim sashlik bar, where the gold toothed Caucasian
was not too excited to see me. Me and the Bear apparently broke
his table while arm wrestling.
We sat down and ordered three large skewers of sashlik and three
40's of fortified beer. The man that grilled the sashlik had a
grizzly scar across his face; he looked like a baseball. On the
TV, there was a talk show about white slavery, and I demanded
that my two companions watch it. Unto them I preached abolition.
What we were doing in the sashlik bar remained uncertain, to me.
Remember, I speak no Russian.
After much much sashlik, Misha steps outside and comes back
with my passport. It was a miracle! I ordered another round and
we celebrated. Misha rules!! I gave him my ultra-cool knife as
a gift and we went back to my apartment and threw knives into
the cement wall and danced.
Armstrong caught and passed
Ulrich? What the fuck happened to my boy? Day one and he's dog meat.
God damn it.
The upside is Zabriskie
is in yellow.
That's fucked up like
Guantánamo Bay .
The Canada Party was a blast. Street hockey, beer and hamburgers.
In short, heaven. I scored two goals, ate two burgers and drank way
to much. The ride home was interesting to say the least. The headache
this morning would have killed a horse.
I got up late and chased the group for the first few miles. About
five. Caught 'em at the mailboxes on Lake Mary. Put in a good two hours,
bye bye hangover.
And so it goes.
At least there is always trucker
|| From: Pistol Pete
I am tired of hearing about doping. I'm of the opinion that if you're
not doping you're wasting your life. WTF? Which one of you motherfuckers
doesn't swill some good ol' malt before a ride? After? During? I'm
not even asking about a little wake n' bake. Hippie Speedballs?
And who gives a rat's ass about those pro prima donnas in the news
anyway? How many of' em would be good neighbors? Or even roll a
fattie for the ride? Those bigshot names mean nothing. Any bro out
there on his(or her)old rattle rig would be a better companion for
the Dharmic roll we do. As for me I'm gonna chug some of that faggy
yuppy french press boosheet,pull a couple tubes and hit the trails
on my bald tire,stretch chain,new front pad POS fixie...
If you weren't wasted, the night was…
Cycling and nudity
go together like peas and carrots.
|| From: James
Subject: RE: I need to bring my camera
About a month ago I put a "drunkcyclist.com" sticker on the back
of the Lion's Lair urinal. Tonight is was paired up with a plasteredbastard.com
sticker. It is like chocolate and peanut butter.
Nice. Chocolate and peanut butter.
|| From: David
Subject: Peak Oil Info: essential links
Jonny, You should broaden your outlook on the decline of the world
we have known. Get into Peak Oil and crap yourself.(The US forums
are too "go and shoot the b%"*^rds to get their oil")
The original "killer" link to start understanding the issues:
The best UK based related energy news bulletin site:
The main related uk forum:
A customised Google news link, sorted under various headings
(headings are in black, eg,"oil", "crude", "iran", etc):
An on-line powerpoint book that gives a simple explanation of
Also see this guy's site, if you haven't already (I've linked
his bulletin page; home link is on the page).It should have a
link on yours. He's great, in the true original Rolling Stone
July one, bitches. Tour starts tomorrow.
Hydrated Cyclist is live. Bitches.
Deep thought for the day....
Some people are like Slinkies. Not really good for anything, but they
still bring a smile to your face when you push them down a flight of
Would you believe I just got the fall to end? I stuffed her up in
some three bubble trifecta.
I'm out. Time to go the the Canada Day Party. It promised to be a