Samwhich Emerges #cxnats

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Samwhich is the most professional drunkcyclist in the Madison peloton. The kid rides hard and boozes harder. “PBR? No thanks, I’ll drink 2 bottles of red wine” he says. He chimed in a while back with his Riveting Tale of Tragedy, Contemplation, and the Acceptance of Loss, and again has something to say after digesting his big victory in the PRO field at cross nationals a couple weekends ago. Check it..

Sometimes you can’t give a fuck. It’s not an issue of “oh, I don’t give a fuck today.” No, no, in this case giving a fuck is not even an option. Before I even lined up on the 7,942nd row, with Timmy Boy Johnson, Ryan has a Trebonable Girlfriend, DJ Powa’s, and Ronald McDonald; way before Jeremy Page became the fattest cyclist to squeeze his rolls into the Stars-and-Stripes onesy, I knew I was fucked and decided it was the right time to get drunk on other peoples beer.

And that I did. While the baby-legs worked way too hard for me to care, I drank and collected dollars to offset my entry fee (thank the Holey Lobster that I didn’t travel for this bullshit). Why pass up whiskey soaked peeps or delicious craft brews to slug it out for 189th place, only to read “@43 laps” on your results? Then the inevitable happened: I did something so fucking awesome people lost their minds.


On the last of my three laps I soft pedaled around the rutted tundra Hades, the last time I walked up the run-up, I was deeply dismayed by the dearth of beer being offered to me. Out my hand shot, open and clearly lacking in alcohol: “For the love of god! I need BEER!” The bewilderment on the faces of those tasked to support the underdogs with copious amounts of beer and whiskey and small denomination bills was unprecedented. By the very top of the walk up, much too long for my taste, in the so-called Land of Beer, a gracious gentleman finally extended the olive branch of foamy, brown, sweet, and delicious diamonds. Deeply did I partake in my salvation. The crowd cheered loud. Suddenly realizing what I’d had in mind with my desperate cries, and quite pleased with the results.

Half the beer went down when I shifted into Fucking Awesome mode and poured the last half of my new friends beverage (probably overpriced, since it came from Sierra Nevada instead of free from the Great Dane kegs) on my head.

Krakatoa can fuck off. The Saturn V rockets were a whisper. The moment Fucking Awesome mode turned on, the loudest sound ever recorded bellowed from the lungs, bells, and whatever shit those drunkards were banging around. Truly the loudest sound I’ve ever heard or heard of–and I do some loud, dumb shit.

Absolutely defend and blinded from the beer all over my sunglasses and in my eyes, I haphazardly and, now, drunkenly navigated the tricksy decent from the walk up. Then, as I did not really consider, the wet coldness on my forehead dropped to frostbite levels in the 20degree temperatures. Ouch, but fuck yeah.

I think I walked the rest of my last lap. Then DNF’d. Fuck you cyclocross 3.0, I still don’t care about your carbon wheels, six bikes and support team that is required to follow your mediocre ass around the country. I race beta. Linux or die trying.

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Samwhich is by all accounts, a winner. Charlie Sheen style. Fuck yea Samwhich. Keep up the solid work.

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About Cupcake

I don’t have a beer gut, I’ve developed a liquid grain storage facility.

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