Frustrations in Mathematics

Well, all these damn Superweek races can bite me.


Honestly, every damn one can be summed up as follows:



* Waste gas and lose my way driving to some dumb ass honkey tonk in fire-work selling, cheese-guzzling Worst Consin. (Evanston omitted this step. Bless you Evanston and the delicious preservative-free, live-culture, all natural Red Mango Yogurt shop on the course)

* Drop trou, liberally apply Assos on the raw boys, catch dudes checking out the Italian Stallion's package whilst shimmying into slowly disintegrating team kit.

* Bike malfunction in the fuckin' parking lot. It's all happened, take your pick.

* Use my master mechanic skills to MacGyver things under control.

* Heinous ordeal in the port-a-potty. I usually take pride in my accomplishments, but these are a rare breed of stress-induced on-the-road terrible freaky nasty.

* Try not to make eye contact with the next person in line at the port-a-potty. Poor bastard.

* Try to warm up on local streets with ass face drivers unaware that I am about to rock their streets and they should get their Cheesehead rusted-out pick-up out of my determined way.

* Stew at the start line as the bastard races are running late and the race before mine has been stopped due to some sort of Cat 5-tastropie.

* Take my no-cost lap on some pot-holed, tight-cornered, shit stick course.

* Spin around to the line to find 40 multi-colored lycra-clad love-handled bodies between me and the damn line.

* Intimidate purse-swingers, crush feeble souls and fill my shoes with sweat while sally-faced losers yell, "Hold your line!"

* In the final 1-2 laps, some dousche crashes in front of me. Or into me. Or under me. Or clips my wheel. Or grabs my jersey as he hits the pavement.

* Roll in for some lame-ass mid to late pack finish.

* Have words in the parking lot with some ass face while completing my post-race nutrition requirements.



All of this chaps my already weeping and chafed taint, as my training and fitness has been focusing on Superweek since Coach M. and I laid out our game plan while other riders were packing on their winter weight. I'm better than this. I could totally win all of these races if it weren't for all the other dousches in them. I mean, numbers don't lie.



Now, I totally understand this shit, but I'm not the best at explaining it to you boneheads. But just know that I should be winning these things, no questions asked. Hell, Coachie says mathematically I am a Cat 2 or 3. Shit, I could have told him that.


I mean, plot this shit out. My power above threshold and zero times during a Crit are ideal. My mid-week Crit-specific interval workouts have me blasting 1000+ watts easy as pissing off a bridge. So watts up with the sub-par finishes?

I blame it on the dousche-bags that shouldn't be out there in the first place.

Tour de My Pants and Do Me Week

Well, well well. What do we have here.

The tour has started, cycling season is peaking in Chi-town and I am a little bit of a local stud. While I am stoked to see the component upgrades and my hard work this year finally pay off, I gotta say that I am more freakin' stoked about the ladies clamoring to get a glance of me in my fine ass war lycra.




For example, this fine young thing wanted a huge, heaping piece of me. I mean, look how she has chosen to position herself. She knew what she was doing. Contact me, sweetheart. I'll show you a nacho.


Total bullshit that the first Stupidweek race was only for the Cat 1/2s. Especially since I saw some of that shit and I think I could have hung in for a while. Now, I am not saying I could have won it. I'm not an idiot, fools. But I know I could have hung in with the pack and rubbed chamois with some hellish neon green ass-stained chamois and shown off my pearly white shiny shoes.

Fortunately, I'll get enough chances over the next week or two here and get that upgrade that is due to me. I mean honeslty, Fowlkes, how can you hold me back?

Why you should just man up and ride your bike

Scoreboard Reads:

Pavement 1, Pedal Stroke 0




Chicago has finally hit its utmost prime... weather is consistently decent and it's not ball-sweat, swamp-ass August yet. Beer gardens are offering up cold brews and tantalizing eye candy. One can hardly feed a parking meter without falling over some tramp in a tank top. Every turn of every corner seems to bring the sounds of a live band playing, "Brown Eyed Girl." Being a cyclist in Chicago in the summer is the friggin' shiz-nit, right?

Except when you find yourself rubber side up. It was all a cluster of donkey shit, but in order to keep things civil on the group ride, let's just say 2 wheels kissed and then the pavement frenched me. I would like to have some long winded story about a road defect, a drunk driver, hail and lightening, a midget basketball team and component failure. I would also be stoked to report that this was one of those we-could-have-all-died-in-a-firey-hell-but-someone-did-exactly-the-right-thing-at-exactly-the-right-time-and-saved-the-day life-affirming tales of strength and determination. But unfortunately, I just have to say that a certain rider who isn't usually a dumb ass was a huge dumb ass and I blame him and he blames me because he suspects that he is indeed the dumb ass. But whatever.

The road rash is killer and I am just glad to have been discharged home with some kick ass pain pills. Although uncomfortable, there is no prob with spinning the wheels so expect to see me out there again, rocking my training plan (as directed by Coach M). Hell, the Vicodin may be a valuable asset during intervals.

I'm a little weary though, so I may be riding on my own. Give me some room, will ya?

COUGARS!

At once thought to be too wrinkly-old and fuckin' orange-tan long-nailed creepy for my taste, I must say that I have recently been happily converted to a Cougar fan. But that's a story for another place and time, homies.

(You're the bomb-dizzle, Sharon.)









I am wicked stoked for the events this weekend. I'm gonna tear off some freakin' Nair-ed legs and eat them with some chamois butter on Cervelo toast.

You heard me, bitches.

Could there be a better city to ride in?

What could a righteous dude complain about when this is the view on the ride?

I mean, other than the weirdos on the lakefront path, and the incessant need for runners to clutter up the whole joint like they own the place, and the freak temperature lability, and the butter face barista rejecting me again, and that fucking dude that always tries to drag race me on the path although he knows I'm the M F-ing shit, and the increasing number of stroller-type contraptions under foot & wheel, and the punks that are always draining the vein in my courtyard before and after every Cubs' game, and the highest price of gasoline in the nation, and Oprah's eternal BS.


But other than that, what's there to complain about?

Correct Bicycle Disposal