Why do I race cyclocross, even though I think it's lame?


Because I love to race my freaking guts out.

This week's race was a pleasant surprise. The course was set up on the side of a hill and was probably the most difficult cross race I have ever done. I've done tougher mountain bike races, but mountain bike races make a lot more sense, logically speaking than cyclocross. Jump on a bike and ride a trail faster than any of your friends.

Cyclocross makes no sense. Super-cool alcoholic, and, or drug addicts, painstakingly set up race courses an hour before race time. High on controlled substances, it's pretty likely they chuckle incessantly as they set up these courses. It's a caveman vibe, but I have to admit, it's pretty cool. I'm sort of kidding. I enjoyed the sadistic but enjoyable surprise provided by the race promoters on this particular day.

Upon finishing my race, I decided to start drinking. Cock Punchor invited me to enjoy a couple of pints of PBR behind his truck at the end of the parking lot. I took him up on the offer. I poured one into a Gatorade bottle and made my way onto the course to cheer my B race heroes. If anybody asked why my Gatorade had foam, I was going to tell them it was the new carbonated Gatorade, otherwise known as G3.

I killed that brew off and decided to switch to a stronger concoction. Not wine, never wine. I went up to the carriage house bar ready to buy a pale ale on draft for six dollars American, when Boz jumped me in line. I demanded that he cover me with his superior funds, and he did. I wound up drinking two of Boz's brews while I cheered on the B racers.

Before I knew it, we were cheering on the A racers. I ended up showing an attractive, married woman how to hand out money to men. She eventually got the hang of it. I'm pretty proud of the fact that I got Butthead to take a dollar. You rarely ever see that happen.

As Casey Ryback mentioned on the Team Seagal blog, the parking lot party was extreme, strange, and special. Several of us attacked Boz's softside cooler and a 48 ounce tub of pretzels. It was the most supremely satisfying experience I have had...in the past week. Drunken cyclists got ever drunker and did stupid things in a parking lot over the course of a few hours. I grabbed a huge piece of mystery poultry and gnawed at it like a Home Erectus while polishing off Boz's cooler. Damn that was fun!

I did my third cyclocross race of the year on Sunday. I showed up at the park on time, ready to roll after working all night. I rode down to the registration area without my helmet and Buddy (the official) came up to me and gave me a speech about insurance liability issues. I told him I was sorry and wondered why I wasn't wearing a helmet. When I went back to my car I figured it out. I didn't have one with me. I left my gear bag at home, tucked comfortably into my leather wing chair.

I was ready to give up and start drinking when the legendary Butthead came up to me at my greatest moment of confusion and told me that I had plenty of time to go home and get my stuff and do another race. I decided his logic was solid and signed up for the A race instead of the Single Speed race. This gave me the most time to go home, get my stuff, and keep stress at a minimum. I switched to a geared bike, since they are faster than single speeds.


My leg in this picture looks kind of like an extremely huge and long drumstick. I wonder if it would taste good. I would never know, since I have no interest in eating myself. As usual, Mike Dawson took this picture. He's been at all of the local races lately, taking some really good pictures of me as well as real racers.

I was glad to have gears early in the race. I couldn't believe how insane the first few laps were. It was so fun, I'm glad I forgot my bag. After I settled in and accepted the fact that I would be DFL, the bike I was riding didn't really make much of a difference. I ground out the laps and felt really good. I took dual pint Pabst Blue Ribbon hand ups from Mason Storm on my last two laps. I apologize to Boz for rejecting his more expensive beer. The last thing I want to do during a race is drink beer that has a legitimate alcohol content. That's why I went with the Pabst.

I'm not racing for results. Over the past four weeks I have gone from riding one hour, to 2 1/2 hours, to 3 1/2 hours, to 7 1/2 hours. I'm not in racing trim and I'm not even close to achieving my full potential, but I have regained my muscle memory for racing. In other words, the pain feels good again. Hopefully, I will have the funds to race for real next year. My major issue for not racing very much this year was finances. Times are tough.

sensational alex harvey band - framed live 1974

I stumbled across this performance. I promise you, you have never seen anything like it.

I competed in my fourth race of the year on Sunday. It felt strange. I felt the old fire in my belly, but my ability to kick ass was only partially there since I only ride about once a week. I mostly just work, drink, and sleep...but not exactly in that order.

Notes from the race: I rode the tight sections and corners better than anybody else in my group. But that's not saying much since the Single Speed race (my group) was staged with the C race. I partially credit my success to my mountain bike. I never felt like I was going to slip or had any handling problems at any point in the race. Lack of power and speed were my main problems.

There's a video of the first or second lap posted on Stlbiking that is hilarious. Here's what happened from my perspective: The starting gun was fired. Joe Walsh tried to get in front of us with a St. Louis start but he was called back. I was fairly aggressive after the real start and jumped into third position. Matt Laberta had the lead and was pushing the pace. It would have been no big deal for me to stick his wheel early in the race but the guy between me and him was not riding the corners well. I'm not all that physically fit, so I had to wait for an opportunity to pass him and jump on to Laberta's wheel. By the time I tried to make my move, it was too late. I hate being fat and out of shape.

Destined to finish no better than second place by the second lap, I continued to battle as my fellow single speeders caught me and passed me. The most memorable confrontation was from Joe Walsh. He caught me, passed me, and put the hurt on me in a straightaway section. As soon as we hit a tight turn on a climb, I passed Joe like he was sitting in a folding chair on his porch yelling at neighborhood kids to stay off of his lawn. But it wasn't long before the next straightaway. The track champ put the hammer down and put me in his rear view mirror for good. I hate being fat and out of shape.

Later in the race, Casey Ryback was chomping at the bit to defeat me, his Gary Busey. But I didn't let him sink my battle ship. With three or four laps to go, Ryback begged for his dignity, but I wasn't having it. I dropped the hammer and opened up a sizable gap on him and three of his teammates. When the ashes settled and the results were posted, I learned that I had defeated every single soldier of Team Seagal who had dared to face me on that fateful day. Fuck yes!

I'm a cat 2, I bought my bike at Nashbar.com for $350, I drink a six pack on a daily basis, and I don't give a shit. I think it's a healthy approach to bike racing. Some might disagree.

On October 25th, 2009, I witnessed the "Robortion." First it was from behind. It was a most unpleasant sight.


Dawson's daddy snapped these pictures.

As I crossed the finish line in fifth place, I looked around for Robort but couldn't see him. He was behind me with a flat tire and I didn't want to strain my neck.

In the past few years I have changed from an obsessive compulsive weirdo to a unique individual who doesn't give a shit about anything. I have searched my ever-deteriorating memory banks but I can not remember a time when I've done a bike race less prepared and more completely out of shape. Riding a 42x18 gear on my 29'er didn't help me either. But my outfit was super-fucking sharp. I bleed blue!

The overly high gear was so painful, that I had to remove my mind from the field of battle. I started to think about a gear that would be comfortable on the course and pretended I was in that gear. 2x1. Every time I hit the climbing sections I thought about the perfect gear. 2x1. It was a like a suicide bomber imagining the virgins he would have access to in heaven. 2x1. Allah also provides rivers of milk to the extinguishers of infidels. 2x1. Why would anybody ever look forward to a river of milk? 2x1. Even if it was breast milk from the virgins, I would rather eat a cheeseburger. 2x1. Some people are so fucking stupid. 2x1. How long would it take a martyr to impregnate 72 virgins, considering the fact that he would be shooting blanks most of the time? 2x1. Why the hell is heaven full of virgins? 2x1. If you think about it, it's a really sad waste of potential. 2x1.

In my heaven there are bottles of Trois Pistoles on ice. Triple bacon cheeseburgers are consumed at every meal. Wages are never garnished for child support and each man is only responsible for one woman. Virgins do not exist.

A few weeks ago, while rooting through my basement for drugs, porn, and other paraphernalia that my brother might have left behind after he moved out more than a year ago, I found a vintage bottle of Nyquil. I've been feeling pretty congested lately, so I drank the bottle of 50 proof cold medicine over the course of a week. It was good stuff, packing 50 proof alcoholic potency and pseudoephedrine. What's even better, there was no warning on the bottle about the dangers of mixing excessive amounts of alcohol with acetaminophen. Our livers used to be more indestructible back in the 1990's.

Present day Nyquil contains only 20 proof of alcohol but the doxylamine succinate has been increased to account for the loss of the other depressant. Apparently, doxylamine succinate isn't just an antihistamine, but is also an effective tranquilizer, possessing more potency than many other prescription drugs, perhaps even phenobarbital. Sweet Jesus!

Dextromethorphan is the final key to the Nyquil puzzle. It acts as a cough suppressant when taken responsibly. But when it's abused, it acts as a psychedelic that can cause sensory deprivation. It was developed to replace codeine, which was considered to be too addictive for an over-the-counter drug.

"I've suddenly realized that trying to create, foster or preserve relationships with other people over the Internet will only ever end in total and complete failure. I'm not going to bother anymore."

Truer words were never written. I stumbled across them on my old blog while looking for a video I posted of Jim Morrison singing "The End." I just watched the movie "The Doors" again, and I think I finally got Oliver Stone's point that Jim was searching for the end, while at the same time death was seeking him.

"Sucking on a young man's...blood." I love that line from the movie. I wonder if Jim ever really sang it? His poetry is beautiful and disturbing.

Internet relationships are like drugs. They offer nothing real and provide no substance. When you don't interact with somebody in the real world, it's like you never really talked to them in the first place. You get a short term high that ultimately leaves you feeling empty and worthless.

That's why this blog sucks.

Think about the people who text each other incessantly. They do it at work, they do it while their driving their cars. They do it at the expense of being fired from their precious jobs and crashing their prized automobiles. The consequences are steep but they do it it anyway. But what do they get out of the bargain?

Not much.

People need to talk to each other in the real world.

I can't possibly connect to anybody who reads this crap unless I interact with them in the real world.

But that's just my opinion.