I work diligently to keep all of the information I get in my inbox straight, but the gaps for things to fall into get so wide sometimes, it becomes almost impossible to keep it from happening.
And here is a picture of Dr. Cornel West because he reminds me of my grandfather.
His image has little relation to my introduction other than the fact that regardless of his organization, he has a gap between his teeth which I’m sure sometimes things slip through.
First things first. Captain Dave got ahold of me to let me know that the beer hand down is looking good in Oregonopia;
“Here’s a shot of a Hand Down executed in Sherwood, Oregon;
Fat, slow, profoundly retarded, half-drunk, and off the back. Lap 2. Horrible form on all fronts, except, of course, the actual handing down of Budweiser to some happy spectators.”
Well played Captain.. That one looks just about as butchered as mine did, but I’m sure the founding fathers weren’t real graceful when they first invented roller skates, or whatever the hell it was they did.
On the visual stimulation side of business (as if the vision of Dave in his mango suit doesn’t fit that bill enough) Art Crank SF is just around the corner, and I’m very excited to be included in the artist selection for the second time this year.
The party is going to be held at the Chrome Bags store, and should stand to be a hoot.
On the night of the opening, I look forward to many continued, one sided discussions with new messenger types all about what it’s like making a living on a bike and how there are “cross races all of the time that (they’ve) been going to for like, two or three years..”
See you Saturday.
Speaking of 20 something messengers, back when I was one, I made friends with a young couple who at the time were also employed on the road, by the name of Nat and Heide. She was a soft spoken German girl, and he was a soft spoken American boy. We weren’t terribly close, but we always had nice conversations, and after they moved to Europe a decade ago, we still maintained contact.
If you had read the old blog for any length of time, you might recognize periodic contact from the jet setter signing his name as N@. I’d get emails about road races in the French Alps, or single speed rides in South Africa, all the while getting bits of information concerning his burgeoning business as an independent frame builder, and her ultimate employment as an engineer at Airbus.
Now residing in Southern France, and living the dream, they finally found enough time to come back stateside for a piece and crash at my house. Ordinarily my residence is an incredibly boring place to be, but fortunately for them, on their first day here, Uncle Joeparkinhasnicehair came through with free passes for the American Le Mans Series LMP and GT qualifiers at Laguna Seca, where we drank beer and watched some high karate race cars go really fast around the track;
Now the two last places in the world I would ever expect to run into someone I know would be a church or a car race (granted, in some parts of the country they are one in the same), so I was shocked to hear my name being yelled over the roar of the engines. When I turned around who should I see but Jeremy Sundt. He was a struggling downhill racer who traveled with us the first year I was on the NORBA circuit with Tioga;
If memory serves, when I took this picture, Jeremy was saying ‘duuuuuudddeeee’.
It turns out that aside from having a continued stake in Nema Clothing, he also ended up being a muckity muck with Cosworth, who is the company that supplies a bunch of badass stuff for a bunch of badass race cars.. I know he is a muckity muck because he invited us to eat food in the team trailer, which for some strange reason we didn’t do.
Anyway, the qualifiers were pretty sick, as I haven’t attended any sort of motorsports event, short of monster truck shows, in many years. The sights and the sounds just can’t be captured on television, and unfortunately, if we had returned for the GT2 finals, we would have seen the following clip that Joe sent me, (the end of which, is pretty incredible) in person;
Yeah.. Car racing on the Black Market.
Next week I’ll tell you about the dog show I went to.
Back to bikes though.. With Halloween coming up, there are always about ten gradzillianion themed alley cat races and other such events, the flyers for which never fail to be a feast for the eyes,
at least one of which is Snobbie’s upcoming Race of The Dead in ‘Nawlins;
Of course the only suiting event to mention following Snobbie’s, what with their fancy flyer and website and what not, would be the long suffering Homie Fall Fest;
To my knowledge there is no flyer for the Homie, so I’ll include the one I just made for it;
A top shelf event deserves a top shelf flyer.
If you’re nearby, I wholeheartedly recommend you take part. As I’ve said many times, the HFF is just about one of the funnest times I’ve ever had while atop a bicycle.
It’s old news by now, but Gypsy the Punk wrote in with a letter bidding farewell to a fallen hero;
“Dear Frank Vandenbrouke,
I was a loyal member of your posse, and I will miss you. You were my rider. You were the one I wanted to see in the break away. Your courage and willingness to suffer inspired me, and your inability to live outside of that suffering broke my heart.
You were a cheater. There is no denying that. You doped, both for performance and for absolution. Personally, I don’t blame you for seeking glory, and neither do I blame you for chasing oblivion. I spend the better part of each and every day doing both. I don’t know what is worse. Feeling the pain… Or feeling nothing… If I could take a drug that would make me write like Samuel Beckett, I’d do it. I’d do it no matter what it cost me.
(Image borrowed from the Drunk Cyclist.)
We asked you and the rest of the peloton to do the impossible. We asked that you not only ride 200 kilometers a day with your ass up and your head down, but we demanded that you do it without weakness, without faltering and without complaint, day after day, year after year. We asked that you do it for our pleasure, and for our entertainment, and when you buckled under the pressure, when you gave in and used drugs to improve both your ability to recover and your ability to perform, we crucified you.
In the end, I don’t think it was the drugs that made us turn on you… The cycling world is full of heroes that use dope. It’s not the cheating that bothers us. What bothers us is that you got caught.
Your wife left you. You got depressed. You drank too much. You took drugs, and now you’re dead. I, for one, think the world is a poorer place for it. Rest in peace Frank. I’m drinking whiskey tonight in your memory.
Punk rock is as punk rock does,
Not having the pretty mind that the Punk obviously does, I can only say that I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Let’s get gone into Monday. It will be over soon enough.