You dropped a bomb on me, baby.

And I guess now I’ll do the same.

Oh, so hey… You know how I’ve been using the last day of each month to roll out my AOS piece from the now defunct Paved Magazine?

If not, they’re super good and stuff, and can all be found here.

Anyway, the other day it occurred to me that I wrote a piece for BIKE Magazine regarding my time aboard the Shitbike, which never ran.

It’s kinda silly for it to sit dormant forever, so since I have this here website, I’ll post it up for yinz nowski;

*Correction. Upon searching the site, it turns out I already posted it here.* If you’re too tired to click the link, that’s cool, ’cause here you go;

“It’s not called The Shitbike ’cause it’s sweet.

Upon taking delivery of the beast, I began assembling it with excitement only matched by that of building a beautiful new steed. I reflected on all of the adventures it had seen before it landed in my grasp but my focus was on the one that we would soon be having together;
The following day I was to be matching skill, wits and fortitude of the liver with the Bay Area’s best at the Soil Saloon’s third year anniversary;

For the uninitiated, The Soil Saloon is a series of outlaw off road bike races that occur with little to no forewarning, and have attracted such industry luminaries as Sheila Moon and Gary Fisher, but don’t hold that against it. Each event has its own individual flair and varying tasks one must complete in order to win. You might have to come up with a spontaneous limerick about cowboys, or fire a wrist rocket at a target and everything in between.

The one common denominator of any of these feats of strength however almost always involves the consumption of alcohol. The title of the event in which I was about to engage was ‘The Six Pack Shootout’, so I knew the common thread would exist in force. On the day of the race, as dozens of people began filtering in to the ‘staging area’, it was explained to us that for each of the six laps we completed we would have to drink a beer. There was a shortcut on the course that would offer a solid advantage, but in order to take that route, a shot of whiskey would have to be consumed instead. The Sh*tbike is no stranger to these dangers, and I realized there was almost no pilot on earth qualified enough for such a debacle as myself.

Naturally while people were waiting for the starting gun to be fired, I stole the holeshot. With a running mount that would make Sven Nys hide his head in shame, the weight of my body challenged the hap-hazard seat clamp to a force of wills, sending the nose of the saddle skyward and into my man bits. While wrestling with my painful conundrum somewhere in my first lap, the bike decided that it would test my mettle by ejecting me in a corner over some ivy-hidden logs. Undaunted, I re-boarded and forced it to make peace with me;

Photo courtesy of Pamela Palma.

I was determined that ours was to be a dance of grace, and there would be no debate. Once the understanding was had, and the bike had received the blood trophy it apparently needed, I found myself quietly surprised at how good the bike felt ripping though Golden Gate Park’s loamy shaded single track. One by one the laps melted away and with four shots and three beers to my head, I crossed the finish line, only later realizing that I had mistakenly completed an extra lap. Bloody, muddy and battered, the lot of us stood as one in the winner’s circle and immersed ourselves in the prize distribution ceremony.

As the sun set and the kegs ran dry, the remaining stragglers melted away. I grabbed the burgundy beauty and with a brain full of good cheer and wounded legs full of lactic acid, pedaled off into the evening to find a whole new assortment of trouble in which to engage.

And that, is what you would have read if you had been able to read it.”

I don’t know what’s become of the old girl, but whatever it is, I hope that it involved a hole and a bunch of earth on top of her.

In two bits of news further confirming that my war against women in cycling was one better surrendered, I offer the following from Anna;

“Hey there, Mister,

I know it’s not your thing*, but could you blow up the crowd fund thingie we’ve set up for the NSC Velodrome? We need to raise a ludicrous amount of money so that my ladies on Koochella can have a track on which to reign supreme next season.

If you’re feeling SUPER generous, could you also stick a thing in there about Koochella Klassic team kits being made available on Pactimo just in time for Christmas?

They are real nice. And they say Kooch on them. And my face may be in one of the back pockets.

The kids’ll love them.

Later gater,
Anna”

*By that she means promoting crowdsourcing projects, but in this instance, I have to flip my own scrpt.

Secondly, if taken literally, buying a jersey with Anna’s face in the pocket is nothing short of completely horrifying.

-And then I received a note from Scum City David relating to more of the same, but different;

“Quick check in-

Some super rad Cleveland ladies are striking out on their own to make lady racing better (which is good for everyone) and I wonder if you’d help get the word out? www(dot)GoFundMe(dot)com(slash)Velo Femme;

Thanks stevil, cheers.

Dave”

As I replied to both Anna and David, I certainly want to do what I can to spread the word to assist these two efforts because I think they are quite worthy.

That said, due to the fact that Go Fund Me hosted a page supporting Officer Darren Wilson after the Mike Brown shooting, and along with it, an absolute torrent of the most repugnantly racist comments my eyes have ever had the misfortune to gaze upon, I find myself torn to promote anything they are involved with at all.

Still, I support Anna, and I support Velo Femme, so I’ll make an exception, but I would be remiss not to mention the knot in my stomach regarding the platform that their organizations are using.

As I’ve said many times before, I hold grudges better than anyone, and Go Fund Me is just another organization which has settled comfortably in my crosshairs.

Now speaking of cross things, but certainly not hairs, and considerably more upbeat than my own grudge file, last week Matt from Ghostship sent me this clip featuring Matthiew van der Poel absolutely annihilating a set of corners at 40 seconds in;

I sent it to Lucho of Alps and Andes (formerly Cycling Inquisition) to turn it into a gif file for me, because he’s smart like that. He did, but the file was unfortunately too big to embed anywhere.

Luckily Cosmo of Cyclocosm is also very smart and had the ability to capture just that segment which he’s stuck here for all the world to enjoy over and over and over.

And that is a bomb which I will gladly let drop on me.