Oh yeah, victory tastes great!!! It’s like…it’s kinda like, it’s sort of…OH HELL it tasted like beer last Friday evening.
A bunch of us in the Pedal Dynamics family had a party for the race team at one team member’s house, and I must say that Mr. Blunt was a damn fine host. I was the odd man out sort of because I was the only person there who doesn’t race on the team, but since I’m store manager and head mechanic, well they let me show up. Besides, I know that those skinny little bitches would end up needing help getting rid of all the beer in the place, so I decided I was gonna go do my part.
When Mr. Blunt started asking if everybody was going to take part in the race that he’d set up in the back yard, I was kind of thinking that maybe all these folks who actually train might just drop my fat ass like a rock, but when I factored in the fact that there was snow on the ground and then when I got a look at the bikes, I knew I was not only going to enter, but hell I had a chance!
Our fine host had set up a down-and-back course that started at his garage, went about 75 feet through the alleyway to the main street, around a cone and back to the garage. It was a technical course, with water hazards, plenty of melting snow to lose traction in, and a pair of rutted tracks that threatened to grab ones tires and wrestle them to the ground. And to navigate the treacherous course we were presented with a pair of hot pink Barbie bicycles with 16″ wheels. Oh yeah, I’m all over this shit! I used to jump my buddy’s sister’s bike when we were in junior high, and I also remember doing time trial races on similar bikes at the first bike shop job I ever had. Oh yes, make no mistake, these pink steeds might be cute, but under the hood they breathe fire!
I started out in the Clydesdale class, which is the class you race in if you’re over 200lbs. At the start of the first heat, I heard my competitor slip off the pedal and get the ol’ Shin Spank and I knew I was advancing to the next heat. Watching the others racing, I was wondering which of these marvels of human physicality I might be pitted against next. As it turned out, I was up against the lone Canadian competitor, whose home was near Vancouver’s North Shore, so I knew that his bike-handling skills were going to be formidable at the very least. Sure enough, we both skidded around the cone at the far end of the course at the same time, but somehow I managed to lose him in my rearview as I sped toward the finish. As two more races took place, it was clear that I would be up against Matt the Longhaul Trucker in the final race to see who would heft the Barbie Cup in glory and who would be sent home as the evening’s sorriest of douchebags.
Matt is a competitor. He races bikes for realsies, which means that he trains beyond just the morning and evening commute. But he lacks the one thing that it takes to win the fabled Barbie Cup. And that is the elusive mixture of insouciance, joie de vivre, and a high tolerance for alcohol. And experience riding bikes that are clearly designed for a rider 20 years younger than you are. As we headed to the start line, I looked him in the eye with my meanest competitor’s face and said something equally competitive. I have a high alcohol tolerance, but I still have no idea what I said to him to try and psyche him out. As we donned our helmets (mine was a British bobby’s helmet and Matt’s looked like it came from a Tokyo Civil Safety worker, complete with 1900s aviation goggles), I started to have a moment of doubt. “This kid’s got some HPs in him, while you’ve got some LBs in you.” But all was forgotten as Mr. Blunt signaled the start of the race. I spun my legs as though I was Wile E. Coyote trying to chase after the Roadrunner, and I’m sure my legs were a silly blur, since the crankarms couldn’t have been longer than about 120mm. We almost collided as we rounded the far cone, but I with my lack of cyclocross experience was still able to get back onto the pedals and jam it for home. I heard the Trucker breathing down my neck and then all of a sudden all was quiet. I couldn’t hear my breathing. I couldn’t hear the sound of the tires cutting through the slush. I couldn’t even hear the roar of the crowd as I pulled through the finish line. Mainly because there was no crowd, but still it got real quiet for the briefest of moments. And then the sound came back and I realized that the Longhaul Trucker had taken a digger in one of the ruts while trying to catch me. He was wet from head to toe, and had been bested by a mechanic with a beer gut. Ahhhh, but such is the Barbie Cup. Barbie doesn’t smile on those who sacrifice themselves in the pursuit of physical perfection. No, she is a fickle maiden who deigns to bestow greatness to those who prove themselves victorious through any means necessary.
WHO IS WRITING THIS SHIT!??! It was fun, I have the cup here at my desk and I even drank beer out of that rancid little thing. And then Andrew and I went to the German bar and had a couple more. Life is good.
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