Here I am on the tail end of a vacation and I return to an assortment of emails saying that AHTBM products that I sent so far have done the opposite of arriving.
Alright.. ‘An assortment’ is an overstatement. I actually only got two, but that’s not cool. Fear not, supporters of the Black Market. I’ll make good.
Well, aside from those couple correspondences, I got the standard array of the good stuff.
I mean like, the really good stuff.
However, before we get into all of that, do yourself a favor and bookmark The Cyclocross Channel’s coverage of this year’s Cyclocross Worlds.
The adjectives ‘epic’ and ‘awesome’ don’t quite do it justice.
Cross Worlds.. A race nearly as important as Cross Vegas.
So, back to the mail bag.. What was I saying? Oh yeah.. ‘the good stuff’… Case in point? An email from David with a link to the 30 most memorable mug shots of 2009.
I’m still searching for the one person who might have an in with Front Range news channels to get the tape reel from Halloween, 1988.
My mug shot would be one for the record books.
Another email I got recently was from The Bicycle Robot, who seems to be like a much smarter and I can only guess a better looking version of myself (and who was also responsible for turning me on to The Che Arthur Three) with a recounting of a high time he had many years ago involving fake blood, angry cops and a Buick Grand National;
“It’s 1991. My friend Dave and I have Gwar tickets. Dave owns a 1987 Buick Grand National. I believe it was the fastest production car made in the US that year. We mostly just drove it to the grocery store, the one over in Brookline that all the old Jewish people go to. It had a single tape in it. Op Ivy on one side. Replacements on the other.
Anyway, we drove the Grand National down to the Fenway for the show. I forget which shitty bar it was at. Avalon maybe? We got a spot around the corner. Sweet. No one gets a spot around the corner down there.
So we see Gwar. They kick ass. We get covered in fake blood. And jizz. And, I guess, technically, vaginal fluids. I’ve chosen a virgin white t-shirt for the event, cause I wanna be able to tell how much blood I got on me. This is what passes for logic and planning at this point in my life. For the final encore, they behead the pope with a battle axe. So, you know, entertaining.
We leave the show soaked in blood. We walk around the corner to the car.
Wait. Where’s the car? The fucking car is gone. The fastest car in Boston has been stolen.
So we go to the police station. This is when HQ was still over on Berkley, not down in Roxbury. We walk down there. Covered in blood.
We walk in. Cops come pouring out from behind the desk. “Holy Shit! Are you guys alright? Smitty! Call an ambulance!”
And we’re like, “No! No! We’re fine! Our car got stolen!”
And they were PISSED!!!! Boston cops have the sense of humor of a bunch of cops with no sense of humor.
At the time it was very confusing. The car got stolen, which was a huge bummer, but we were at the police station covered in fake blood. There were elements of triumph, elements of sadness.
It was like the Bible.”
That apparently was the part of the bible that has been removed over the last two thousand years or so.
‘And The Devine said ‘thou shalt be covered in fake blood whenst approaching figures of authority to retrieve thy stolen chariot, and the figures of authority shalt be angered.’
This tale is somewhat reminiscent of the first time I ever saw The Jesus Lizard. I was 21 or so, and after doing a stage dive came to the realization that I had landed, back first on a pile of broken glass. I didn’t get a car stolen, but I did eventually leave the venue wearing my once pristine LARD shirt, the back of which was soaked through with the blood of my innocence.
Now then.. A few folks contacted me about my absence last week, and I actually lied about going to the Center for Hirsute Phenomena. The fact of the matter is, I was in Great White North spending some quality family time with those who bore me.
…Who birthed me?
Is that grammatically correct? If my parents gave birth to me, then is that the past tense? Make no mistake, they do not bore me.
I arrived to their doorstep a meek little 150 pound weakling, and departed a 205 pound impending heart attack. There is no substitute for home cooking.
Suffice it to say, between my busted wing, and nearly suffocating beneath a mountain of biscuits and gravy, I’ve not spent much time atop a bicycle, aside from the journeys in my mind and visions of growing puddles;
Every time I get on those cursed things, I think about a postcard I received from Furryknuckle long ago;
“The only riding I’ve done is on the rollers watching porn, doing intervals every time they change positions.”
Unfortunately for me I have no porn, so the intervals tend to only happen when I’ve finally caught my breath after the last set.
But what’s a boy to do when he’s at his parent’s house, watching the snow fall and digesting from the last meal? Read up on the glory days of domestic road racing in a classic issue of GEO, of course;
Though I am kinda partial to my own revision;
Anyway, this was an issue from 1981, and I remember reading it as a young lad of 11, my mind spinning like so many sets of Campy Record cranks at the thought of one day engaging in such adventures myself.
Of course growing up in Colorado, The Coors Classic was a mainstay that enthralled everyone, bicycle enthusiasts and those who were not, alike.
Perhaps at some point soon I will scan the entire article and post it somewhere so you all can enjoy it as well.
For now though, I have to include this final shot from the article, the caption for which was probably my favorite part of the piece;
A classic case of art imitating life
“Even before seeing the film ‘Breaking Away’, Tony Comfort, 19, had become so obsessed with racing that he legally changed his name to Antonio Comforte. That did not please his parents, who finally threw him out of the house. Now he lives above the bike shed of a race promoter in Boulder. He was the 1980 Colorado State Road Champion, but according to experts, he is showing signs of overtraining.”
That’s totally killer.
It is only right that I should follow this bit up with an email from Martin;
“Some ad exec must have been off his fucking nut on coke to think of this as a TV ad…”
The lesson here is that we should be like Freddie, and achieve victory by strong arming our competitors while in the middle of a creek in an attempt at relieving them of their bicycles, and then following that up with a bunch of beer.
The more things change, the more they stay the same..
And no sooner do I finish typing that sentence do I get this email from Joe Parkin H.N.H.;
“Wait for it.. Wait for it.. 6:45-ish. totally worth it.”
Everybody cools down differently.
It would appear as though Bobke cools down differently than most;
Or maybe he was just choking on a chicken bone.
Finally, I want to give my homie Cush at Mountain Bike Magazine a very sincere thanks for not only publishing an extraordinarily flattering photograph of me in the new issue, but for this complementary shout out as well;
Time suck, with an emphasis on ‘suck’.
Good things really do happen to bad people.
I would also like to conclude with this shot that Lane sent me of Ernest and his girl sporting their matching AHTBM caps;
If you order your own, I can’t promise that you’ll look as good as they do, but I can promise that I will hold the hand of the postal worker while they put it in their trucks, ensuring that it will at least be guaranteed to make it that far.
It’s with a black flag hoisted and a knife clenched firmly between my teeth that I bid you all a fine Monday.