Mad Props Vol. 10

The year was 1993, Paris-Roubaix, France.

Franco Ballerini was riding a like a man possessed with such grit and determination that all anyone could do was latch onto his rear wheel and hang on for dear life. He exuded a superhuman-like aura of complete dominance. And with this supreme confidence, it seemed Ballerini was powering toward a stunning victory, his first, in the incomparable L'enfer du Nord. It looked as if he could beat anybody that day, living or dead. Anybody, save one: Gilbert Duclos-Lassalle, smiter of Gods.

At 39, Duclos-Lassalle was the grand old man of the peloton. He was racing with guys half his age and showing them that they still had to wash behind their ears because they were naive little bastards. Duclos had nearly 15 years of suffering on most of these hotshot noobs, and if a neo-pro didn't salute him as they crossed paths, ten thousand push ups in molten lava would have been lenient. For Gilbert was a tough as nails Frenchman that could will entire empires to eat "Freedom Fries" with their assholes just by blinking. Limbaugh cowered.

"Gibus" had been racing professionally since 1977 and didn't fall into the sad pattern of old pros whose glory days were long behind them. He was supremely unique in that he actually improved with age. I remember reading an interview with Duclos in the early nineties that spelled out his weekly training schedule. It went something like this:

Monday - Motorpace 5 hours
Tuesday - Motorpace 5 hours
Wednesday - Motorpace 5 hours
Thursday - Motorpace 5 hours
Friday - Motorpace 5 hours

Hard old man indeed. Even diamonds were jealous.

On that day in 1993, Duclos outfoxed Ballerini with a show of spectacular patience, determination, and cunning explosiveness. Whether out of hubris or desperation, Franco had done nearly all the work in the breakaway and failed to recognize that Gibus' skills on the track were as legendary as his longevity. Some say it was Duclos' very hand that had reached out of the sky and maneuvered Franco Ballerini to do his bidding. Regardless, Duclos claimed his second consecutive cobblestone trophy in a photo finish that Ballerini initially celebrated as a victory of his own. It was a devastating mistake that played out in dramatic fashion on the public stage before millions of ebullient spectators. Duclos ascended to the ranks of the immortal on that crisp, spring day.

Gilbert Duclos-Lassalle, you deserve some Mad ol' Props. We salute you.

Ruminations of the Rising Sun

If there's one thing you invariably do in a land where you don't wholly speak/understand the language or culture, it's observe, think, and reflect. There's only so much time you can spend delving into English/Japanese translation tools to explain a few simple topics such as how best to serve shochu (15 minutes) or why I rarely carry a cel phone (impossible to quantify). Thus, I spent a considerable amount of time living as a mute during my brief stint in the east. A mute, contemplating some of the following:

-Shochu really is best served in a 5:5 ratio.

-American's habit of tearing through wrapped gifts like rabid wolfmen may be considered poor manners, but watching someone spend 10 minutes to open a box isn't so great either.

-There are some spectacular rides on incredibly varied terrain to be had in Kyushu.

-I read the book "The Good War" by Studs Terkel while there. By all accounts, WWII wasn't so "good".

-Cold weather has little effect upon Japanese dress. Including extremely short skirts.

-WTF? Seven bucks for a bottle of Miller???

-Cheap Japanese beer is better than cheap American beer.

-Expensive Japanese beer is a lot like cheap Japanese beer.

-The lack of viable, safe, clean, respected alternative modes of transportation in the US is a savage embarrassment.

-Everyone slurping udon in one room is kind of disgusting.

-Sadame-san moves around better than the 7 year old fatty with the Mountain Dew glued to his porky little hands this past summer.

-Sadame-san was born during the second year of Theodore Roosevelt's Presidency.

-Cel phones can be used is public places with discretion and courtesy.

-Cycling helmet use in Japan is on par with the old BS rides: nonexistent.

-Mt. Kempo is approximately a 10km climb with an average gradient of 7% and a maximum of 13%.

-Outdoor and cave onsens are the best way to kick it old school and an excellent post ride haunt.

-Soft core porn mags are shelved, uncovered, next to the manga. Sugoi!

-Customer service is the best I've ever experienced. Even from the 16 year olds. Worst-Buy, Walfart, and just about every other big box retailer don't hold a candle to them. Not even a turd candle.

-That goes double for government services (Wow, you mean you won't talk down to me and sigh loudly because I'm wasting your time?)

-Dogs are dogs. Not pseudo-people in cute fur outfits.

-Fish heads aren't so bad. Puffer fish testacles aren't either.

-Pig intestine is wretched.

-Central heat and AC needn't be standard issue in homes when all you use is one room at a time.

-Weird Japanese television shows seem to be relegated to American TV screens. I didn't see any.

-Tommy Lee Jones is on every single Boss Coffee vending machine.

-Japanese ads have a superb knack for making Hollywood stars look completely ridiculous.

-Obama would easily take a Kyushu primary.

If I Were a Betting Man

Aside from "doing as the natives do", such as eating strange animal parts, laughing uneasily during pauses in conversations I don't understand, and riding on the wrong side of the road, I had the great fortune to view the east's finest contribution to bicycle racing: keirin.

At breakfast, my shivering in-laws told me it was "samui", which translates to "typical spring day in Chicago". This, of course, also means it was raining. With sub-zero temperatures and snowstorms battering my comrades back home, in my opinion, this was perfect weather for a day at the races.

First stop for the keirin shuttle.

I was soon at the bus station awaiting the free keirin shuttle bus to whisk me away to an unknown cycling paradise I'd only seen on posters and grainy You Tube videos. As the bus arrived and we piled in with a bunch of stinky old dudes, it was obvious this wasn't to be anything like the romantic setting of the six day races I'd gloriously imagined our cycling forefathers enjoying in pre-war Europe.

My suspicions were confirmed with the sight of the near empty grand stands surrounding the track. I quickly concluded that keirin is like horse racing, only with bikes, therefore you amass a crowd that isn't motivated to stand around for hours on end, day after day, for a love of equine beauty, but a good old fashioned fist full of yen. Beneath the cheap, blue seats of the grand stands, were thousands of coughing, sniffing, smoking men (and maybe six women) huddled around monitors, tables, and on the floor surmising odds and scribbling in bets. It was a disgusting, gag reflex inducing, fantastic sight.

Grumpy old men that spit and sniff incessantly.

Regardless, my purpose was clear, I didn't come here to lose money. I came to see some racin'. So I did just that. And, it was top notch, tooth chippin', white knuckled racin' that I was served.

The riders all go through ritualistic preparation routines before the bell announces the start of the race. Green pounded his thighs so hard I swear I heard the rumble of muscle fibers snap to attention, White stretched his arms like a contortionist on speed, Red slapped his face wildly, Black adjusted and re-adjusted his toe straps, while Pink motionlessly stared at his handlebars as if in an LSD induced trance.

Riders rolling out.

The build up of intensity and adrenaline is akin to watching the last 1000 meters of a sprint on the Champs-Élysées. A ringing bell sounds. Slowly at first, then gradually builds in tempo and decibels on the last lap. Like Pavlov's dog, the crowd's pulse instinctively quickens and crescendos into an eruption that spews a froth of heated banter. Meanwhile, a colorful line of nervous riders marking one another, lock elbows around the final turn and unleash a fury that would make Michael Hubner blush. As the finish line is crossed there is a collective gasp. Insults and praise are heaped on the grim riders as they finish their cool down lap.

As the competitors leave the track, the riders for the next race make a brief appearance and do a single lap to show their form in a ritualistic stretching of the legs. When the parade lap ends and the riders duck into their humble shelter, two sweeper teams in groups of four swab the track of debris. This marks the perfect time to get another cup of free, low grade coffee or tea, take a leak, and find another seat with a different view. Just as you're settling into your plastic vantage point, the announcements introduce the next race and the riders begin to slowly roll out toward the starting gate.

It was indeed a splendid sight to see. The charged atmosphere of competition, tall odds, won and lost coin, minus all the self absorbed posturing of the local crits, was a breath of fresh (metaphorically) air. All unraveling before me in an environment that was both foreign and familiar. I dig that shit. I will dig it again, I am sure.

Bowing to the crowd.

Pre-race rituals in full effect.





The race begins.

Herro!

I'm stinking. I'm smarmy. My mouth is mossy and I'm too tired to sleep. Or think. Or write, for that matter. It's the ol' internal clock, if you catch my Tokyo drift. I'm fifteen hours ahead of where I should be. Be that as it may, I believe I'll have awakened enough from my slumber and shock of actually having to work again to post some updates, observations, and opinions on Wednesday.

I'll leave you with a few spy photos to whet those curious appetites.

Is that a Keirin bus I see? Hmmmm....




Who was travelling upon this glorious steed and what tales might he tell?





Kyushu isn't cool with Don Knotts impersonators.

Hiatus

I'm on my way out to Japan for a couple of weeks. Kazumi and I are off to Kumamoto to see the family and enjoy some time off work, away from the bluster and cadence of Chicagoland. If I'm able and motivated to post something while there, I will. Regardless, new posts will most certainly commence around February 12 or so. Until then, keep the road.

State of the Union

Good evening, Ladies and Gentleman.

On this eve, I will dispense with the traditional, feel-good hooha of the past and cut to the chase. The modern state of two wheeled locomotion is a shambles. Professional cycling is hanging itself with its own belt. The fixed gear fad has failed to elevate itself above the self absorbed materialism we've come to expect from road racers. Online retailers are strangling the viability of the local bike shop. "Comfort bike" has entered our vernacular. And, triathletes are still able to roam the streets in daylight without fear.

These are desperate times for those of us raised on the meat and potatoes of cycling such as Merckx, Coppi, Tomac, Van der Poel, and Danny Clark (I never thought I'd see them all in the same sentence, but there you go.) It seems the hard man ethic of Briek Schotte has been scuttled for the limp wristed wonts of fashionistas, pill poppers, and high-volume scalpers.

As good ol', blue blooded, defenders of cycling's integrity, we owe it to ourselves to eradicate the apathetic lethargy and materialism that we've allowed to become so pervasive within our sport. As many emailers and those "in-the-know" have pointed out, we are at a tipping point. Do we want to blindly meander over the precipice? Or, will we retain some of the individualism and profundity of our culture and survive the 21st century?

For those of you that refuse to give up our virtuous sport to the ignoble without a fight, I propose: COMA. Much like our middle school teachings of yesteryear, COMA is an acronym that holds significant meaning within its innocuous letters. COMA is our salvation.

Commute: Every rider that is worth his weight in Assos clothing is bound to the fact that commuting by bicycle is the single greatest contribution one can offer to mankind. In essence, Commuteliness is next to Godliness.

Obfuscate: Within every cyclist there is a renegade anarchist trying to get out. But, that doesn't mean that we have to always tell the world where to stick their car keys. Stand tall and say little. If our demise isn't the cel phone wielding Hummer driver, it is the petty chatter of gram counters, aero-fascists, fixed gear elitists, and banal roadies.

Mastery: As respectable representatives of our sport, we must perpetually strive to obtain knowledge of it's history, mechanics, disciplines, and heroes. We must also accept that we live in an imperfect world and cycling has its own crosses to bear. Thus, as much as it might pain us, we should also lend at least the slightest of nods to the abominations that our sport has wrought, such as recumbents, comfort bikes, and this. However, we still maintain that triathletes are a mongoloid species that long ago branched off from our sturdy trunk of evolution.

Autonomy: We must set a course and be the masters of our own universe. We shall not be conditioned by shallow promises, haughty fads, nor accept the flagrant disregard of our privileges and rights from motorists, pedestrians, equestrians, developers, and city planners. They cannot stop our steady march of progress.

It is with great hope that our dream of a utopian, two wheeled, self propelled society is realized.

Allez!

Blowback

When "wind chill" starts entering the shop parlance and the down tube on the commuter is encrusted with white stalactites courtesy of the salt flats of the suburban empire, we at the shop look to bizarre forms of entertainment disguised as work to enable our minds to cope with the firm grip of old man winter. Usually these are small, well calculated diversions that are designed to sound grand, but are in reality, quick and easy tasks set to a seasonably slow tempo. Usually to the steady crackle-thump of warm music and chips.

For instance, I might say "I will clean and organize my work bench today." It's wise to preface your statement with something like "I'm just gonna chill out and..." This is good old fashioned textbook bike shop survival guide stuff. It implies a sense of lethargic serenity, which is infectious.

However, such bluster is not without it's own minefield of caveats. Such as the unintended consequences when such action is taken. As any Tom Clancy reader would tell you, "blowback" can really stick in your ass sometimes. It is usually accompanied with a sinking feeling that you have bitten off more than you wanted to chew. The best thing to do in such cases is disappear to the hardware store for a few hours so as to put said project off indefinately. Or, if you're wisened to the ways of how things really work, suffer the sour fruits of your hubris like a delusional martyr and complain about it.

Long story short, we hooked Chief up with a "new" floor today.

Legacy Killer?

I long looked at the news that fast man/playboy/Dancing With the Stars champion Mario "Lion King" Cipollini was staging a comeback in the American racing circuit as marketing fluff and the big dreams of small time director sportifs. That is no longer the case.

I feel a mixture of grim hope and pity. Rock Racing isn't what most in the industry would call a "class act" given the way team manager/owner Michael Ball has been swinging his nuts all over the place in both words and actions.

Mario Cipollini will return to the peloton this season after a three-year absence. The 40 year-old sprinter has reached an agreement with Rock Racing, managed by fashion label Rock & Republic owner Michael Ball, to become one of the squad's riders, but also a manager.

La Gazzetta dello Sport reported that "Super Mario" is currently in Santa Monica, California, for technical and administrative meetings. An agreement that he would join the team was reached Wednesday night after a five hour meeting with Ball, and the contract may be signed as early as Friday. The 2002 World champion may make his come-back next month in the Tour of California.

While the Italian has always been known for liking spectacular appearances, he may also have financial motives for the new job. Earlier this week the tax magistrate of the Province of Lucca announced that Cipollini must pay some 1.1 million Euro back in taxes, sanctions and interest.

The Peloton Diaries Vol. 2

Well, I recently wrapped up another trip in the WayBack machine and come to you, dear reader, armed with some new and enlightening nuggets of autobiographical splendor. This time I set the date back to late 1992. Dimitry Konyshev, known among the peloton as a party animal and genuine Russian hard man, is gearing up for the World Championship Road Race in Benidorm, Spain. Let's listen in, shall we?

16/9/1992

If I have to deal with another one of Cees' stupid bird call wake ups, I'm going to punch him in the nuts. We're not four years old for christ' sake. I'd really have told him off too, but my head was banging around like a lugnut in Sputnik.

Last night, Skibby and I got really shitty at the disco and danced all night with some American backpackers. The one I was with kept on saying something like "If my dad saw me now, he'd kill me!" and then guzzle another shot. That cracked me up. The bullshit that came out of that girls mouth...

But, I was feeling good and finally said "If I was you're dad, I'd make love to you!" and made the David Copperfield eyes. Skibby heard that and nearly pissed himself. Totally blew my cover. Anyway, that's about all I remember. I think I threw up on one of them. It's alright though, because they were getting really annoying.

The ride today wasn't much. Just a 180km jaunt with no real hills. Skibby wound it up pretty good and put the hurt to some of the young guys. He's one tough comrade.

17/9/1992

No late nights for awhile. I guess Cees caught wind from one of the bellhops that "a couple team members" were out past curfew last night. Apparently, they didn't like all the black marks from the doughnuts we did in the mechanic's van. I'm sure Cees has a good idea who that "couple" is, but he isn't saying anything. When he brought it up at the team meeting, Skibby said "I think Hamburger was looking for some bun!" Everyone cracked up about that. Even Cees. Bo got so embarrassed and worked up about it that he almost looked guilty.

Cees made us do extra distance so nobody thought they were getting away with anything. It wasn't so bad though. The weather was nice and all the booze was out of my system. A good day to be on the bike.

Theunisse was kind of creeping me out though. He had that spooky look he gets when he's either pissed off or riding out of his mind. Seeing as how we weren't going balls out, I assumed he was pissed. I hope it wasn't about the extra distance we did. I don't want to get on the wrong side of that dude.

18/9/1992

Good news today! I got signed by team Jolly for the next two years. It's nice to have some financial security and all that, but the best part is the kit. Not only are they my favorite color, neon green, but they have a joker face on them that looks like the Graffix bong company logo. Skibby is really jealous.

21/9/1992

On Lenin's grave I swear I won't go out for what Theunisse calls "fun" again. Saturday started off great. We had a nice ride with some good efforts. All the guys were working well together. Pacelines, echelons, deep leg burning efforts. We were like a well oiled machine. It was truly one of those rides where you feel like you could take anybody.

After the soigneur and dinner, Skibby and I decided we were going to go out and celebrate my new contract with the usual: vodka, dancing, and beautiful company. Then Theunisse decided he wanted to come too. Gert's a fine guy, we thought, a bit eccentric, but fine none the less. So, why not?

I should have listened to the voice in my head saying "Noooooooo!" I never listen to that damn voice, but I should have this time. It tried to tell me something wasn't quite right. I didn't realize that meant that he's totally out of his fucking mind.

Things changed real quick when we got to the club and Gert started to down gin like it was Coca-Cola after a tour stage. Skibby and I were half expecting him to pass out or get sick or something. Not this guy! He wasn't sweating it. He kept telling people he was Michael Jordan and was trying to keep a low profile. Some poor asshole called him on it and said Jordan was black. Bad move. Gert threw his drink at him and called him a racist. Damn near everyone in place laughed at that. I bet even the real Michael Jordan would have laughed.

About an hour later we heard more commotion and see Gert leaning over the bar choking the bartender saying he's watering his drinks down too much. That was enough to get security over, so we grabbed Gert and left before things got out of hand.

At this point it was around 1:30AM and we figured we'd get back to the hotel since Cees had another lame-ass team unity thing the next morning. Why do coaches think we need that crap? This isn't the junior leagues. If they want unity they should go out with me and Jesper. Cees would be sick of unity by the time we're done with him. Hugging the toilet in a stupor wondering what the hell he was thinking. Anyway, when we got to the hotel Gert asked if we were up for a nightcap and invited us to his room. We were still kind of wired so we said "yes."

When we walked in Gert handed us some glasses with ice. Then he rummaged through his travel bag and pulled out a big black bottle and poured us some. He said he made it off season. It smelled terrible, burned going down, and hit like Stalin's gulag. I felt numb, but really peaceful. Gert saw that we were cooing like baby lambs, so he topped us off. He raised his glass, nodded toward Skibby and I and smiled . Then things went all Chernobyl on us.

It felt like the top of my head opened up and my mind was pouring out upside down. Like gravity had reversed itself. I looked around in wonder. Everything was moving and shifting and flipping and flopping. The carpet grew out of the floor into six inch, smiling, neon green worms. My feet were resting on an orange and yellow koala bear with magazine teeth and Jello claws. A 12 foot blueberry with Skibby's head was sitting next to me talking about how cool it was to be a melting lobster while he drank with Michael Jordan.

I don't remember so much after that. Just bits. Skibby swimming in purple cabbage. Glowing yellow shellfish doing the tango on the ceiling. And, Gert's voice coming out of a joker face saying "Are you guys having "bun" yet?"

Super, Super Serial

The surprising part is that I'm not surprised...

From Juan Cole:

The Bush administration's assertion that 5 small Iranian boats confronted big, well-armed US ships in the Straits of Hormuz and threatened to blow up the American vessels is looking more and more like a serious error if not a Republican Party fabrication.


Click the text to read more.

UPDATE: TPM has more.