Showing posts with label cycling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cycling. Show all posts

Wurst Fajita Ever: Freeloaders of the World Unite

In yet another stunning pro cycling revelation, it appears that three-time Tour de France winner Greg LeMond may have been involved in a Taco Bell commercial during the height of his career:



This was not long after Taco Bell introduced America to the fajita, widely regarded as the EPO of ersatz Mexican food.  "Think of it as a Mexican steak sandwich," Taco Bell explained helpfully in the commercial, leading to widespread fears that the fajita was going to steal jobs from hardworking American steak sandwiches.  Nevertheless, the peloton embraced the fajita, and its use was widespread until 2008, when two Slipstream-Chipotle riders where killed in a tragic Tour of California podium fart-and-fall:


Since then, the UCI's "flatulence passport" has gone a long way towards reducing fajita use in the pro ranks, though a code of "omerta" still reigns, and the prevailing attitude in the peloton is still very much "Whoever smelt it, dealt it."

Speaking of eating, Jan Ullrich still ain't talkin':


(Talk about a rundfahrt!  Nobody put away the fajitas like Ullrich.)

He may break wind, but he's not breaking his silence:


While Armstrong admitted his doping past in an interview with talk show host Oprah Winfrey earlier this month, Ullrich refuses to break his silence.

"I will certainly not go Armstrong's way and speak in front of millions of people, even if some of them ask me repeatedly and perhaps expect to hear something," Ullrich told Focus magazine. "I live in the here and now and I am very happy." 

Yeah, right.  I give him two weeks before he's on German Oprah:


(German Oprah is way more fun than American Oprah.)


Or maybe German Ellen:


(German Ellen is way more homoerotic than American Ellen.)

Or maybe even German "The View:"


(German "The View" is much less menopausal than American "The View.")

Ullrich may already be a member of the clean plate club, but it may finally be time for him to join the clean conscience club.


("I'm eating my guilt in wurst form!")

Speaking of gas, you know how some drivers think it's all right to run you off the road since they pay for it and you don't?  Well, that's not exactly how it works:

Unfortunately it's far too difficult to convey all of this information during a roadside altercation in which words are at a premium, so if you're looking for effective shorthand just stick with calling the driver a "freeloading cocksucker."  That should go a long way towards diffusing the situation.

By the way, a few days ago I was DRIVING MY CAR THAT I OWN (unlike David Byrne and exactly like the freeloading cocksucker that I am) and I was waiting at a red light.  In front of me was a woman in a BMW, and in front of her was someone who didn't realize you could make a right turn on red at this particular intersection.  First, the woman in the BMW started beeping like a lunatic.  Then, the light finally turned green and she sped off, nearly hitting a very startled woman in the crosswalk who still had the "walk" signal.  After that, she pursued and deliberately cut off the driver who had "delayed" her for what amounted to maybe nine seconds.  

As it happened, moments later, the woman in the BMW and I ended up parking almost right next to each other.  Sliding out the window of my General Lee replica, I then approached her and politely pointed out that she could have easily killed the woman in the crosswalk.  The bullet points of her defense were as follows:
  • The woman she almost hit should not have been "standing in the middle of the street."
  • She herself was "Not from around here."  (Her license plate said that she was from Connecticut, where presumably it is okay to run down pedestrians in crosswalks.  I recommended she go back where she came from.  She did not like that, even though it was good advice.)
  • Anyway, I should leave her alone because her kids were in the car.  (Apparently they have the emotional fortitude to witness road rage and homicidal driving, but not neighborly concern.)
  • I should "Go to hell."
With that, she slammed her car door and strode angrily into Talbots:



I guess I can't blame her for almost running somebody over, because that's a great fucking deal on some cardigans.

Anyway, if you're also flush with cardigan savings, you may want to take advantage of a unique investment opportunity to which I was recently alerted by the inventors:



Basically, it appears to be a social networking bicycle app designed to transform unwitting victims into vampires.  I was immediately suspicious when I met the head of "business development:"


That guy is so a vampire.  Anybody who wears a bowtie is a vampire.

Next, my suspicions were confirmed when the subject of the video rode down a flight of steps:


And then encountered two figures standing before a mysterious statue:


Who slowly turn, revealing the bloodlust in their eyes;


We don't actually see the attack, but this guy has obviously just been bitten and is now undergoing the process of vampirification:


And this guy's not even trying:


Invest at your own risk.

It's Wednesday! Everybody Back Into Bed!

I don't necessarily believe in mindlessly adhering to rules, but there are a few that should be obeyed at all times.  Never date a musician.  Don't eat yellow snow.  And, of course, never ever get a pro cycling-themed tattoo:


I wonder if it was actually supposed to look like an undead zombie Armstrong, or if that's just the way it turned out.

Oh, one more rule you should always follow, and it's so obvious that it hardly warrants mentioning:


Still, I'll mention it anyway:

Never join a team owned by Michael Ball.


Gotcha!  See, I bet you thought I was going to say "Never get a tattoo on your face."  Actually, getting a tattoo on your face isn't really a big deal, since it will be mostly gone by the time you're arrested:


American pro cycling makes the mafia look like a bookclub.  It's stunning to think that actual companies put actual sponsorship money into it--or maybe it isn't, since those companies are criminals too:





Amgen’s strong influence prevailed even though it had pleaded guilty just weeks ago to marketing an anti-anemia drug illegally and agreed to pay criminal and civil penalties of $762 million, a record settlement for a biotechnology company.

This dreadful episode is a classic example of the power of special interests to shape legislation and shows how hard it may be to carry out the reforms needed to cut health care costs.

Whatever.  I'm sooo psyched for the Amgen Tour of California!  Let's take a look at that list of past winners:


Hilarious.

Meanwhile, pro cyclists are now doing all they can to prove how "clean" they are, and Thor Hushovd recently tweeted about his Tour Down Under post-stage meal:

Yes, what could be cleaner than a plate of plain white rice that's bigger than your face?


(Mmmm!  Binding!)

Apparently Hushovd's goal is to not have a single bowel movement for the duration of the weeklong race.

There are some riders who are confessing though:





Dekker said at the weekend that doping had been a “way of life” at Rabobank, with whom he raced from 2005 to 2008. He had previously ridden for Rabobank’s under-23 and junior teams.

The Dutch bank withdrew from sponsorship at the end of the 2012 season due to the repeated revelations of the team’s doping past. In May of last year, former manager Theo De Rooy admitted that doping was tolerated on the team until the aftermath of the Michael Rasmussen affair in 2007, while at the weekend, NRC Handelsblad reported that the team had first initiated an organised doping programme during the 1996 Tour de France.

But wait!  I thought US Postal's doping program was the most sophisticated and comprehensive in history!  Now you're telling me Rabobank had one too?  Those Dutch are better at everything!

Speaking of injustice, there's a chance David Byrne's whimsically inconvenient bike racks at the Brooklyn Academy of Music may not be approved by the Public Design Commission:





FORT GREENE —Alphabet-shaped bike racks designed by Talking Heads singer David Byrne may be on "the road to nowhere" unless they get approval from the city’s Public Design Commission.
The racks, unveiled outside the Brooklyn Academy of Music in August 2012, can be altered to spell out words and phrases. The current words, chosen by Byrne, spell "Pink Crown" and "Micro Lip."

Apparently, Byrne accepts criticism about as readily as he accepts the keys to a brand new car, which is to say that he doesn't:


In 2008 they rejected two of Byrne's bike rack designs. One design, created in the shape of a liquor bottle, was “deemed to be in bad taste,” according to Byrne's online journal.

In an online rant, the "Burning Down The House" singer called the Design Commission "gatekeepers," writing "I wonder how many emerging artists would have the patience for the form-filling, waiting, and political stupidity that is involved in going via the gatekeepers—not many, I would think."

How dare they!  It would be a tremendous blow to the creative culture of the New Brooklyn if these awkward racks were replaced with actual functional bike parking.  Sure, it's a pain in the ass to have to lock your bike to the words "Micro Lip," but you have to understand that people are now paying over a million dollars to live in Brooklyn apartments, so it's absolutely crucial that everything they touch is special in some way.  Plus, who doesn't enjoy it when design is incorporated into practical objects, even if it makes them vastly more difficult to use?  In fact, I think David Byrne should move on from bike racks to urinals:


The David Byrne urinals look like inverted and repurposed hand dryers, because that's exactly what they are.  Is it inconvenient to direct your urine stream into such a small opening?  Yes.  Is it frustrating to hit the "flush" button, only to have your urine blown right back onto you with a mighty burst of air?  Also yes.  But isn't it worth it to be a part of the artistic process?

No.  No it is not.

Meanwhile, in other artisan news, I've mentioned before that "artisanal fathering" is the hot new trend in the survival of our species, and here's a Wall Street Journal article that proves it in your face even harder:


At-home dads aren't trying to be perfect moms, says a recent study in the Journal of Consumer Research. Instead, they take pride in letting their children take more risks on the playground, compared with their spouses. They tend to jettison daily routines in favor of spontaneous adventures with the kids. And many use technology or DIY skills to squeeze household budgets, or find shortcuts through projects and chores, says the study, based on interviews, observation of father-child outings and an analysis of thousands of pages of at-home dads' blogs and online commentary.

You're damn right we do.  For example, I'll often add a little excitement to our supermarket trips by stopping at an overpass on the way home so we can drop frozen chickens onto the windshields of passing cars.  I also like to "use technology...to find shortcuts through projects and chores," which is another way of saying I don't do them and look at Internet pornography instead.  Still, a lot of the stuff in this article is old hat to the seasoned artisanal father.  Take this for example:

He takes pride in pushing the kids to solve problems for themselves. Recently, Mr. Grossbauer stood back and encouraged Finn to figure out how to fetch a ball he had tossed into a milk crate nailed to a tree, just out of reach. After 20 minutes of frustration, and begging his dad to get it, Finn found a stool and retrieved the ball—a lesson in self-control and perseverance, Mr. Grossbauer says.

This is called "distracting the kid so you can drink," and it's the oldest trick in the book.  Plus, clearly Mr. Grossbauer is an amateur, because I find that if you hide a favorite toy in the wall behind some sheetrock you can get through at least a six pack and half a season of "Breaking Bad" on Netflix.  Not only that, but it also teaches the child important hammering and crying skills, which they'll use later when they're pursuing that poetry degree at Bard.  As for the hole in the wall, mommy fixes that when she gets home--or at least I assume she does, because I'm passed out on the couch by then and when I wake up everything's all tidy again, and I'm even in a fresh diaper.

Lastly, here's an iPhone hand-up:


Nicely done.

The Great Cover-Up: Dermal Revisionism

Generally speaking, I don't have time for regret, and I feel it's best to make a quick peace with your mistakes and move on.  I mean, who hasn't had a few too many vodka Kool-Aids and shaved the cat?  Nevertheless, I admit that recent events have caused me a small amount of regret with regard to my Lance Armstrong tattoo:


However, I'm pleased to report that after an "epic" sixteen-hour cover-up session I've now transformed it into something I can wear with dignity for the rest of my life:


Of course, quality ink like this is expensive, so it will probably be another few years until I save up enough money to cover up that Rock Racing tattoo.

By the way, the artist responsible for the Robs Halfords transformation is an esoteric character known as "BK Jimmy," whose other works include this, this, and even this.

But not this:


If you've ever forgotten how to have sexual intercourse midway through you know how embarrassing that can be, and clearly this person is not about to let it happen again.

In other Lance Armstrong news, as his mounting legal fees become increasingly burdensome, word is that he's seeking more affordable representation and has engaged the experts at Macks Solicitors.  Here's their advertisement, as forwarded to me by a reader.


Hit by a "lorry?"  Crashed into a pedestrian in a "ZEH-bra crossing?"  Crushed your "bollocks" on your "topping tube?"  Then hire Macks!  They have the Bret seal of quality, so you know they're good.

Speaking of Bret, his ubiquity has reached the point where I'm beginning to believe he's actually a vital clue in the universal Easter egg hunt for spiritual enlightenment.  That's why I am now resolved to do whatever he tells me to do.  If he tells me to hire Macks Solicitors, then I will hire Macks Solicitors.  If he tells me to make a difference with a career in biology, I will make a difference with a career in biology:


(Spotted by another reader.)

And if he tells me to strap a reflective armband around my diminutive bicep, you better believe I'm going to do that too:


(Spotted by Erik K)

I was glad to see the package designers went so far as to add the armband to Brett:


However, I was dismayed that the phone on his arm doesn't have a picture of Bret wearing an armband with a phone with a picture of Bret wearing an armband with a phone with a picture of Bret wearing an armband with a phone with a picture of Bret wearing an armband with a phone with a picture of Bret I feel dizzy.



I also feel dizzy when I look at this:


Please note that I have nothing whatsoever to do with this lube.  I'm merely puzzled as to why someone would put a pennyfarthing on a chain lube container.

Because, like, not to get all tech-geek on you, but pennyfarthings don't have chains.  

Anyway, the point is that I have accepted Bret as my Fredly shepherd through life, though it does suck to learn that he's doping:


(Spotted by yet another reader.)

In other doping news, Levi Liepheimer, America's most adequate professional cyclist, has participated in an unsanctioned mountain bike ride despite currently serving a token suspension:

In other words, he's done absolutely nothing wrong, which makes this story about as controversial as Leipheimer's riding style is dynamic.

Lastly, I was reading the New York Times Real Estate section recently because it is fucking hilarious (read this if you don't believe me), where I learned about a New Jersey housing development for "nice" people:


Jackson Twenty-One is a plan long in development for an entirely new village of sorts in central New Jersey, with apartments and stores, a hotel and an Imax movie theater, surrounded by hundreds of acres of green space. It will have an eye toward creating a community for artists, and also, the developer insists, toward “nice” people. All in all, the proposal and its packaging are as idealistic, ambitious and delightfully unusual as the man behind it, the Tony Award-winning composer of “Man of La Mancha,” and the white-haired man from the commercials, Mr. Leigh.

Intrigued, I visited the website, and despite the fact it's supposed to be an idyllic place for nice artsy people to traipse around I didn't see a single bicycle in any of the illustrations:



Nice people my ass.  This development sucks.

Decisions: Stuck Between A Wall And A Hard Place

Are you one of those people who insists you're not going to watch Lance Armstrong bury his head in Oprah Winfrey's ample bosom and cry tonight?  If so, I'm sure you have your reasons.  Maybe you're like totally over this whole thing, as you've Tweeted repeatedly.  Maybe you can't bear to watch your erstwhile hero dismantle his own myth.  Or maybe you're one of the roughly two million Americans who experience uncontrollable seizures whenever Oprah says the word "homogenized," and even though this show has nothing to do about dairy products you don't want to take the risk.

Well, whatever your reason, I'm here to help you find something else to watch during that 9pm time slot.  Clearly competing networks are pulling out all the stops to compete with this confessional juggernaut, because there's a lot of great stuff on tonight.  Here are my top recommendations, which I found by consulting TV Guide, which incredibly continues to exist in the year 2013.

(We used to have to watch TVs like this, you little bastards don't know what hardship is.)

Actually, it turns out finding something to watch tonight is pretty much a no-brainer, because "Drumline" is on ABC Family tonight, and it's widely regarded as the "Citizen Kane" of family-friendly marching band movies:



Here's how TV Guide describes it:

Who knew marching bands could be so sexy? This handsomely mounted production, set in the flamboyant, highly competitive world of show-style university marching bands (think of it as BRING IT ON's even funkier brother), may be a standard coming-of-age drama at heart. But the fantastically edited scenes of battling bands in action are guaranteed to set your heart racing. Devon Miles (Nick Cannon), an extraordinarily talented young drummer from New York City's Harlem, has a way with the sticks that's won him a scholarship to Atlanta A&T, a large Southern university with a predominantly black student body and a first-rate marching band. First-rate, but not first-place; t...

Notice the description just sort of trails off into ellipsis, which I assume represents the drool that will trickle out of your mouth as you fall asleep halfway through.  Still, you'd have to be fucking idiot not to watch "Drumline" tonight instead of the Oprah interview--or would you?  Because if you like animals and Maine, you're not going to want to miss "North Woods Law" on Animal Planet:


(Maine totally stole those outfits from Canada.)

Enhanced episodes of a series following Maine game wardens as they patrol the Pine Tree State during hunting season.

Tonight's episode is a NEW one called "Maine Freeze," in which "a nighttime snowmobile accident requires immediate attention; and a warden is on the lookout for coyote poachers."

Was a coyote actually joyriding in a snowmobile, and if so how wasted was he?  You'll have to tune in to find out.

And while this whole Armstrong thing is certainly a soap opera, true aficionados of the genre prefer the classics, and tonight there's a NEW episode of "General Hospital" on the Soap channel:


(If there's a balding one who's pretty good at cooking eggs, I'm that one.)

What will happen when Britt presses Patrick a little too hard about the status of their relationship?  Todd comes up with a new plan to secure his future.  Lucy runs into a familiar face.  Will they be friend or foe?

After roughly 400 years on the air the producers of "General Hospital" are clearly asleep at the wheel, because if they weren't they'd have gotten Mario Cipollini to join the cast years ago.


(Nine months after a sexy new stranger visits Port Charles, hundreds of women mysteriously give birth to extremely unctuous children.)

I'd offer some additional recommendations, but I'm starting to feel sick to my stomach about paying for cable.  Still, I'll be watching the Oprah interview, but only because I have it on good authority that Armstrong and Oprah spend part two in a pup tent talking to Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston on a Ouija board.

Of course, the other option is to just turn off the TV altogether.  Read a book!  Spend time with family!  Or, if you're from Portland, remind people that you don't even own a TV!  Speaking of Portland, while it may have taken on the role of America's Candyland in the popular imagination, the truth is that life can get pretty real out there.  In fact, a reader tells me a Portland woman recently fell between two buildings and firefighters had to extract her with soapy water:



PORTLAND, Ore. (AP) -- Portland firefighters cut a hole through concrete and used an air bag and a soapy lubricant to free an Oregon woman who fell part of the way down a 20-foot wall and got herself stuck between two buildings Wednesday morning.

The woman spent about four hours in a space 8 to 10 inches wide before rescuers managed to free her as television cameras filmed much of the effort.

(Insert your own New York City apartment joke here.)


Police still don't know how she wound up in her predicament in the first place, but they're operating on the theory that she wanted some actual wall experience to bring more realism to her miming performances.  Despite the successful rescue, the Portland cycling community is outraged that bicycles were not utilized in any way by the first responders.  For this reason, there will be a Stuck-Between-Two-Walls Theme Ride this coming Sunday during which one lucky rider will be wedged between the same two walls and then extracted with a modified bakfiets "pump-and-pull" bike.  Participants are encouraged to bring their own Dr. Bronner's.

By the way, Portlanders had better watch out, because a reader informs me that Detroit is right on Portland's wheel in the creative smugness race:



The work explores the nuances of mobility. The artist One DR contributed a skateboard painted with flying saucers in outer space. Vito Valdez’s oil painting depicts a buffalo crossing a railroad track as a small dinosaur looms in the background. Mavis Farr uses crushed vintage metal mini cars for her necklaces. “It’s about the auto industry’s absentee parent relationship with Detroit, and also about the mining, manufacture, sales and eventual discarding and decay of metals and gemstones,” Ms. Farr wrote in her artist statement.

The centerpiece of the show will be a giant empty room, in which the organizers will exhibit The Car That David Byrne Does Not Own.

Speaking of the future of mobility, I have now seen it, thanks to this video that was sent to me by still another reader:




I've long been searching for a bicycle that will awaken the pretty young girl in me, and I think I may finally have found it:


In turn, I may also have found mutual joy:



Here is mutual joy:


And here is the mutual joy of passing two losers on "normal" bikes:


It seems they have it backwards and the people on the normal human-powered bikes should be fit and wearing Lycra, while the people on the electric bikes should be out of shape and wearing street clothes, but what do I know?

Either way, beating losers up hills creates mutual joy and strengthens relationships:


I'll take two:



Or else I'll just get a Volagi with an electrical assist, spotted by a reader in San Francisco:


You need that extra power to escape the wrath of Mike Sinyard.

Lastly, still yet another reader tells me that if you're bike got stolen in Ireland recently it may have been this guy:

I may have stolen your bike
  
Posted on January 13, 2013

Description

Ok, so I was really drunk Friday (11/1/13) and woke up yesterday morning to find a bike outside my house. I don't know how it got there. Maybe I stole it, maybe I bought it, maybe I won it in a dance off. I just don't know. I don't usually do things like that and would love to return it to its owner. But there's where things get hard. I have no idea where I got this bike from. I remember being in Industry nightclub in Temple Bar, Dublin and I woke up this morning in my house in Phibsboro. Total blackout. So maybe I took from somewhere in between those two places but to be honest I could have been in Armagh last night for all I know. Anyway, it's a blue men's bike. That's all I can say as the owner will have to be able to describe it to me to get it back. Email me at iamverysorry@hushmail.com if you think it's yours. This is not a joke, I really want to give this bike back. I'm not a scumbag. Oh, and I lost my wallet. If anyone's found one let me know. I know, I'd really want to sort my life out.

Honestly, who hasn't gotten drunk and ridden home on a stolen bike?