LINK MADNESS

Wicked cool links for wicked fun times:

http://www.mysticalball.com/ It will blow your mind.

http://scottallencycling.blogspot.com Scotty can tell a mean story when he isn't busy being such an animal.

http://www.phobiaguide.com Everyone loves phobias, especially hypochondriacs.

http://www.kcna.co.jp/ We all know what Bush thinks of North Korea (read: Axis of Evil, Outpost of Tyranny, etc.). Ever wonder what they think of us?

http://www.punchbaby.com/ Tons of crazy ads, wierd games and bizzare video clips

http://www.threebrain.com See above, but better.


I promise I'll get around to the Late TST, Dairy Queen Death, Espresso Heart Attack one. Really. Stay Tuned. DT

So I'm Unreliable

And not too punctual with the updates. Such is life on the full-time college schedule.

Anyway. Leading the competition for the worst thing of the day (as reported by www.foodfightgrocery.com) is the right-wing country/pop/shittymusic duo The Right Brothers. Oh man this is good stuff. Here's a tasty sample of some of the songs (I swear to god I am not making this up): You Can't Racial Profile, Tolerate This, It's My Money, Trickle Down, Dear Mr. Reagan, and the smash hit The Waffle House.
There's not much I can say about this that would sum it up better than thier own bio: "The music they make has been described as “a lethal weapon for conservatives”, “a moral booster for the troops and their families” and “the perfect tool for converting liberals to the right”. no artist has ever tackled the issues addressed by The Right Brothers. Topics on their albums include: the abortion debate, illegal immigration, taxation, Ronald Reagan, the melting-pot (or lack thereof), America’s right to defend herself regardless of what the rest of the world thinks, appreciation for our brave soldiers (past and present), political apathy, and more. The Right Brothers are in tune with today’s political issues and that is reflected in every word they write.

Wow. The perfect tool for converting liberals is a couple of talentless back-assward hicks who sing about Reagan and illegal immigrants? What!? Are these guys for real?

Wait.
Wait.
Is this some sick April fools joke? Go to http://www.therightbrothers.com/, listen to some samples and you'll find the terrible answer.

So back to the reality-based world we go, and as I'm sitting here not working on whatever history paper or math project is due tommorow, the rest of the young goons on the team are packed into a foul-smelling van, 12 hours into the drive to Athens Georgia. Big Jase barely had time to unpack his bike before it was repacked and ready to roll out on I-84 for the next few days. Of course it's nice to be sitting here in a comfy chair in the college library instead of cramped in the stickerbus for 50 hours straight, but part of me is very bummed to be missing out. I'm a sucker for long cross-country burns and even more a sucker for reckless behavior in strange cities, but alas, here I am. Plenty of summer to go, and plenty of crazy road trips to enjoy.

Soon you'll all be regailed with an amazing tale about how we were late to TST, almost died of Dairy-Queen overdose and nearly gave Aaron a heart-attack with a double espresso. Stay tuned folks, I gotta get to Math... DT

Man Passes Driver's Test After 272 Attempts

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/7511425/?GT1=6428

Memories of the last few weeks come in flashes with loose connections. So busy, no time to relax, no time to train, no time to sit down and write. Stepped off the homecoming plane straight into full-time work and full-time student responsibilities, then ran smack into the Bike Gallery sale and I'm still a little unsure of how it all turned out.

THE SALE...

...was endlessly entertaining and likewise frustrating. It's a warehouse sale of bikes and crappy parts. What you see is what you get. No haggling is neccessary, we still won't lower the prices any more. All these things were abundantly clear to every unfortunate soul who walked through the doors, and yet no one seemed to pay any attention. "Do you have any bikes that are closer to the 50-100 dollar range?" No, man. Go to K-Mart. "Are you sure, not even in the back?" The back of WHAT exactly? This is a warehouse!! THIS IS THE BACK. "Okay, well do you think we could work something out to bring this 400 dollar one closer to a hundred?" This is when I smile politely and inside I'm going "get out of my store LIKE NOW!" and the mental image of me nocking over rows and rows of bikes and fenders and pannier racks as I run at top speed for the door, toward the light and my final escape... but no. The next person approached me, "Does this bike come with any clothing?"

POST SALE MADNESS, BIKES, CARNAGE, RICH FEARLESS BUSSINESSMEN....

5 days of this grind melt into one another, and suddenly it's all over. The last of the customers are still wandering around, but an hour and a half after closing time, we're not worried about customer convenience. Rows of bikes are re-aranged, tables stacked with components are carefully placed on the outside of corners, mechanics and salespeople rip through the warehouse at dangerous speeds, warming up for the festivities ahead.

We race $300 cruisers around slick concrete floors with reckless abandon, (damn the torpedoes) store-bikes destined for a showroom floor slide on beery puddles which appear mysteriously in every corner. This is an excercise in all-out intensity, in high speed handling on bikes never meant for more than 5 miles an hour, and the ability to accept your fate at the hands of those intoxicated fools ripping around next to you. The best way to beat your boss is to make sure he ends up sliding toward the wall of spectators on his back. The only way to win is to be ruthless and stupid.

The average blood-alchohol level rises and spectators become increasingly frenzied as the foot-down competition begins. Take an area about 10 feet square, put 15 people in the middle and the last one standing wins. Some call it circle of death, the rules say "don't talk about the rules." Just don't put your foot down and you win. Players crash to the ground in ugly piles of steel and aluminum, I survive thanks to a kid's size mountain bike and plenty of luck and cheerleaders. 4 left, but it's just me and Jay Graves now. A punk new employee versus the owner of Bike Gallery. A skinny bike racer versus a former BMX superstar, now turned cutthroat bussinessman. I had my money on Jay anyway. Things go smoothly untill I'm slammed into boxes of seats which come crashing to the floor, we power through, someone's yelling KILL over and over. Eventually my full-speed headbutts to the kidneys are my downfall as I throw myself off balance and down to the concrete. Jay is defeated in the final to an uproar, a cheer like you'd hear in an English soccer match, the crazed and rarely felt joy at seeing your boss take a fall.

Events continue long into the night. Skid contests, trackstanding, more racing, more drinking. By this time I've left, my only ride back home is heading out and I'm not one to miss the bus. Back to school in the morning, back to work after that. Hopefully back to racing soon, this work thing is getting to my head. DT



...and you thought I was done... HA. Been a while since I posted last, so I'll sum a bunch of stuff up real quick-like:

• Passing of the Pope. Anyone who says they didn't like the latest John Paul is either a staunch Protestant or just didn't know much about him. I strongly disagreed with him on a few big issues, but I respect the guy for walking the walk. Ol' JP was a genuine leader and did all in his power (while he still had some) to help people in need. He was one of those guys who actually believed and practiced what he said, unlike most modern figureheads. Big ups to JP.
• Michael Jackson. Now for the other end of the human spectrum. If we could stop paying attention to this twisted freak, that would be awesome. Granted he was a great entertainer 30 years ago, but now he's a lost and confused creature who doesn't need to be in the limelight.
• Social Security. Still doomed.
• Willamette Week wins the Pulitzer for investigative reporting. Awesome stuff right here. In this situation, The New York Times and The Oregonian were "The Man" and Niel Jaquiss from the WW proceeded to "stick it to the man" by fully scooping one of the biggest stories to come around in NW politics in a while, researching like a madman then writing a ball-busting story that prompted a full public apology from Niel Goldschmidt (sexual predator politician/power broker) and much gnashing of teeth from the Boregonian.
• Boonen unleashes the fury. So this guy hauls off and smashes the best classics riders on the planet at the front, in the hills, over the cobbles on his way to victory in 2 ProTour classics in 2 weeks. Not only that, but the two hardest belgian classics on the entire calendar. Not bad for a "field sprinter." Tour of Flanders AND Roubaix? Are you for real?

Now I'm really done for the day. I promise. DT

All Quiet On The Western Front

I hated that book. Actually I might have dug it, had it not been required reading in High School, but alas, I hated it. Anyway. Who cares?

Point is, things have been quiet latety.

I've been preparing to re-enter my other life as a college student, and have been a bit preoccupied. Books, registration, scheduling, bla bla bla.

Madness on a different stage is winding up again, and dammit this time I'm prepared. American higher education is a wierd and twisted environment full of characters stranger than fiction and more entertaining than anything broadcast over ABC, NBC, CBS, MTV or CNN combined. You can have your Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey, because the people sitting two rows up in American History are twice as dense and three times as interesting, because they've got opinions, they know they're right and they are dead sure that you will agree with them. This is my other favorite crowd, the middle-aged never-has-beens, the young never-will-be's and the rest of us floating somewhere in between, just hoping to make it out alive.

Come to think of it, sounds suspiciously like the crowd in my two wheeled life... DT

Why I Dislike Eastern Bloc Countries

How do these guys keep doing this?

Seriously. How does an unknown 19 year old Russian dude bust out of NOWHERE at the Olympics and lap the field a million times then drop back to 3rd to last at Worlds where some unknown Ukranian dude busts out of NOWHERE to throw down and win. Granted they didn't just step on a bike yesterday, but most of the riders, very few of the media and none of the public knows who these guys are, but they are AWESOME at winning a World Championship or some other amazing achievement then no one ever hears from them again. So bizzare.

All I've seen for the World's points race was the results, no reports or pictures, so it's impossible to tell if this guy benefited from a crash, some wierd race condition, 10 years of daily motorpacing in a secret warehouse in the Russian tundra or slack-ass out of competition testing standards... Hmm.. Either way, Juan Llaneras was the only name on the podium I recognized, and he's on the bottom step. First place was Volodymyr Rybin from the Ukraine and second was Ioannis Tamouridis from GREECE. I mean come on, he's from Greece. The greeks haven't done squat in the track racing world since the Olympics, where they magically got much better, but were still middle of the road at best. Now this guy hauls off and beats the best track racers in the world.

Quote from cyclingnews.com: "Favourites will include 2004 Athens Olympic gold medalist Mikhail Ignatiev (Rus), Joan Llaneras (Spa), the gold medalist in the event at the 2000 Olympics and silver medalist at the 2004 Athens games, Juan Curuchet (Arg), the bronze medalist at last year's worlds, and American Colby Pearce (Boulder, Colo.), second overall in the 2004/05 world cup standings.
Lesse, any mention of Vlad the Impaler or the Greek guy? Nope. Where are our favorites? Llaneras was the only even close in third, and of 20 riders Curuchet, Pearce and Ignatev were 12th 13th and 18th respectively.

I'll hold off on further speculation and slander untill I get the full story, but for now let's just say it's f#%!ing wierd.

In other news, big props to this guy for sticking it to the man:
http://www.cnn.com/2005/US/03/24/art.prank.reut/index.html
DT

Manuevers and Impending Doom Around The Corner

Ah spring racing. Spring and summer racing are two entirely different creatures to me. Even after a winter of good training, everything before June seems to turn into an ordeal in some way or another. I have serious problems with Peice of Cake. The race. Lemmesplain.

First off, it was damn cold. 3 weeks of the best spring weather this region has ever had collapsed by Saturday and we crawled out of the team van in gale-force winds and 40 degree air. Everyone made a big show of how much clothing they were wearing, whined about the weather and talked about how we were probably going to get dropped. Dark predictions for what would become a dark day..

MAYBE 5 miles in I ran into the first Manuever Of The Day. Actually, it ran into me. So we swing around an easy right hander onto a major highway and I'm on the inside, cruising next to the gutter, nicely hidden from the crosswinds when WHAM some hubbard comes careening in from the other side of the road and slams me into the ditch. As I'm looking at the 5 foot drop I'm about to take into the ditch, I can't help but think "WHAT THE F*%! was THAT?" Really. Not sure how he managed that one unless he wasn't paying attention and didn't see the guy dressed entirely in day-glo orange sitting right were he wanted to be. Anyway. Cut to me as my front wheel digs into the gravel and it's DEEP gravel so I'm about to flip over the bars, but in some freak occurance my rear wheel just stays airborne and I roll on my front wheel only, inches away from the big ugly drop untill I come to a cursing halt. Brian drops back and hammers full throttle back to the group with yours truly in tow. I didn't get a good look at the guy who punted me, too bad because I was really itching to say hi.

Anyway, the winning break goes in the first lap as it always does, and I'm not in it. Here's where things start to get ugly. The little green beer dudes have a guy in the break (coincidentally, someone I complained about extensively last week...) so they're not doing squat. That's cool, I can dig that but then as a small group of us start chasing, a couple of these dorks decide to fly around us and sit up. We go around and they come hauling around into the wind, get in front of us and stop pedalling. This pisses me off. If your dude is in the break, go sit in the back, don't race like a bunch of cat. 4's and "block" me. After a while I got tired of A: being one of 3 people chasing in a 50 rider bunch (come on, you don't all have guys up there...) and B: The beginner guerrilla tactics of these dorks, so I go stew in the very back of the field.

This turns out to be a good decision for once, because right in the middle, just where I would usually hang out, the group detonates in tangled limbs and bike parts all over the road. Maybe 10 people or so end up in this fracas, but fortunately I saw it coming in slow-motion, so I roll around. Later I find that Curryboy pulled the second Manuever Of The Day. One of those "putting a wrapper in the back pocket while wheel overlaps" deals. Tough breaks, Curry In a Hurry loses a bunch of skin and might or might not have broken his hand (won't go get it x-rayed) but seems okay aside from that. The crash also significantly reduced the number of green dudes in the field. Bummer they had to go out that way.

So long story short, the winds continue blowing at about a thousand miles an hour across this flat, square course, so I drop the hammer in the crosswinds with one other guy and we split the field a few times and the group gets broken down from 40 post-crash to about 12. Bonus.

I pay for it later, as I feel impending doom in the form of massive quad cramps coming on 3 laps from the finish line. Damn the man. This continues for the rest of the race, eventually developing into muscle sieze every time out of the saddle. 200m from the line I deeply regret my earlier efforts and 50m from the line, within sight of winning the group sprint both legs go into full catastrophic lock and my feet stop going around. This is the kind of cramp that feels like someone simultaneously slices all the tendons connecting your quads to your knees AND shoves baseball bats in your spokes. Two days later I can still feel it. Damn. DT

Bannana Belt 3: Lemming Parade

I have many weapons in the quest to conquer Bannana Belt, that dreaded first race of the US season. This year I attacked with a potent mixture of two weeks of illness and a lack of enthusiasm. The results were un-fantastic, as expected. If nothing else, these three Sundays of furious pageantry make for amazing entertainment, like hanging out in front of the chimp cage at the zoo, waiting for the inevitable crap-tossing fights and spontaneous masturbation.

Remember that game Lemmings? If you've never played Lemmings, you're missing a huge chunk of videogame history. Lemmings is right up there with Pac-Man on the list of all-time classic games... Anyway. The point of the game was to find a way to get a large group of brainless green midgets out of a tricky situation. Lemmings couldn't be counted on to offer any help or great ideas, because (just like the real thing) all they could do was toddle around and walk off cliffs. It was both supremely frustrating and endlessly entertaining.

Cut to the first lap, 11 miles of rolling lakeside roads. I'm feeling like crap on wheels, but it's a sprint lap, sprinters are getting twitchy, and by habit I roll into a nice position close to the front. Bummer deal is, a group of 3 is just off the front of the field, so without considering consequences(thinking is for sissies) I blast out of the field with a K to go and catch the group. It's way too long to go, but choices are few, so instead of slowing down to sprint off the break, I keep up the rediculous effort and attack them as well. Now I see the green guy... He's small, and really green, I've dragged him all this way and now he's gonna try to pass me. Damn the man, I think, and struggle to the line. 20 meters past the line he rolls up and says something about how I suck because I can't ride straight, so naturally I tell him to get f*#ed. I couldn't catch the rest that he fumed through clenched teeth, I think he was a bit upset that I wasn't respecting his authority as a member of the Seattle racing community... oh well...

SO. Jump forward to the next sprint I find myself tangled in, and we happen to be in an identical position: Me bearing down on three guys at a comfortable speed with a good distance between myself and the finish, with a little green shadow glued to my rear wheel.

I have to wonder, how well is he glued there?

How well is he paying attention?

What if I yank the e-brake right... NOW!

And I did. In mid sprint, in a great position and for no good reason at all, as soon as I recognize my shadow and run the previous questions through my head a few times, I abruptly stop pedalling and hear a satisfying flurry of swearing and insults mixed with that great sound of carbon brake-pad squeal. To my credit I never touched my brakes. Just keeping you on your toes, little lemming.

So I pretty much got the cold shoulder from the rest of the Seattle lemmings after that, which was nice. If only I could get another green guy to shut up... He's on a different team that looks exactly the same, and apparently he's really smart, he's wicked fast, he's not even trying right now and he knows exactly what to do in any situation because he's "been around the block." Yeah that's right folks, here comes another former pro, watch out. Apparently one and a half seasons with the worst pro team on the continent entitles you to a king-like status that most of us could only dream of. This guy doesn't seem to get it. Some pros retire because they feel fulfilled with thier results and they're ready to move on, while others get fired because they AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH. Being a pro once doesn't make you cool and it sure as shit doesn't mean that everyone wants to hear you flap your jaw at us for three hours. Seriously. Those 8 year old pro team socks you still wear? Doesn't mean you're not irritating.

Such is the joy of the season's opener. New uniforms, shiny new bikes, a couple new faces and the same jackasses that just keep showing up... What a way to spend a sunday. More fun than TV and a hundred times more dangerous. DT

Newsflash, Newsflash, and Thank You Captain Obvious

Things around here at Voodoo Madness have been quiet lately, and questions have been raised.

Will this strange experiment continue?

Was it all worth it?

What does it mean?

Question one is inevitably yes... of course it continues. As long as there is Evil and Madness in the world to document and describe, sure. Why not? Bike racing continues uninhibited despite the change of hemisphere, as does life. As for the other two questions, well, no one's keeping score.

Back in the groove to be sure, not a week has passed in the country and I've gained employement. Damn. I tried and failed for months this fall, on the hunt for anything short of burger-flipping. Failure at every turn. And now, in this unusual spring, I get one reccomendation, one psuedo-interview and it's bike-shop paydirt for yours truly. The downside to this (or the upside, depending on who you are) is that combined with university duties and training, spare time won't be so abundant, which will cut down on the blogging. Bummer, yay, whatever.

BIG NEWS... Apparently scientists at Harvard or Yale or somewhere equally prestigious and haughty have discovered after YEARS of research that "laughter can help ease the stress of everyday life." Seriously. That's what they discovered. Wait. Wait... Wait... So you're saying that... Hang on... Let me wrap my head around this one.... So you're saying that laughter... makes you happy? Wait... no it can't be that stupidly simple can it? Or...

This is what happens when proffessors at expensive schools get piles of grant money and spend it all on psychedelic drugs and cars.

"Oh shit, Sam! Our study is due tommorow! Oh crap I forgot all about it, what are we gonna do?"
"Uuuhhmm... Wait... Wait.. I got it. Tell them we did some clinical, double blind, six-month, triple anaesthetic test that proves that laughing makes you happy or something."
"Yeah, yeah. If we just use enough technical jibber-jabber they won't think we spent all our money on weed and Volvos!"
"Yeah..."
"Yeah...."

Oh man, and the Circus of Nincompoops continues. The president is now ticked off at the AARP because they DARED to be kinda upset that Bush is dismantling Social Security. Now that he's got the older demographic's vote for his second term, he's ready to steal thier retirement plans but HEY!! DON'T GET MAD AT ME!! I'll make you PAY!! ugghh..
At least some of us saw this coming.

"yeah we'll turn social security into... umm... something kinda like a savings account... actually kinda like your savings account... cause you'll have to save a lot before I drain social security.... which is tommorow when we go to War with (I mean spread liberty to) Iran ... "

Politics is messy. Politics under the most twisted administration my generation has ever seen is pretty scary stuff. Granted my generation hasn't see that many administrations, but I was born in the Reagan era... DT

Back In Portland, Chasing The Sun Around

After 24 hours of torture-chamber plane seats, idiot passengers and screaming babies, things are back to normal. Back at home, back riding on familiar roads, drinking familiar coffee. It's been an amazing southern hemisphere summer, and I have a lot of people to thank for that. And that means a bullet list (why not).

• Although my original housing arrangement at Andy's didn't work out, Andy and Peter were still great for making it available, and Andy was an awesome tourguide, part-time chauffer and general moral-booster for my time in Auckland.
• It'd be tough to completely thank the Starrs for everything they did. Walker for coming up with a place for me to stay on no notice, then driving me around and being a all-around stand-up good guy, his parents Rick and Nancy for accomodating me in every way they could, Tom for keeping things interesting and Rico for just being Rico.
• Brei and her family were also great, putting me up in my own room, carting me to races and being generaly cheery. Remember Saul, AMERICA!!! F#*@ YEAH!!! Also, if any of you ever need a team manager, I suggest Brei, she's quite the organizer.
• Scottie for setting me up with places to stay in Nelson and Invercargill, that part of the trip would've been much tougher (and not as cool) without help.
• My host families in Nelson and Invercargill were awesome. I'm convinced that hosting multiple bike racers is above and beyond the call of duty, and I wouldn't wish it on my greatest enemies.
• The fine people at Altezano coffee shop in Auckland, for they kept me alive...
• All the random people I met and hung out with... you were all very cool.
• Troy for being angry. Don't stop being angry Troy, don't stop.
• Jenny for all the emails and conversations (and still being there when I got back).
• Norrene for her support and patience.
• Last but certainly not least, my parents who gave me every opportunity I ever needed and made all this possible. They even suggested that I drop all my classes and go be a bum, how cool is that?

I missed people, I'm sure of it. It's going to bite at me for weeks, I just know somewhere out there someone is reading this going "dammit you ungratefull little..."

The Checks Are Your New Favorite Band

Tuesday night was to be the final full night in the Big Smoke, Auckland City. Once again plans never came to pass and 4 of us were left gathered on couches looking at each other. Looking at the TV. Looking at the paper. Thinking, hmmmm... What's happening on the first Tuesday that school's back in session?

Anything?

At 8:56 someone fishes a torn flyer from the bottom of a jacket pocket. The Checks and The Mint Chicks: Kings Arms Tavern, Tuesday night, 9:00. I caught the end of a great set by The Checks at a free outdoor concert a couple weeks ago and happen to have it on good word that the Mint Chicks blow minds with thier live shows, so into a car we pile and off to the show we go.
At top speed we reach the King's Arms across town in incredible time, just as The Checks are taking the stage. Here I feel comfortable. These last few months I've had a great time out with the lads, but the norm around these parts are polished dance clubs filled with Gucci-clad trust funders and annoying blond bimbos. If I wasn't with friends and comfortable with my lack of dance skills, the whole Auckland scene would be depressing. As it is, I tend to feel out of place in a Clash t-shirt and jeans when surrounded by people dripping with money. So when we walk into the tiny, slightly grimy Kings Arms I begin to feel much better. I'm not so out of place in my Portland gear and shaved head. Things are looking up. The amps click on, guitars plug in and the last night in Auckland is underway.

I have this feeling about The Checks. I realized halfway through the first song that it would be criminal... absolutely criminal if these guys don't find some level of success in the States and beyond. Imagine the lovechild of Jet and Franz Ferdinand, then give them the balls of AC/DC, the stagecraft of The Rolling Stones and the boundless energy of The Hives, there you have The Checks. Very well crafted songs, but beyond that, these guys realy Feel It. They get rolling and the whole crowd can Feel It, because that's the kind of energy they put through the amps. The singer dances and freaks all over himself while the guitarists compete in some kind of unjudged dance battle, all the while the lead guitar is absolutely WAILING on 5 strings, broken steel be damned, with some kind of Detroit Rock City face-melting solo that would make Jack Black break down and weep. To make things worse, these guys are my age. Damn. The Checks. Remember that.

The only minus was the shortness of the set, maybe half an hour and they were out. Just enough to get the crowd frothy and amped and out the door they go to make way for the Mint Chicks.

Wasn't sure what to think when 4 guys in matching gold vinyl jackets strolled on stage. I guess I was expecting, well, chicks. To say that they launched into thier set is a blatant understatement. From the word go (there actually wasn't time for the word go, it was just ZANG!! and they're off) I was floored. If you can't get amped and crazy with the Mint Chicks on stage, you're too old or too sad, it's hopeless and you should give up. This is a new kind of spaztic energy, a bizzare hour and a half uncompromising freakout of four guys who really want to knock your socks off and know exactly how to get it done. They're not angry. They're not mean. They just play extremely fast with the amps turned up to 11, and they're not slowing down for anybody. This isn't punk or metal, it's rock for robots who like to drive real fast and break things. It's a minute of maximum effort and then a heart-stopping pause before launching right back to a bazillion miles an hour. I think everyone in the Kings Arms lost it for a while, went completely off the scales with the singer as he thrashed around with us, threatening to never stop and never slow down until one of us keeled over from a heart attack or plain exhastion. When they finally ran out of songs, unplugged and dissapeared, I was a bit lost. No one knew how much time had gone by, it was just a fizzing sea of excited people, dripping sweat and ready for a big glass of water. The Mint Chicks are musical Danger... in matching gold jackets.

Like I said before, I think the Checks will make it. I think they'll get big and a handfull of us will be able to say "yeah I was there, I saw them back in the day." I think they have the musical talent and the showmanship to go big. The Mint Chicks will always have a special place in my heart, and they could certainly make it to the States, but they're too uncompromising. Too off in thier own psychotic world for commercial success. The Checks are musical meat and potatoes, The Mint Chicks are crack and cheez-whiz. Simple as that.

Great night, great show, full of danger and intrigue. A great exclamation point on an already excellent trip. A fitting end. DT


p.s. go here now http://felbers.net/mt/ or else...

Unfocused Brainwaves... Early Morning Farewell Part II

I looked at my camera today and saw that I haven't really taken that many pictures. I have over a hundred random shots of faces, landscapes and cities, but there are so many gaps, so many things I'm not going to be able to show people back home because I either didn't have the camera, or was too busy to get a picture.

Take Nelson for example. Amazing area, ringed with mountains and beaches, very picturesque. However. I was on a mission. A mission of four-day survival. My routine (aside from new years) was get up, drink mad amounts of coffee, eat, spend the day racing and riding, eat again, watch the news and go to sleep. Rinse and repeat. I was so tired most of the time it would have been an enormous effort just to leave the house. I saw some amazing things out on the courses, but it would have been a little odd to sit up in mid-gasp, reach into my back pocket and snap a lovely photo at 80k an hour screaming down some twisty descent. Ah well.

Wanganui is mostly my fault. I have very few pictures from Wanga-Vegas because I left rather suddenly. Opportunity called, Auckland racing and training was to be done, so I jetted almost without warning one day, much earlier than I had previously planned. Plus my batteries died. The one day that I did go out with my camera, I only got of a few shots on the way to the beach before it decided to call it an early day. For shizzle.

I guess the big picture (pardon the chauncey-ism) is that I was too busy just being here to worry about cameras. Things to do and places to go. People to see. Rides to ride and food to eat. And on that note this summer/winter was incredible.

I spent the coldest months of the year, (months I'm usually unmotivated to ride and bogged down in school) racing and riding in shorts and a jersey. I wore armwarmer and legwarmers maybe 4 times: warming up for races in Invercargill, the bottom of the world. I can't say that I've ever overtrained myself before this year, but I was rotten and injured by the end of January after 2 months of solid racing. You know what they say, you never know where the line is untill you've gone over it. That set me back by a few weeks, but I'm not worried. August is a long way away, and one of the biggest things I figured out this trip was one of the simplest lessons of them all. How to be a bike racer. How to get up every day and go training. Every day. Without fail. Lack of motivation and New Years's partying be damned, time to go. I've always had some excuse to not go training, whether it was school, work, weather, being tired from school or work, etc. These last few months I haven't had any of those available, and I feel better than I ever have on a bike. The challenge is going to be carrying that work ethic over into April when I go back to work and school.

For now I'm just thinking short term. Get packed, go ride, bask in a last day of sunshine, get to the airport on time, get home, get unpacked, back to racing on Sunday. The story never ends for an adolescent-minded adult like myself. On to the next day, making some kind of progress toward idealist ambitions like professional athletics, rock star journalism, or who knows what else. I'm not worried, just packing and enjoying the day. DT

Goodbye to Piha

It's one of those Saturdays where the sky streteches coast to coast like a big blue perfect dome, and it's time to ride once again. This Saturday's a rest day, a day that I'm supposed to take easy, drink coffee and roll around for an hour or so.

Ten minutes into the ride I get hungry. I realize, hey, I haven't eaten anything yet today. SO. To the coffee shop I go.

Double flat white and an eggs benedict later a couple of local rider-types I know from races show up, drink coffee with me and chat about bike related things. When they suggest "you want to come with us?" it's a bit of a dilemma. I'd really like to ride on my own today. I'd really like to take it easy. But.... I'm not Weak... am I? Of course not, I'll go.

Four hours later I'm getting agitated. My inner self (that annoying little dork) says "dammit I'm tired, this is not what I was counting on... you tricked me." I'm on my way home, a mere hour from the couch and a PB and J sandwich, but it still feels like the world is trying to punish me. Someone (a big someone) is telling me what I can do with my impulsive nature. Long story short, my one hour easy spin turns into 5 hours of Training. BUT... Things can only get better from here...

And they do. The call comes through just after I'm home and soon after the old stationwagon full of rowdy bike racers pulls up to the curb. I'm still a little shot from the morning and pretty uncomfortable, smashed in the backseat of this againg Audi for what seems like forever. Out the windows the suburbs give way to unstoppable uninterupted green, and now I know where we're headed. Smiles all around, Piha is a few minutes away.
By 4:00 we're standing on the beach while the whitewashed sounds of Salmonella Dub (a fine NZ electro/ska/reggae act) wash over myself, my mates and a lazilly dancing crowd of several hundred. This beach we're taking over, it's the beach you see in dreams of sunny paradise. It's banked on all sides by palm and jungled hills, the Waitakere Ranges. Lion Rock stands tall just barely off shore like a hundred story tower of birds and stone. This is a place that is obviously a mission to get to. 45 minutes of driving through twisted, scary jungle roads keeps the beachgoing population well below California levels, but more striking is the surrounding valleys. Every direction your head turns, it's gorgeous. It's deep green, sand or sky blue. Even the light shorebreak waves, a perfect sky blue. Palm trees and deep ferns sway just off the beach in a light offshore breeze. Salmonella Dub has thier soundstacks pointed right out into the ocean, so we go from saltwater swims to sundried daydreams under the influence of basslines and soaring trumpets.

Another afternoon melts into lazy evening on a postcard beach, and by now I feel like I haven't ridden for weeks. Legs feel like new, lungs feel like new, brain fires at an alarming rate. Drifting in and out of sleep reclined on a driftwood log, I half people-watch, half panic. Everything familiar seems far away, as it is, and it's all at once unsettling and comfortable. I didn't know these people 3 months ago, and now they treat my like I've been here all along. I'm completely out of place, but this enormous city feels like a second home. Makes no sense, but I'm getting used to it. Just as I start packing to come home, I'm getting used to it. I'll be back at Piha someday, I'm sure of that. Only a matter of time, but Goodbye For Now, my new favorite beach. Farewell Piha, I'll miss you.

Wild Twillight Zone Happenings At Incredible Velocity

So I was checking my flight times today and found something pretty sweet. I'm flying back in time. Ever had one of those days where you go "GAWD! I just wish I could have the last couple hours of my life back!!"

I can say that on Wednesday, and it'll HAPPEN. Yes, folks that's right, I'm flying into some crazy twillight-zone vortex that allows me to leave Auckland at 10:30pm on Wednesday the 2nd, and arrive in Los Angeles at 1:25pm on Wednesday the 2nd... Sweet. International time-zones? What? Don't wreck the party, it's a International Time Warp.

What do you do in a situation like that? We're not just talking about numbers on a spinning plate here, people. What happens when we see a backwards sunset over the Pacific? Chasing down the sunset like a beast, passing it like it's standing still, then watching it catch up and fall over Los Angeles like a wasted deer with a broken back? Will some crazy beatnick hippy's head explode from some kind of awful time-thought overload? What happens when a couple hundred people in the grips of free chardonnay and warm cordon-blue entrees hurtle through near-space at a bazillion miles an hour into the past?

What's the solution? Granted, a majority of people won't give it the slightest thought, but some of us are a little easier to frazzle. So what do we do here? Simple actually:

747 TIME WARP DANCE PARTY.

That's it right there, that's the secret. You're looking at thirteen hours inside a metal tube, what else are you going to do? Read Sky Mall? Watch some evil crap like Spy Kids 2? Think about the wierdness of travelling through time untill your brain blows out of your ears? No way. It's party time. Midnight O clock, just let me hook up my iPod to the intercom systems, turn off that stupid seatbelt sign and get down with your bad self, because we're travelling through time at incredible speeds, and how often do you get to do that? DT

Fruit Golf, Sport of Champions

NEW SPORT ALERT. Fruit Golf. Who's game?

Fruit Golf was born on the tail-end of the summer in the guise of Rest Day Activity. Necessity is the mother of invention, and boredom is the mother of stupidity. And fruit golf. This is what happens when international bike bums take a day off. Rules as follows:

First. Gather a group of people who don't play golf. Real athletes work best for this. Athletes tend to be rediculously competetive and completely unskilled save for thier chosen sport.

Second. Start the grill. Large one if possible.

Third. Gather all the old fruit and vegetables that won't be missed, also taking care to empty the refrigerator and the freezer of any meat and frosty beverages.

Fourth. Meat goes on the grill, fruit goes in the yard. Enjoy a frosty beverage.

Fifth. Yard must have at least one wall of vegetation (or other similarly solid thing) at least 10 feet high. That's three meters or so for all you metric-inclined geniuses.

Sixth. Obtain a golf club and eye protection. Irons are best, go for the 5 or 6 if possible. Mirrored aviators are also key.

Seventh. As Mel Gibson said in some lame M. Night Shalamalam movie about aliens: Swing away. Shots are judged on shrapnel accuracy, shrapnel size, shrapnel distance, and swing style. If you look like Tiger back when he won stuff, more points to you. If you look like some spaztic crackhead with a metal stick (like most of us do), that's negative points. Old avocados are the cornerstone of the sport, as when struck by a 5 iron they burst into a million green peices, covering everything (and everyone) within a 30 foot radius, while the pit continues toward the wall of vegetation, acting as the perfect marker for accuracy.

Eight...th. Eat as much as possible, talk about who's faster and who plays better fruit golf, enjoy a frosty beverage.

Ninth. It's getting dark, so scour for more fruit, play another round and argue about who won over more food and frosty beverages. If negotiations fail, resort to hand-to-hand combat.

UNRELATED SIDE NOTE: In future Winter Olympic figure skating judging fiascos, I say let them duke it out. Figure skaters are built kinda like bike racers (that's sad for us), and bike racers are seemingly incapable of actually hurting each other without weapons (or bikes). Skaters have similar upper-body strength, so why not? What's the worst that could happen? What could possibly go wrong? DT

Dr. Gonzo, Down and Out In Aspen

"My life has been the polar opposite of safe, but I am proud of it and so is my son, and that is good enough for me. I would do it all over again without changing the beat, although I have never reccomended it to others. That would be cruel and irresponsible and wrong, I think, and I am none of those things.
Whoops, that's it, folks. We are out of time. Sorry. Mahalo. " -Hunter S Thompson

Last published words of the first and only Gonzo Journalist. Eerily enough these were the words I read not two hours before learning of the death of Hunter S. Thompson. Last night in his Aspen compound, Thompson put an abrupt period on the most brutally crazed life and career in modern writing. According to his son Juan, Dr. Thompson fatally shot himself. Age 65.

If you're looking for cycling news, or comments life on the other side of the planet, you won't find it today. An influential person in my life died tonight, so this rant is all literary snarl and babble. I'll be back to my normal self later, but tonight it's story time.

I first picked up a copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas at the tender age of 16. This was about the time that I discovered Fight Club by Chuck Pahlaniuk (thanks mom) and these two books had a major impact. Immediately. At the time I was struggling with the idea that I wasn't good at anything. Too small for football. Not smart (or patient enough) for Math or Science. Music? No good. Painting? Worthless. Drawing? Just as pathetic. Writing? Well, I can't write like Stienbeck or Kingsolver (nor do I want to), and newspaper writing is dry and boring so looks like that's out as well. Right?

Enter Pahlaniuk and Thompson. What initially struck me about thier work was the subject matter. Any 16 year-old suburbian rat would get jacked about the up-front, no-bullshit, uncensored manner that these guys talked about drugs, violence and sex, those taboo of taboo subjects to a pubescent lad. "This stuff is better than an R rated movie! It's so graphic!" Then, halfway through Fear and Loathing I suddenly Got It. The drugs and violence might have got me interested, but what kept it mind-blowing was the style these guys had. The way they wrote, not just what they wrote about. They didn't need "outlines" or "acts" or "proper structures." They wrote like they thought, at a million miles an hour. You had to keep up or get f&#ed, these guys weren't teaching to the bottom of the class and I loved it. I started to really enjoy writing for English assignments, purely to see how far I could push myself. I found my voice, and I spent the rest of High School seeing how hard I could write without getting failed, and it payed off. By the end of Sophomore year I could ace every single essay without fail and practically without thought. By my Junior year creative assignments and short stories became these sprawling creatures jammed out in a couple of hours the morning of the due dates, pure train of thought. Final drafts were edited down to a manageable 13 pages or so. I spent all class periods writing in cheap $1 notebooks, filling volume after volume with whatever and ever, amen. This did little for my grades, but wonders for my head.

I went on to read The Rum Diary, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail and (more recently) Kingdom of Fear. I re-read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas several times, and polished off Pahlaniuk's entire collection, moving on to Keroac, Leary and on and on. This isn't to say these were the only things I read. I would regularly be going through 3 books at a time (thanks ADD), usually instead of homework. You can have your Friends reruns and your Survivor. I'll hang out with Christopher Moore, Tim Robbins, Nick Hornby, Dave Eggers and Dr. Gonzo himself. So when it came time for my high-school counselor to ask me what I wanted to major in (assuming I made it into a University), I barely hesitated before saying "journalism." Like I'd do anything else. I passed my math classes by a thread (and by cheating). Science wasn't much better. I wasn't motivated enough to sell stuff I didn't care about, so business was out. I like writing, it's my thing, and I can largely thank HST for that.

Say what you want about his books glorifying reckless behavior, drug culture and general lawlessness. You're mostly right. To me, however, he wasn't babbling on about drugs (well, not entirely anyway), he was trying to extend what Keroac and the beat poets were hinting at. He was trying to find that free, open lifestyle of "life as it comes to you." Enjoying the moment. He was living the most he possibly could, and he didn't like the idea of being held back by authority figures and social rules. Scratch that. He loved rules, he just loved to break them, that's how he felt alive. Kept jumping out from around corners yelling "DOES THIS FREAK YOU OUT?!?" Kept telling The Man to shove it and kept going with his own flow. I certainly wouldn't choose his path, but for this basic philosophy I can at least respect him.

Hunter S Thompson didn't single-handedly change journalism (like he might claim), but he certainly did influence many a writer. I enjoyed his stuff. Still do. If I become "a writer" I'll be able to list him near the top of my influences. And that's really the point. His articles in Rolling Stone (which I ended up reading from archives 20 years after they were published) and Fear and Loathing on The Campaign Trail turned me on to journalism as Art, not just Formula.

I can't say that I'm surprised that he's dead. It's like your ancient great-great aunt finally passing away: you know it had to happen sooner or later, it's just the finality of the thing that's heavy. It's more of a surprise that his drug-addled body lasted as long as it did. Who knows how long he would have gone if he hadn't pulled the plug himself? That's something that was always consistent in his books, that question, "how long can we go like this, how long can we maintain?" Now you know. No matter how strong the body is, if the brain can't hold out, the whole thing goes down the crapper. Simple as that.

"If the greatest mania of all is passion: and if I am a natural slave to passion: and if the balance between my brain and my soul and my body is as wild and delicate as the skin of a Ming vase-
Well, that explains a lot of things, doesn't it?" -HST from Kingdom of Fear

Ok, I feel much better now. Cheers, Hunter. Your legacy's safe with us. Mahalo. DT

Friday Night Fights

Oh it's Friday night again, it's time for track racing fever, chaos on a concrete oval. Tonight's schedule of events is a beautiful thing, with Kierins and a 3 lap handicap to keep us fast-twitch freaks happy. Tim Gudsell and Peter Latham (NZ team pursuit olympians) decided to come up to dirty-old Manukau for some quality racing before they bust off to the World Championships, so the pre-race whispers and chatter was all Tim and Pete madness.

What gears are they on? What training did they do today? Are they fresh or tired? Will they sneak around and win everything or just go out for a workout? What's the status? What's the plan?

Fortunately Walker and I didn't have to sit through any of that teeth-chattering and senseless blather because 20 minutes before the races started we were still sitting on the parking-lot/freeway. Like I said before, warmups are for sissies, and it's a good thing we're not sissies, because we arrived at the track as our Kierin heats were lining up. Awesome. No problem, I'll just warm up behind the motor during the first 4 laps.
And I did.
It was sweet.
After the motor pulled off I picked a killer spot on 3rd wheel, waited for people to get tired and jetted around on the blue line to secure my spot in the Big Man Final.

Then I almost puked.
It was sweet.

NEXT UP. Elimination. I can never get the same result twice when it comes to these puppies. I can win one on day A and get dead last on day B against the same people. Chalk it up to inexperience, bad luck or stupidity (most likely), either way this one wasn't pretty. We started with a rediculous amount of people and by the time I got punked there was still quite a few, so whatever. Damn the Man.

And then.. Handicap time. Handicaps are kinda lame but I seem to do pretty well at them, so yippee ki-yay for that. Once again I benifit from looking ass-tired and hairy-legged and I don't have to ride on scratch. Yessss... I was close enough to scratch (and my start was bad enough) that the back-markers caught within about a half a lap with 2 to go, so I hit the panic button, threw down some power, rolled up next to Wacky Walker (who was leading out the final dash like a dog with it's ass on fire), pulled a sweet stall manuever on Adam Coker (big-legged sprinter guy.... we're not the best of friends) and waltzed into the final with Starr Child.

The final included some guys with over-developed quads as well as the two wee little Orange lads, the previously mentioned T&P and a bunch of other rider guys. It was hard. It was chaotic. I don't remember much aside from the thought "pedal harder." Eventually I also had the thought "Holy crap I'm gonna win" as I went for the money from about 5 back in the last lap, but got stalled and downright out-powered by two big boys of the toestrap and 11 second 200m variety. Bummer deal but beating T&P was good for the ego.

Couple minutes of breathless heaving and shivering went by and we rode back to the line for the last Kierin of the night. This would be another Big Guys vs. little Orange Guys affair, with Walker the Stalker and I drawing 1 and 2. Walker took the initiative and led it out, and I made the excellent decision of getting put in an inescapable box by some sasquatch on a scarily creaky bike. Then more big bastards went streaming over the top of Sasquatch boy and the final sprint went off without me, leaving me with power to spare and a head full of adrenalized fustration.

DAMN THE MAN!!! I bellowed.

A decent night indeed, a few dollars in the pocket and another day of training in the books. All the way home I thrashed around in my seatbelted confines, yelling about kierins and sasquatches. I was ready to fight someone right there and then... Come on man, pull the car over, I'll do it, I will! That guy right there, he's mine, he'll never know what hit him! 120k an hour back into town to a blazing soundtrack of endorphins and 80s electro, I was ready for action. Ready for whatever was bound to happen, whatever mission was left in these last few days of summer abroad. Calming slightly, I cleared up to the fact that my mission was tommorow, tonight's goal just steak and sleep because tommorow my mission is to make sure that come Northern Hemisphere summer I don't get out-powered or out-done. . . DT

Another Reason Not To Watch The Olympics

Everyone looks forward to the Olympics. The fanfare, the chest-thumping, the accidents and the women's beach volleyball... oh the beach volleyball... Right. Anyway. Sure, the Olympics are great but the last few have been absolute crap and a half and we can put the blame square on the shoulders of NBC. Those bastards. They're ruining everyone's favorite sporting event with more commercials and more 'warm and fuzzy' athlete bios than actual SPORTS COVERAGE. It's rediculous. There are pre-event analysis shows, post-event analysis shows, intermission analysis shows, specials on Olaf Tonkle the Belarussian dead-lifter, who came back to competition fro a tragic shaving accident last week, too many talking heads, and hours and hours of The Man trying to sell you Coke and McDonalds.

Because of all this very important analysis and hawking, any event that isn't a high scool sport gets pushed to the 3am spot for 10 minutes of highlights (like cycling). Because of this, cyclists haven't really been captivated by the Olympics quite as much as runners and beach volleyball players.

It's only getting worse.

Because we need room for all those commercials and analysis, the IOC seems to think that in order to add a sport (like BMX), they need to chop a huge part of the track cycling. Hope you enjoyed the points race, because word is, it's going down the tubes. It's been an ugly rumour since Athens, and now it's being reported in more and more news organizations. The announcement is supposed to be made after Worlds, and after that all the endurance trackies will have is pursuit and team pursuit for Olympic glory. Granted this is great for BMX, but this is a huge setback for track cycling, and one that I don't understand in the least. At the recent LA World Cup, the reports from the velodrome said the crowd was going nuts through the entire points race because Colby looked like he could win it. Every sprint, the crowd would be loosing it, pounding on stuff, yelling like banshees, and yet the IOC says that the points race is "too confusing." If it's too confusing, why not put the scratch race in it's place? First accross the line wins, how hard is that?

Seems to me that track racing is at an important crossroads. It's gaining in popularity, some stars are making themselves known, and if the ruling bodies do something about it then the sport grows. If they ignore it, track racing continues on its downward slide, and we loose one of the most exciting (and spectator-friendly) disciplines in the sport. Just seems to me that certain parties could make a fair chunk of change on track racing at the elite level, but no one's biting. Oh well. Guess I won't be a points racer then... Scratch that ambition... DT

Cricket Worship and The Ethics of A Night Out In the Big City

As this mad international summer/winter comes to a close I can't stop learning new things about this place, like a kid who won't go inside when his mom calls for dinner, just keeps turning over rocks looking for bugs. One of the more intersting things I've noticed recently is the way Kiwis treat thier sports stars.

Downtown Auckland after 10 lights up with nightclubs and corner-pubs pumping music and throwing people all over town. Hanging out in one such establishment with the boys one night, I couldn't help but notice a couple of big 6 foot plus dudes who looked very familiar. Are those guys in a movie I saw somewhere? Maybe in some band of unusually tall people? Maybe on the TV... wait... thats IT! Daniel Vettori and Kyle Mills were here, enjoying thier Friday night and a few frosty beverages.

For an explanationof why this is cool I'll need to go back a few months to where I mentioned that Cricket is a very popular sport here. I didn't like it at first, mainly because I didn't understand it. It takes some watching, but once you get to the rules it's pretty cool. Beats the snot out of baseball and basketball with an extra-large wicket. ANYWAY. The Black Caps are NewZealand's national team. The best of the best, and everybody knows them. These guys played a charity match against the World 11 (can you guess it?!? that's RIGHT! Best 11 in the world, ding ding!) and completely smashed them. It was all over the news, very big stuff, very exciting to watch. I watched all three games, all three hours with Breezy's brother Saul, cheering for the hometeam like a crazyperson. Daniel Vettori and Kyle Mills are two of the star bowlers (like pitchers in a baseball game) who played a huge part in winning the series. This is like if Kobe Bryant and Nolan Ryan were hanging out in the local pub in the States. They'd get mobbed.

People watch these guys all summer, buy jerseys with thier names on them, pretend to be them in pickup matches... Vettori in particular is a recognizable guy with his trademark curly frosted hair and snazzy glasses. Mills is easy to pick out because he's huge and a little neanderthal-ish. Everyone knows who they are, but no one mobs them. They're allowed to just be people. Granted a couple girls run up and take pictures (mostly with Vettori, he seems to be a bit of a hearthrob), one guy went for an autographed napkin, but there wasn't the type of star worship you might see in America where someone suddenly yells "HEY, THAT'S BENICIO DEL TORO!!" and everone pounces.

Maybe they just don't realize... Hmm... I leaned over to a couple of people who were minding thier own business and said "hey, isn't that.."
"yup."
"Oh.. cool."
"So do you watch cricket then?"
"Yeah, man. Mills is a killer, did you see how in the World 11 match how he..."

Not three days later, riding down the road with Walker, we see a couple runners jogging through downtown Newmarket past crowds of people.
"You know who that was?" he asks as we ride past.
"Elvis?"
"Nope, Hamish Carter."
That's right. Hamish Carter, Olympic gold medallist in the triathlon, an absolute hero around here, a guy people see literally every day on TV commercials and print ads, can run in peace through town like he's just another guy. Once again, I find it hard to believe that locals don't recognize him when Walker can pick him out of a group while casually glancing in his direction at 20 mph.

I dig this. This is cool. Star worship gets on my nerves and tends to turn famous people into unappreciative hermits, so seing a place where they are treated like human beings instead of circus freaks is kind of comforting. Still. I really wanted to ask Vettori, "So, what's a wicket again?"

But that would be uncool. I don't want to be uncool. Do you? DT

228 Madness... No, YOU Calm Down!

Say what you want about the great advantage the internet and technology are to our culture, computers can be retarded sometimes. I just typed up a STUNNING update on racing and training and the status of my tan lines, then the computer goes "I'm confused" and refuses to go any further.

Oh, snap.

Now it's late. I'm hungry. I'll summarize.

RACING with a capital R is going as good as can be expected in such a situation. I'm still pretty out of shape, while everyone else in the country has Nationals in 3 weeks. And yet I'm doing all right, sweet-as. The Cyco crit was last thursday (otherwise known as the Auckland Cycle-Slaughterama) and I had a pretty good ride. Instead of feeling like my chest was about to explode like last time, I felt comfortable. Relaxed. Too cool for school. At one point I even made the wicked manuever of attacking the field with a lap to go to a prime, crossed the gap just before the last corner and outsprinted the break. Nice. My problem with the finish was position, as I ended up on the front with 400m to go. I hate that. So I shoved it in gear, hit the gas, gapped the field, thought I was going to make it, then the legs said "nope" and blew all over the road with about 50m to go. Finished 6th or so. The other big "yay" was not dying in a horrific accident caused by A: the cars parked on the outside exit of one of the corners or B: the concrete median that pops up mid-way through the last corner. All in all a decent day capped by a new max heart rate (228... ouch) and a painfull ride home.

Now for the art of Spectation. The Auckland track champs were this weekend, and as it is thier qualifier for Nationals, I decided not to interfere, opting for long rides and some crazed yelling instead. It didn't help that I didn't know about it until the deadline for entries had past, but I probably would have gone for the crazed yelling thing rides anyway...
First off, Andy Small is a unit. He's an animal with a capital A. This cat hasn't been riding for a couple weeks and has been working like a madman to make the big dollars. We're talking construction in the day and table-waiting at night. Big stuff. So Andy decides he's going to race, throws on a MASSIVE gear for the points race and just rolls it like he's been training like a crazyman.
As he said afterwards, "The energy's out there, you just have to find it.... Write that down."
Richard Bowker (Titch, Titchillini, Richardo) looks like a real life bike racer or something in his NZ skinsuit and white carbon bike, and proceeds to win it in a real nail-biter of a last sprint. Quality stuff.
For the Madison Madness the dynamic duo of Walker Starr and Andy Small kit up in Orange and head to the line in style. The first half they get a few second places and stay in there while Bowker wins a bunch of sprints, then in the second half Walker decideds he's pissed and he's not gonna take it anymore, and completely demolishes all challengers in the last few sprints. Andy spent the whole time chasing down World Cup riders and National champs like they were cat 4 punters (must've been the skinsuit). In the end they end up second, Bowker barely wins again and it's on to the Scratch race, where Andy once again chases down everyone and rides like a unit while Walker throws down a sweet attack, then suffers heavily on account of the bruiser gear (95ish i think) that he slapped on.

Meanwhile I rode to the track and screamed my guts out, ate hotdogs and worked on my tanlines (which are looking excellent, thank you very much). Couple more Thursday Cycle-Slaughteramas to go and it's back on the plane, back to Portland, rain, friends and family, too many Starbucks, Bannana Belts and Pieces of Cake. DT