The training peloton is a bEaST and jacks-out its aggression through the power of raw speed and when the bEaST picks up momentum its sinewed muscles tense and its balance can get precarious.

In a perfect jungle world the bEaST runs smooth{ly} but on the highway sometimes stuff gets in the way and sHiT happens; things go bLaMo and the bEaST devours its own!

At 30+mph, following inches from the wheel in front, stuff on the road jumps out suddenly; you’re jack’d-up on the gas, spunked-out on adrenalin, making blindingly quick decisions, most of them tempered by years of experience and warrior-like instincts, fate is not always on your side.  The echelon is like a tango; it’s a dance of trust and cooperation.

On Saturday’s ride, coming home from Laguna Canyon, the peloton’s nostrils all fired-up, fuming and running at speed, No-Neck slammed a stanchion in the road {going north just before Cappy’s Cafe}. It grabbed his front wheel and fork and catapulted his ass across the pavé like a rocket skidding on re-entry; the pictures tell the story.

When the crash is behind you, there’s only the noise giving you a clue; the sound of carbon hitting the pavé is much different than steel and both equally chilling. You want to look back but you know better than that; wait until the deafening cacophony of alarm clears the air and you can safely stop.  All the dominoes of fate were lined up in the instant before the noise pierces your senses. Once the sound penetrates into your brain, the lizard-cortex reaches back in time to take an account of what it knew in those preceding moments so it can formulate a strategy of action to maximize survival.  Don’t look back, it could turn you into a pillar of salt{ed} raw meat.

Jeff went down HARD.  Not a whimper nor thought of accusation of fault.  He stood up, walked over to the curb and sat down.  Never did you sense there was wrinkle in his composure.  That’s one tough hombre.

Other than scraps and bruises, the deepest insult will be to his wallet.  We were lucky and relieved there was no serious injury.

gRacias á dIoS Animaux!

Siri, what’s a peloton?
“A peloton is of group of men who enjoy doing hard physical activities together in very close proximity of each other, cavalierly blow bodily fluids on and at each other,  like to wear tightly fitted spandex shorts and shirts, are proud of their shaved legs, like to talk about their heart-rates and rubbing cream on their asses and keeping certain creams away from their ball-sacks, love to munch scrotes for energy, squeeze their gu-shots, are overly concerned about each others performance weakness, for inspiration they scream at each other to harden the “F” up (rule-v) and often drink coffee together {rather than smoke cigarettes} after bouts of extreme physical exertion in the mornings.”

Siri, what’s an echelon?
“An echelon is a parade of men {festively dressed in colorful, skin tight spandex, who lovingly shave their legs [and harangue anyone who doesn't] } positioned one behind the other, in close proximity, jack pumping appendages, taking brutal turns at the front, waiting to get hammered by their mate from the rear, hoping not to go soft when the pressure is on and focus on coming first in the finish.”

Siri, what’s a homaux’sexual?
“I think I’ve already answered that question.”

Be da’Beast Animaux!

Shit dAmN!  Palm Springs Century 2012: some kinda jack’d-over, jack’d-out ride with the wind blowing right up your sphincter contracted, puckered out, intrusion-hole.

you were there. you know what i’m talking about. the wind came  from every direction, all over the place at the same time, simultaneously.  there was only one section, about 11 miles down hill, with a tail wind.  other than that it came at you from every direction, all over the place at the same time, simultaneously.  did i already say that? well, that’s what the damn ride was like; every turn, the same shit over and over again. no respite from the comedy.

coming out of town the crosswind was blowing so hard, you had to ride pitched over at 30 degrees or get blown off the road.  i shit you not.  every few pedal strokes you could see riders’ resolve jack-pop’n like ignited pus swollen pimples.  they didn’t give no shit about the 65$ entry fee; they’d be happy to pay twice the price just to get a dream pass to find themselves waking up in the coziness of their soft warm beds as if the thought of palm springs never crossed their minds.  it was the closest thing you can imagine to a panicked escape from a nasty urban disaster where people are crawling over each other to get out of town.  then it settled down.  a calm respite entered the psyche of the survivors.

but I loved it.  loved it like i never would have imagined.  it was only in the final stretch, the last 25 miles, when i mentally equated the same distance from laguna city limit to home, i felt a little tinge of  “ohh fuck this!” but it didn’t last too long.

il duce (il signore wehrlissimo) flew the manhattan beach contingent to the event and added a little extra testosterone to the peloton of talent.  a couple of his riders added to the power pool and kept our echelon commandant, herr uber,  in check.

i rode like a dumb-shit the first half of the ride and paid for it on the second.  first, i got separated on the stroll out of town, through the cross wind corridor, dodging the explosion debris of riders, all in a cataclysm of panic.  i climbed the slight pitch, shielding myself at the slightest hint of an opportunity to block the wind, behind the detritus of century enthusiasts, inching themselves along, pulling it all out to keep their sense of humor, fashioned in their performance, mellow-johnny, radio-shack, discovery, church of cycling kits and gear;  it was something out of a twilight zone marathon or mad magazine with a crowd of alfred e. neumans pedaling along with that shit eating grin plastered across their faces.

herr uber regrouped the boys at the top of the grade. it was good to see their faces.  a few miles later, passing the first rest stop {we weren’t stopping – too early to stop – gotta keep it goosed-up to demonstrate our rule-v resolve}, there was another explosion in the echelon dodging the confusion of the crowd slowing for a respite and others wandering back onto the road.  blamo! off the back again.  i found myself with the wehrlissimo and the mighty pumbaa, separated from the group, concentrating to close the distance.  il duce pulled for a while, all in character, and then let me come around to take up the task {all in character}; it was too early to put out all that effort but i couldn’t help myself.  i climbed into the pressure cooker and used it all up; stryker wasn’t about to help (he knew i was just being plain stôöpid cuz it was early yet; mile 35) and i knew i was jacking myself up too, but i couldn’t help it (had to show them we could get back on – honey badger don’t give a shit) .  when the unknown freddie came motoring by (he’d been sitting on all along – i remembered him – i had already passed him when i was closing it up to il duce) il duce and i sat on and closed the final distance. il duce and i had been on the gas and  i was done.  all the juice was gone and i knew it; 60 miles to go. shit. what an idiot.

levi (moose jaw) fresh off the couch was quietly suffering; i don’t think he’s ridden more than 100 miles in the last 3 months.  he was putting in a mighty effort.  there was a regrouping at the final rest stop , but after, levi just didn’t have any more.  the boys were drilling up the momemtun.  i cracked under the pressure; my jacked squat’d legs were blown; i couldn’t sit-on anymore.  when i came off, i thought “i can wait for levi or i can let levi catch me {because he will at the pace i’m going}.”   i asked myself “which option gives me a nobler appearance?”   i stopped and waited for levi and rode the final 20 miles with him. chatting it up, keeping myself entertained.

and keeping in high-goose-step style with il duce generosity, il wehrlissimo treated everyone to lunch and beverages at PS-Wine.  it was a damn good ride and a great day of camaraderie. a day that will live in infamy; one for the books.

look at the simile on that boy’s face {levi}.  he’s gonna crawl back into the cock-pit and fly the freddies home.  he’s the real honey-badger.

Blow it out Animaux!

In the Peloton the Freddies come and go
Talking of Molteni’s Angelo.

It was brought to my attention this morning that Super D’White pulled thru more than I and by that measure has surpassed me.  Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; perhaps it’s the beginning of a love song.

LET us go then, you and I, Animaux. [.]

Photo: http://www.panos.co.uk/stories/1-5-1104-1573-SVF/Stephan-Vanfleteren/

Since recent posts have featured the ass, it’s only apropos that we celebrate one of the most jack’d-OuT bAd-aSS record inserts of all time – Queen’s “Bicycle Race” issued with “Fat Bottomed Girls” as a double A-side single in 1978. The album, Jazz, came with a poster of 65 naked girls on bicycles.  This has been one of the all time favorite posters in bike shops around the world.  It’s inspired countless knockoffs.  No shop should be without a copy.  Time for a remix; let’s start recruiting the talent.

The picture is from the band’s video shoot at Wimbledon (and not a fat ankle among them). Watch the video; it cuts between the band playing the song and our girl-friends racing bikes.

Muy Reina Animaux!

Anyone who rides the Peloton knows it’s all about the Politics.

Looks like Romney’s attacking off the front.  Is he all fluff, does he have the motor, is he a disciple of  Rule-V ?

Herman Cain’s looking to Rick Perry to close the gap.  Perry’s giving it his all; he knows this is probably his last stage, maybe he can take home a little glory {in his ultimate defeat}.

Newt Gingrich is playing it cool like a seasoned veteran staying out of trouble.  Maybe he’s waiting for the KOM; he instinctively knows Romney ain’t got the heart.  You always hear him say “Mitt ain’t got the juice for les cols hors catégories. He can go out hard from the start because he’s all TV time but no one’s gonna work for him on the climb and he just doesn’t have the legs for it.”

Ron Paul, Rick Santorum, Michele Bachmann and John Huntsman are  just sitting in; they’re telling themselves there’s lots of stages ahead. They’re looking for the GC.

Stumbled on this at WorldMag.com

GoP Animaux! (GoP = Grand Old Peloton)

Lie to your girlfriend, lie to your wife, lie to to your brother or sister.  Lie to your mother, lie to your boss, lie to your co-workers.  When the truth is discovered, you feign empty emotions of contrition, act ignorant, make up excuses.

You can pick your nose and you can pick your friends but you can’t pick your family; i.e., your family has to accept you, there is no choice.

Your training peloton is not your family.  Like a family, your training peloton did not PICK you, although, it does have the option to banish you in order to maintain its sublimity.  You discovered the rapturous essence of the peloton; you begged & pleaded; you demonstrated your best behavior and after a period of initiation and serious doubt, the peloton ALLOW(ed) you to become an insignificant cog in its glorious existence.

The adage “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to get permission” is a meaningless and empty expression when it comes to secret training and your relationship with the peloton.

Secret training is tantamount to being traitorous; it makes you a faithless perfidious recreant, an undutiful worm. The peloton tolerates many forms of indiscretion from its ranks but secret training is cause for exile.  The putrid syllables of your name never uttered again.  It’s an exile that’s equivalent to execution for lack of honor.

Adieu Animaux!

Painting: Manet’s Execution of  Maximilian (1867)

From where does the source of power to the pedal originate?

The legs?
The lungs?
The heart?
The soul?
One’s character?
Rule-V ?

Well, it could easily come from any one of these sources, but I suggest, to surmise the potential in the power-volume of the canon-blast, simply consider the squareness of the ass.  That’s what I’ve discovered by simple observation.

Consider the two examples on the left.

The round ass just doesn’t convey a sense of optimism for power, whereas the square ass is more like a locomotive ass; a machine built for power, an ass angled for the efficient delivery of force, squarely to the pedal.   Applying vector analysis, the normal of force applied by the square ass is greater than the normal of force from the curved ass.  Simple physics.  While the source of power may primarily derive from the ass, as analyzed with a little vector analysis, each was simply a gift by the grace of god, although some do more with the gifts of god than others and some leverage their gifts to success in spite of god’s comedies.

Where the ass is concerned, there’s always a residue of curiosity. You say to yourself that the ass has nothing more to tell you, that you haven’t one more minute to waste on it, and then you start in again just to make absolutely sure that the subject is exhausted, you learn something new about it after all, and that suffices to launch you on a wave of optimism.

You pull yourself together, you think more clearly than before, you start hoping again even if you’d given up hope altogether, and inevitably you revert once more to the ass, the same old story. Indeed, there are always, at all ages, discoveries to be about the ass.

[The last two paragraphs are by an author of notoriety.  Can you name the writer?]

LHOOQ Animaux!

Photo: Man Ray 1930, La Priére (Prayer)

yOu just can’t escape it; jack’d-out voodoo vapor shit you gotta be dodge’n all da’time in the peloTon cuz some dE-cOn-ziDeR’ants like the BuckWheat still don’t got any goddamn idea how to spit or blow snot which means you don’t be gett’n yo’self caught behind that mo-fo’s wheel cuz you gonna get sprayed with a cloud-heaven of germ-infested vapor’n-crap and everyone knows what ailments be coming-in all over you from dat kó-tamination.  sHiT!

As the hard-core cyclist you be caLlin yo’self,  you be going to d’GYmmy on an often OccAzion {uh-hUh}.  Now just consider, for 1 minute, all the [gonna-getz] voo-doo demiZes {plural demise n’stuff} you be under attacked from d’gym.

The voo-dooz demizes be coming in all forms at the local fitness jointz. i’M in the witness box for all kindz of paranoiaz.

You gotz them in all sORtz o’conKOc’zians:

• hand-Santizer freak-a-ma-jigz
• sweat hysTeRyistIcs  {“wIPe dat sweat oFF the bench mO’Fu#^.r”}
• nAked in the loCkErOoM pAnics
• bAll-sAcK sWeaT on the bench pandomonium
• nAKed 400lbs N-d’screem’NentZ
• sUpEr-iNCred’jebles ["yu gotta be some KiNdda eXhiBitionZist'Fag-0-Maux shOWing Yo-Shit like that"]
• eXPoSed ScrOT sacks in the sauna means Yu’gEtt’N yo’butt-buTTr conTaMoNation all OveR dIs’pLAze
• den’t Yo’MaMMa tell you DoN’T b’Scratch’N yo’Nåki-Arse-o-SpHEre-hole in Pub[L]ic
• sIT’n on the ToyLet {bAreFoot} says yOu just can’t be respECt’n yourself much
• you jez got oFF’da Crapper and whistled pAst the sINK you filthy Mo’Fo’Bastard {where the fU*#$ is my hAnD-SaniTaTion when i needz it}
• fLEx’n fAT in the miRRor shows juz’HoW meSSeD you think you’Ain’t

It’s a endless circus.

Scratch yo’Balls Animaux!

Photo Credit: http://woldfitness.com/

conversation tuesday morning, 6am @the pre-ride gathering, spirited around, uh-huh, that’s right, sQuAt{s}.

and there was super-freddie {hegg}, in the pre-dawn dark, under the dull fluorescence of a gReen’D out energized bulb, casting a dim yellow light on the back porch, demo-ing perfect sQuAT form [ass jack-cocked out, back straight, head up, chin tilted forward] telling a story about his dad and lou ferrigno from 1981 (before the ferrigno became the hUlK).

as the story goes; hegg senior was talking to ferrigno about his over-zealous cycling crazed kids and ferrigno, super-fit performance guru, suggests  the brats do sQuAt{s} to improve their power output.

according to the hUlK master; sQuAt{s} increase the volume of the buTT.  puts more mass in the gluts. super-charges the aSs and specifically increases the quAniTy of blood an athlete has to nitro-blast the engine.

there you have it. straight from the ferrigno himself.

manana, after the ride, sQuAt SPriNt{s}

qUieReS sQuAt{s} AniMaUx!

photo credit: http://www.newsfues.com/