On the way to Mud Pike, a stop at the True Value was in order. You’d think those hardware pimps had never seen a mother fucker clad in blood soaked lycra before. Just give me the goods and quit gawking you fat bastard. The Fat Cat sat down on the curb, popped the cap off the can of spray paint, took a deep breath, and went to work. Finished, he sat back and knocked back the bottle of MD 20/20— waiting for the high dollar poser bike, all dressed in a coat of anonymous, light eating, black paint, to dry.
By the time the Flanders Fat Cat finally got to the bottom of that God forsaken obsession of a hill called Mud Pike, he had his nuts all twisted into a knot for that couple of minutes Aerobinator had put on him. Just as The Cat started his charge up the run in, a Goddamn headwind rolled down off the mountain. Shit! How the hell do you get a fucking headwind when there’s not a damn cloud in the sky? Not gonna pick up any time down here.
One half mile later the pike’s first shot, haymaker punch was met with a deranged zeal. It was blocking the wind! All right you chicken shit mother fucker, watch me hit your ass like a battering ram now. The cranks turned round at 60+ and the eyes bulged like Gollum’s mongoloid brother's. By the hairpin, the wind induced deficit was erased but the left quad started whistling a happy fucking tune. Truthfully, the mutinous little son of a bitch had been singing a softer version of the song for a week or so.
The Fat Cat rounded the next turn standing on the pedals against the 15% grade, happy for the 6% just around the bend. Oh yeah, I got this mutha now. Bam! Old Fuck Winter’s last stand slammed The Cat right in the chest before he had a chance to sit down and furl the sails. Motherless son-of-a-bitch, can this get any worse!
At about two miles of climbing the quad, now a screaming school girl who had just met the local pedophile, went pop. A fascicule or two of the vastus lateralis twanged back like a couple of over-tuned piano strings. A dandy little divot opened up only to be quickly filled with a sweet little golf ball sized knot. The rest of the assault was to be filled with a constant cadence from the saner half of the brain—stop, stop, stop mother fucker stop.
Still, despite having about as much form as a monkey fucking a football, the time check at the pull off left a glimmer of hope. If The Fat Cat could man up and hammer his legs into Swiss steak, he might just break his stupid little personal record and come in under 30 minutes. Snot pendula swung in time to The Cat’s cadence, worming about in rasping respirations until Old Fart Winter rammed them down his throat. “Fuuuuck!” cried The Cat aloud against the wind. “Where is this shit eating wind coming from?”
Having been slowed to a crawl, he knew he was lost. Out of spite The Fat Cat still gave the mountain one last kick in the balls on the finishing rise. Thirty fucking one twenty four. He was too damn tired to give his ride the old Bjarn Riis toss into the bushes so he just spit. From the top he could now see his cold grey nemesis squatting behind the other side of the ridge.
Was it the cold wind? Was it the blown quad? Was it the bonk? Was it the Mad Dog? Whatever it was the Cat was shaking and riding like shit all along the ridgeline. He climbed fire tower hill without even knowing it, and that scared the hell out of him. On the descent the spine was jarred and the teeth gored the tongue thanks to a 40 mph fucking pothole he failed to account for. The topper was the tire that finally crapped out 500 yards from home. Walking along the roadside in reverse stiletto road shoes gave the quad such a fit that The Cat just started to laugh. What a sight, some bleary eyed bastard, flat black bike slung across his back, limping along a back ass country road on a Tuesday afternoon.
There you go NYC Bicycle Bastardizer, a little fist shaking from a Velveeta eater. Of course, the whole attitude thing is bullshit. I just love riding in any form, be it noodling, touring, racing or mountain biking. The reason for stating the blog is so that members of our local bike group don't have to sit through a lenthy ride report from a "literary genius" who just has fun writing, badly of not. In fact, for a self diagnosed lifelong manic depressive (I like the term better than the new "bipolar") I am one happy son-of-a-bitch. I hope you get there someday. Anytime you need a big old hunk of Twinky with cherry Kool-Aid to wash it down, come on back and visit.