For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: “It might have been!”
– 19th century American Quaker poet John Greenleaf Whittier.
I knew it wasn't from the moment Team Big Bear’s Pat Follet (or was it Tom? I don’t know which is which. They both yell a lot, but put on some damn fine races) yelled, “Go!” From that fatal word my Superlink SRAM chain began dancing on my 9-speed XT cassette like Kevin Bacon in the movie “Footloose.” The damn thing wouldn’t stay put in gear and over the clicking noise of the chain jumping between sprockets, I could hear Aaron Gerth’s haunting voice in my head. “Dude, you should never change anything the night before a race.” Over and over again. I don’t know which was more annoying, the ring of Aaron’s words of wisdom that I had ignored or the "click-click-clack" of the chain and cassette as they danced inharmoniously like a couple of 13-year-olds trying to slow dance at a Junior High Winter Ball.
The night before I insisted that Aaron install a new piece of cable housing to replace the stock piece that had developed a slight bend. A week before the bike was shifting fine but a slight click in third gear had convinced me that the tweak in the housing was the culprit. So, against his will I held a spoke wrench to his throat and watched as he replaced the housing that runs from the seat stay to the rear derailleur. The only hitch (I thought) was that the cable housing was too thick for the metal ferrules that we had available to cap off the housing ends. I thought I had the solution, taking a razor blade to the housing to shave the circumference, allowing the ferrules to fit. What I really did was seal my California State XC round five coffin. On the bike stand, without a load the Cannondale Scalpel shifted flawlessly and even during Sunday morning’s pre-race warm-up/spin everything was cool, but as soon as I put the metal to the pedals the trouble started.
Before the race was three miles old I couldn’t take it anymore and stopped, hoping I could alleviate the problem by screwing with the barrel adjuster on the rear derailleur. I only made it worse and by that time the hope of decent finish had been littered, like a Virginia Slims cigarette flicked out the window of a Honda Civic on the 91 Freeway. I did discover however, that I could use the first and ninth gear in each of the three chain rings - without the annoyance of the dancing chain. So, for the remaining 18 miles I did just that. I rode up the five bitches in a higher gear than ever before, I ascended Pirates of the Caribbean in a lower gear than ever before and heading to the finish I drag-raced neck and neck with a Sport-class woman rider as I had never before. She was wearing a leopard skin sleeveless jersey and for that brief sprint I felt like a gazelle on the Serengeti trying desperately not to become dinner. I got the nod by a wheel or two, but she put up one hell of a fight.
I ended up 9th Expert 25-29 of twelve. Tony Manzella got the class win and riding partner Josh Underwood put in a good performance claiming fifth. Three days have past and my legs still ache from pushing such an uncharacteristically high gear. And the regret of not listening to Aaron’s advice still stings like salt in an open wound.
On Monday night we discovered that the root of all-evil was in the cable housing that I had shaved down. Apparently my precision-razor-blade-fix had allowed for the shift cable to dig into the edge of the housing underneath the ferrule. Problem fixed, but we also discovered that my almost new XT cassette was bent on the second gear, which explains why the chain was hopping in the first place. I sent the cassette back to Shimano for a warranty replacement and if they don’t honor it, you can bet you’ll hear about it right here.
Never in 15 years did I ever change anything on a motorcycle the night before a motorcycle race. I don’t know why I decided to do it differently when it came to bicycles. I deserve the horrible 9th place finish.
Guess what girls? I promise no bicycle or motorcycle stuff in the next posting.
Aug 28, 2002
Aug 21, 2002
RIM NORDIC EXPERT 25-29 XC CHAMPION
The title about says it all. Aided partially by the fact that Tony Manzella was absent from the fourth and final round of the Rim Nordic Cross Country Series, I captured my first bicycle racing series championship last Sunday and I managed to do it with a race win. Going into the final I had never finished off the podium at Rim Nordic so my chances of winning the championship were good, even if I posted mediocre results at the final round.
Rim Nordic officials started my class at 11:19 p.m., with the EXP 19-24 division, and right off the start Griffith Vertican went out like a bat out of hell. Another 19-24 EXP latched onto Griffith’s wheel, followed by myself and the rest of the field and that’s all she wrote.
The 7.50-mile course, which we circulated three times, was set up similar to a figure eight with the first quarter of a lap returning to the spectator area for a hair-pin turn before heading up the mountain and out of site. Aaron Gerth and his new neighbor Bob were on hand to give me time splits as Denise provided flawless water bottle transactions at the end of each lap. A quarter of the way through the second lap Aaron informed me that I had 1:20 over second place. In the same spot on the third lap he relayed the news that I had 3:40. At that point I decided to back it off a bit to play it safe and to avoid any chance of dehydration or heat exhaustion, but when final results were posted I still gained over four minutes on the last lap, taking the win by 7:58. I made two appearances on the podium that day; one for the race win and one for the class championship and collected a plaque, trophy and bottle of sparkling cider.
Last year I was not impressed with the Rim Nordic Series and chose to ride only one round. But this year, due to spending a lot of time riding technical trails in the off season and racing a bike (Cannondale Scalpel) perfect for Rim Nordic, I changed my tune after the first event this summer. Each race is well ran and all the race officials are very friendly. For more information go to www.rimnordic.com
DOING A JIG DOWN MEMORY LANE
Driving to work today I popped Dropkick Murphys' Sing Loud, Sing Proud! into the CD player. Seven tracks later and "Good Rats" blares through the speakers. The great Shane MacGowan of Pogues fame, is a guest vocalist on "Good Rats," an Irish drinking song with the perfect blend of mandolin, tin whistle and bagpipes with a punk rock feel. MacGowan has been one of my favorite vocalists for years. I love the sound of his raw and raspy voice that stems from his lack of teeth and years of alcohol and heroin abuse. As years pass his Irish accent has grown even thicker and he's also developed a slur. He was eventually kicked out of the Pogues, not because he did heroin, but because he did too much heroin. Even though I listen to old Pogues and even MacGowan's solo album often, for some reason hearing "Good Rats" this morning reminded me of the first time I ever heard the Pogues and MacGowan's rough voice.
It was also the first time I'd tuned into KUCR, University of Riverside's radio station. It was probably about 1988 and I was sitting in the northwest corner of my bedroom on my black beanbag. I can't remember who told me about KUCR, but more than likely it was some other punk at school like Lisa Kidwell or Evelyn Wooten.
Lisa was more punk than anyone else at Rialto Junior High by a long shot. She was a gutter punk and wore her jet black spiked hair almost identical to the skeleton on one of The Cramps album covers. She claimed that egg whites were the trick. She wore chains and old ripped punk T-shirts that my parents wouldn't have let me bring into the house, much less wear to school . Lisa was so punk that I thought she didn't even have parents and even though I sometimes had classes with her and walked home from school with her I never knew where she lived. Then the rumor got out that she did have parents, but they were foster parents. Later I found out that wasn't true.
Denise and her hated each other because of me. I was obsessed with Denise and apparently Lisa had a thing for me, so naturally she had a problem with Denise. It all came to head one night at Nickelodeon Pizza on Foothill after a Rialto Junior High dance. Lucas Stiles and I went directly home after the dance because we were leaving for a motorcycle race early the next morning, so I wasn't there to witness the drama. Concluding an RJH dance, it was tradition for everyone to go across the street to Nickelodeon and hang out until their parents came to pick them up or until they closed. If you weren't at Nickelodeon after a dance you weren't anybody and if your parents allowed you to stay until closing time (at midnight) you were somebody.
Anyway, probably around 11pm Lisa got in Denise's face and accused Denise of coming in-between Lisa and me. Denise wouldn't even admit to me that she liked me so she certainly wasn't going to admit it to Lisa. So, then Lisa called Denise a liar and in her high-pitched squeaky voice kept repeating, "Why you lying? Why you lying?" Luckily the whole thing went down moments before Denise's step-dad showed up to take her home so no punches were thrown.
About 11:30 p.m. that night the phone rings at my house and it's Denise. She was upset and mad at me and demanded that I call Lisa and tell her to back-off. Actually I was flattered, but there wasn't anything I could do about it until Monday at school. I had a motorcycle race to go to. (See, somehow everything in life is indirectly related to bikes. Had there been no race, I would have been at Nickelodeon and none of this would have happened). Besides I didn't think Lisa had a phone anyway. Hell, I thought she was homeless. Nothing ever materialized because of it, but to this day Denise and I still joke around squeaking, "Why you lying? Why you lying?" For some reason I think it's funnier than Denise does.
About five years ago I ran into Lisa at a show at the Barn in Riverside and she hadn't changed much, but her hair was lot tamer and void of egg whites. Anyway, that's the story of Lisa Kidwell the punk.
Back to the Pogues. At the time KUCR played a lot more punk and what was then considered "alternative music," but I wasn't aware of their programming schedule so that night when I turned the dial to 88.1, farther left than it had ever gone before, it was pure luck. I caught the last two songs in a Pogues set. I can't even remember which songs they were, but I'm sure they were from Rum, Sodomy & the Lash. What I do remember, was MacGowan's voice and the influence of Irish folk music in the two songs I heard. I also remember thinking that the Pogues sounded like music that would've rang from a pirate ship 200 years before. It still sounded so fresh.
A few days after that my mom took me to Kaiser in Fontana to get my allergy shots and after waiting 30 minutes to rule out an allergic reaction, (nurse's orders) we went across Valley Blvd. to Music Land. The place was great because I could find a lot of rare stuff, but that day the only Pogues cassette in stock was Rum, Sodomy & the Lash. Based on the title, there was no way in hell my mom was going to allow that transaction. She went through a Tipper Gore phase in the late '80s that difficult on me. Some kids smuggle drugs and porn into their bedrooms. I smuggled the Dead Kennedys and the Sex Pistols into mine. Later when I got my hands on my first Pogues cassette, Poguerty In Motion, my friends weren't impressed and mom liked the arrangement of the music, but she also held MacGowan's foul language in disdain and disliked his voice for the exact same reason that I loved it.
To this day I still have a hard time selling the Pogues, but every now and then I'm impressed when I encounter someone familiar with them and MacGowan's influence on the old punk scene. Bands like Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly have kind of carried on in the tradition, helping to wave the MacGowan/Pogues flag. And I do my part by writing crap like this.
Freemanrace@aol.com
The title about says it all. Aided partially by the fact that Tony Manzella was absent from the fourth and final round of the Rim Nordic Cross Country Series, I captured my first bicycle racing series championship last Sunday and I managed to do it with a race win. Going into the final I had never finished off the podium at Rim Nordic so my chances of winning the championship were good, even if I posted mediocre results at the final round.
Rim Nordic officials started my class at 11:19 p.m., with the EXP 19-24 division, and right off the start Griffith Vertican went out like a bat out of hell. Another 19-24 EXP latched onto Griffith’s wheel, followed by myself and the rest of the field and that’s all she wrote.
The 7.50-mile course, which we circulated three times, was set up similar to a figure eight with the first quarter of a lap returning to the spectator area for a hair-pin turn before heading up the mountain and out of site. Aaron Gerth and his new neighbor Bob were on hand to give me time splits as Denise provided flawless water bottle transactions at the end of each lap. A quarter of the way through the second lap Aaron informed me that I had 1:20 over second place. In the same spot on the third lap he relayed the news that I had 3:40. At that point I decided to back it off a bit to play it safe and to avoid any chance of dehydration or heat exhaustion, but when final results were posted I still gained over four minutes on the last lap, taking the win by 7:58. I made two appearances on the podium that day; one for the race win and one for the class championship and collected a plaque, trophy and bottle of sparkling cider.
Last year I was not impressed with the Rim Nordic Series and chose to ride only one round. But this year, due to spending a lot of time riding technical trails in the off season and racing a bike (Cannondale Scalpel) perfect for Rim Nordic, I changed my tune after the first event this summer. Each race is well ran and all the race officials are very friendly. For more information go to www.rimnordic.com
DOING A JIG DOWN MEMORY LANE
Driving to work today I popped Dropkick Murphys' Sing Loud, Sing Proud! into the CD player. Seven tracks later and "Good Rats" blares through the speakers. The great Shane MacGowan of Pogues fame, is a guest vocalist on "Good Rats," an Irish drinking song with the perfect blend of mandolin, tin whistle and bagpipes with a punk rock feel. MacGowan has been one of my favorite vocalists for years. I love the sound of his raw and raspy voice that stems from his lack of teeth and years of alcohol and heroin abuse. As years pass his Irish accent has grown even thicker and he's also developed a slur. He was eventually kicked out of the Pogues, not because he did heroin, but because he did too much heroin. Even though I listen to old Pogues and even MacGowan's solo album often, for some reason hearing "Good Rats" this morning reminded me of the first time I ever heard the Pogues and MacGowan's rough voice.
It was also the first time I'd tuned into KUCR, University of Riverside's radio station. It was probably about 1988 and I was sitting in the northwest corner of my bedroom on my black beanbag. I can't remember who told me about KUCR, but more than likely it was some other punk at school like Lisa Kidwell or Evelyn Wooten.
Lisa was more punk than anyone else at Rialto Junior High by a long shot. She was a gutter punk and wore her jet black spiked hair almost identical to the skeleton on one of The Cramps album covers. She claimed that egg whites were the trick. She wore chains and old ripped punk T-shirts that my parents wouldn't have let me bring into the house, much less wear to school . Lisa was so punk that I thought she didn't even have parents and even though I sometimes had classes with her and walked home from school with her I never knew where she lived. Then the rumor got out that she did have parents, but they were foster parents. Later I found out that wasn't true.
Denise and her hated each other because of me. I was obsessed with Denise and apparently Lisa had a thing for me, so naturally she had a problem with Denise. It all came to head one night at Nickelodeon Pizza on Foothill after a Rialto Junior High dance. Lucas Stiles and I went directly home after the dance because we were leaving for a motorcycle race early the next morning, so I wasn't there to witness the drama. Concluding an RJH dance, it was tradition for everyone to go across the street to Nickelodeon and hang out until their parents came to pick them up or until they closed. If you weren't at Nickelodeon after a dance you weren't anybody and if your parents allowed you to stay until closing time (at midnight) you were somebody.
Anyway, probably around 11pm Lisa got in Denise's face and accused Denise of coming in-between Lisa and me. Denise wouldn't even admit to me that she liked me so she certainly wasn't going to admit it to Lisa. So, then Lisa called Denise a liar and in her high-pitched squeaky voice kept repeating, "Why you lying? Why you lying?" Luckily the whole thing went down moments before Denise's step-dad showed up to take her home so no punches were thrown.
About 11:30 p.m. that night the phone rings at my house and it's Denise. She was upset and mad at me and demanded that I call Lisa and tell her to back-off. Actually I was flattered, but there wasn't anything I could do about it until Monday at school. I had a motorcycle race to go to. (See, somehow everything in life is indirectly related to bikes. Had there been no race, I would have been at Nickelodeon and none of this would have happened). Besides I didn't think Lisa had a phone anyway. Hell, I thought she was homeless. Nothing ever materialized because of it, but to this day Denise and I still joke around squeaking, "Why you lying? Why you lying?" For some reason I think it's funnier than Denise does.
About five years ago I ran into Lisa at a show at the Barn in Riverside and she hadn't changed much, but her hair was lot tamer and void of egg whites. Anyway, that's the story of Lisa Kidwell the punk.
Back to the Pogues. At the time KUCR played a lot more punk and what was then considered "alternative music," but I wasn't aware of their programming schedule so that night when I turned the dial to 88.1, farther left than it had ever gone before, it was pure luck. I caught the last two songs in a Pogues set. I can't even remember which songs they were, but I'm sure they were from Rum, Sodomy & the Lash. What I do remember, was MacGowan's voice and the influence of Irish folk music in the two songs I heard. I also remember thinking that the Pogues sounded like music that would've rang from a pirate ship 200 years before. It still sounded so fresh.
A few days after that my mom took me to Kaiser in Fontana to get my allergy shots and after waiting 30 minutes to rule out an allergic reaction, (nurse's orders) we went across Valley Blvd. to Music Land. The place was great because I could find a lot of rare stuff, but that day the only Pogues cassette in stock was Rum, Sodomy & the Lash. Based on the title, there was no way in hell my mom was going to allow that transaction. She went through a Tipper Gore phase in the late '80s that difficult on me. Some kids smuggle drugs and porn into their bedrooms. I smuggled the Dead Kennedys and the Sex Pistols into mine. Later when I got my hands on my first Pogues cassette, Poguerty In Motion, my friends weren't impressed and mom liked the arrangement of the music, but she also held MacGowan's foul language in disdain and disliked his voice for the exact same reason that I loved it.
To this day I still have a hard time selling the Pogues, but every now and then I'm impressed when I encounter someone familiar with them and MacGowan's influence on the old punk scene. Bands like Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly have kind of carried on in the tradition, helping to wave the MacGowan/Pogues flag. And I do my part by writing crap like this.
Freemanrace@aol.com
Aug 15, 2002
Live Better, Ride Whiting
I do a lot of my mid-week training in Lake Forest at the baggy shorts, full-suspension haven known as Whiting Ranch. Once or twice a week I ride there because it's, in my humble opinion, the best ride within a 50-mile radius. The approximate 8-mile loop starts out on a relatively flat two-track, which crosses two streams (with water even) before working its way into a single-track trail void of any ascents.
Before long the one-way trail winds itself to the base of Mustard Hill. From there you have two choices. (A) Turn left and do Extra Credit, a short uphill followed by a fun plunge to Mustard Rd. or (B) Skip Extra Credit and just head straight up Mustard Rd. to the top. Both options end up at the summit, which is known as Four Corners.
Four Corners is a popular resting spot and on Wednesdays you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some guy or girl riding an Intense or a GT I-drive and wearing a hydration pack large enough to take on an Everest expedition. By no means do you need a full-suspension bike at Whiting, but because FS bikes are all the craze right now, the place is crawling with them, literally. I'd estimate that 70% of the people that ride Whiting on Wednesdays ONLY ride on Wednesdays and that's why they bob, bonk and walk their way to the top of Mustard Hill even though it's not much of a climb. They need to suffer less with their bank account and more with their bike. If half of them would trade their 32-pound $2000 FS bike in for a cheaper 28-pound hard tail they'd ride Mustard with a lot less effort and they'd have enough money left over to buy some Lycra. (At least they're out riding, Denise reminds me. And she's right)
Anyway, my point is this - Whiting is an awesome place to ride whether you ride everyday or just once a week. Mustard Hill is the only climb of note and even then, it's short. All other trails flow like a rollercoaster under a canopy of trees and if you're a single guy (Aaron, Trevor & Nathan!) there are plenty of female mountain bikers and trail runners strutting their stuff and wearing sports bras. That should be reason enough for you to come out and ride!
My Reason for Hating the Word "Swag"
Thursday during a phone conversation with Aaron I was complaining all about the Motorcyclist Magazine awards dinner I had to attend that night at the Oakley headquarters in Foothill Ranch. Knowing how much I hate that type of stuff, Aaron replied, "You love all that shmoozing and I bet you'll get some swag out if it." He also knows I hate the word "swag."
During a trip to Monterey for the Sea Otter - he, Terry, Denise and myself all had a conversation about swag. Someone (I'm not pointing fingers) was excited about strolling through the vendor area to score some swag. As I cringed Denise broke the news, informing them that I hated the word "swag" and the whole concept behind it. So, throughout the rest of the trip Terry and Aaron kept telling me how they were hoping to get some swag here or find some swag there (it should be noted that Terry got no swag from the GT booth). It was swag this and swag that - the whole damn weekend.
Let me back up. There are a few reasons why I hate swag. I like free stuff. Who doesn't? But when you work in the motorcycle industry and you're at an event and every loud mouth from the street comes up with his hand out - it kind of gets old. I remember when stickers and posters were enough. Not anymore. Now they want free non-paper, non-adhesive products like hats, goggles, t-shirts and jackets. I don't mind giving out stuff to kids or even promotional-type items like key chains, foam fingers and a frisbee here and there. It's when the drunk guy in the pits at a Supercross race wants the hat off my head or the shirt off my back - give me a break. That's just plain greedy. Everybody expects something for nothing. (The irony is, I currently work in PR)
Back to the present. Aaron and I discussed the correct spelling of the word "swag" and we finally established its correct spelling (as you've seen it throughout this posting). I hung up the phone and just for the hell of it reached for my 1978 New Edition Pocket Oxford Dictionary and was delighted to find the following on page 919:
swag n. (Representation of) ornamental festoon of flowers
I'm willing to bet that if every motorcycle-jersey wearing drunk sporting a mullet - knew that the noun "swag" really was a festoon of flowers - he probably wouldn't be walking around the pits anymore with his hands cupped together like he was begging for change outside a 7-11. So, quit talking about swag! Refer to it in the old fashion sense, as in "give-aways" or "prizes" or "hand-outs" and be happy with a sticker!
And by the way, for those of you who were wondering, a festoon is a chain of flowers or ribbons hung in a curve between two points. How nice. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll get a festoon of something as a parting gift from Oakley and Motorcyclist Magazine.
Freemanrace@aol.com
I do a lot of my mid-week training in Lake Forest at the baggy shorts, full-suspension haven known as Whiting Ranch. Once or twice a week I ride there because it's, in my humble opinion, the best ride within a 50-mile radius. The approximate 8-mile loop starts out on a relatively flat two-track, which crosses two streams (with water even) before working its way into a single-track trail void of any ascents.
Before long the one-way trail winds itself to the base of Mustard Hill. From there you have two choices. (A) Turn left and do Extra Credit, a short uphill followed by a fun plunge to Mustard Rd. or (B) Skip Extra Credit and just head straight up Mustard Rd. to the top. Both options end up at the summit, which is known as Four Corners.
Four Corners is a popular resting spot and on Wednesdays you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some guy or girl riding an Intense or a GT I-drive and wearing a hydration pack large enough to take on an Everest expedition. By no means do you need a full-suspension bike at Whiting, but because FS bikes are all the craze right now, the place is crawling with them, literally. I'd estimate that 70% of the people that ride Whiting on Wednesdays ONLY ride on Wednesdays and that's why they bob, bonk and walk their way to the top of Mustard Hill even though it's not much of a climb. They need to suffer less with their bank account and more with their bike. If half of them would trade their 32-pound $2000 FS bike in for a cheaper 28-pound hard tail they'd ride Mustard with a lot less effort and they'd have enough money left over to buy some Lycra. (At least they're out riding, Denise reminds me. And she's right)
Anyway, my point is this - Whiting is an awesome place to ride whether you ride everyday or just once a week. Mustard Hill is the only climb of note and even then, it's short. All other trails flow like a rollercoaster under a canopy of trees and if you're a single guy (Aaron, Trevor & Nathan!) there are plenty of female mountain bikers and trail runners strutting their stuff and wearing sports bras. That should be reason enough for you to come out and ride!
My Reason for Hating the Word "Swag"
Thursday during a phone conversation with Aaron I was complaining all about the Motorcyclist Magazine awards dinner I had to attend that night at the Oakley headquarters in Foothill Ranch. Knowing how much I hate that type of stuff, Aaron replied, "You love all that shmoozing and I bet you'll get some swag out if it." He also knows I hate the word "swag."
During a trip to Monterey for the Sea Otter - he, Terry, Denise and myself all had a conversation about swag. Someone (I'm not pointing fingers) was excited about strolling through the vendor area to score some swag. As I cringed Denise broke the news, informing them that I hated the word "swag" and the whole concept behind it. So, throughout the rest of the trip Terry and Aaron kept telling me how they were hoping to get some swag here or find some swag there (it should be noted that Terry got no swag from the GT booth). It was swag this and swag that - the whole damn weekend.
Let me back up. There are a few reasons why I hate swag. I like free stuff. Who doesn't? But when you work in the motorcycle industry and you're at an event and every loud mouth from the street comes up with his hand out - it kind of gets old. I remember when stickers and posters were enough. Not anymore. Now they want free non-paper, non-adhesive products like hats, goggles, t-shirts and jackets. I don't mind giving out stuff to kids or even promotional-type items like key chains, foam fingers and a frisbee here and there. It's when the drunk guy in the pits at a Supercross race wants the hat off my head or the shirt off my back - give me a break. That's just plain greedy. Everybody expects something for nothing. (The irony is, I currently work in PR)
Back to the present. Aaron and I discussed the correct spelling of the word "swag" and we finally established its correct spelling (as you've seen it throughout this posting). I hung up the phone and just for the hell of it reached for my 1978 New Edition Pocket Oxford Dictionary and was delighted to find the following on page 919:
swag n. (Representation of) ornamental festoon of flowers
I'm willing to bet that if every motorcycle-jersey wearing drunk sporting a mullet - knew that the noun "swag" really was a festoon of flowers - he probably wouldn't be walking around the pits anymore with his hands cupped together like he was begging for change outside a 7-11. So, quit talking about swag! Refer to it in the old fashion sense, as in "give-aways" or "prizes" or "hand-outs" and be happy with a sticker!
And by the way, for those of you who were wondering, a festoon is a chain of flowers or ribbons hung in a curve between two points. How nice. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll get a festoon of something as a parting gift from Oakley and Motorcyclist Magazine.
Freemanrace@aol.com
Aug 14, 2002
Suffering Heat Exhaustion, Rosie & Sheryl Crow
It doesn't get much worse than that
Stick a Fork In Me...
Six hours and 60 miles into the Team Big Bear 12-Hours of Snow Summit and I was cooked. The 30-or so solo class idiots (Titanium, Team Big Bear calls us) took off at 7:30 Saturday morning to embark on a dozen hours of high-altitude racing on a ten-mile course that traveled (are your ready for this?) to the summit of Snow Summit. Each fun-filled lap started at lodge level, went up Fern Trail to 2N10, right onto Pirates of the Caribbean, back on to 2N10 and up to the View House before heading down trails like Ole' National Hike-a-bike and Towne Trail and then back to the parking lot for anothe lap. And another and another.
I took only six trips to the top of the mountain before breaking down in a pile of my own dehydrated, saltless, sweatless self. To make a long story somewhat shorter (six hours exactly), I went out too fast and too hard, trying to keep pace with three other crazies in front of me that did the same. One of them was able to keep the pace up, posting an amazing 12 laps before it was all said and done. Normally, I'd like to shake the hand of a man like that, but since it was him that helped do me in, I'll pass.
Chalk the entire miserable experience up to not hydrating and sleeping enough the week prior, not pacing myself and not allowing myself enough time off work to prepare before hand. I won't go into detail about who won the two-man or four-man divisions and who was present because I don't remember it too clearly. It was like having a concusion and a hangover at the same time.
I would like to thank Denise, my Dad and Rob Bock for coming up to support me in the 95-degree heat. Also thanks to Aaron Gerth for preparing my bikes. Ultimately they probably saved my life because I was convinced that resting from about 1:30 PM to 3:30 PM would be enough for me to get back on the bike and post a respectable finish. Based on my slurred speach, goose bumps and the fact that I was curled up in the fetal position, they convinced me that I was done. And so did the medic, who kind of (just a tad) reminded me of the school bus driver on South Park. Or maybe I was delirious.
The Hypocrisy Contiunes
This Advertising Age magazine article from the July 2002 issue speaks for itself:
"...five years ago, when its Scope brand [mouth wash] named talk-show host Rosie O'Donnell to a list of the 10-least-kiss-able celebrities. Ms. O'Donnell later launched a "just say nope to Scope" campaign and urged viewers to buy rival Listerine. With some wooing - including a $2 million donation on behalf of P & G Pantene brand [Scope's parent company] to Ms. O'Donnell's foundation for children - Ms. O'Donnell later endorsed White Strips [a P & G Pantene Product]."
I wonder - what if the National Rifle Association made a similar donation? I bet Rosie would be singing the praises of Winchester, Smith & Wesson, Tom Selleck & President Chuck Heston then. Hmm...
She Likes a Good Beer Buzz Early in the Morning
What else does she sing?
When all of a sudden did Sheryl Crow gain legendary star status? She's been a recognizable solo act for approximately six years and her credentials are good enough to headline for opening act Fleetwood Mac (or what's left of them). I've never been a fan of Sheryl Crow, who walks around like she's been part of the Hollywood elite since Dean Martin. My most recent problem with her regards her latest single, "Steve McQueen." She's obviously not much for detail when writing lyrics because the chorus reads, "Like Steve McQueen, all I need's a fast machine..."
Sorry Sheryl, but in addition to a fast machine, the Steve McQueen I'm familiar with needed a bottle of bourbon, some dope, the Bible and at least two lady friends. Hmm...
91 Freeway Report
Yesterday "World's Greatest Dad" cut me off.
And later on I saw a woman driving a Honda hybrid flick a cigarette out her window. I found that mildly ironic.
QUOTE:
"I like to crush their egos." - Bobby Fischer, age 10, chess master
Aug 6, 2002
I've got no bicycle or motorcycle stuff to report, but what I do have is termites! The female exterminator, who coincidentally was petite enough to fit into a attic crawl space the size of my computer monitor, found the little devils in one of my favorite man-made structures - my garage. The horror! That's like Rosie O'Donnell finding a fly in her Quarter-pounder with cheese. The good news is that Ms. Exterminator, who also was the spitting image of Sissy Spacik, only found traces of the little bastards in the west wall. The bad news and the real tragedy is that I was forced to rip out the sano peg board, that three of our many bicycles hang upon, until the exterminator can fumigate. Now the garage is a wreck and the bikes have no home. I think I'll move the bikes into the living room for the time being. I guess indirectly everything has something to do with bicycles or motorcycles. Even termites.
Congrats
To Adam and Venette Spik, who where married on Wednesday, July 31 in Hawaii. According to Adam, his bride was going to sport a scabbed leg on the alter due to a nasty mountain bike crash suffered a couple weeks before the wedding. Hopefully Adam was gentle while removing the garter and didn't rip off the scab prematurely.
I believe they're back on the mainland now preparing for their reception in Riverside this Sunday.
Happy Birthday
To Mark Foist, who turns 40 this week. Mark's mid-life crisis consists of competing in marathons, triathalons and drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade at Jerseys in Redlands on Tuesday nights. Mark's part of the 38 to 40-year-old hardcore crowd that I seem to spend so much of my time with. Also turning 40 this year (or coming damn close) is jack-of-all trades Aaron Gerth, motorcycle ironman Rick Daniel & the eyes and ears of Park View Middle School Terry Moreno. Then there's Steve Gildea, who got nailed by a car while riding his road bike on a Tuesday and was riding his mountain bike again as soon as the next weekend. In Orange County my 40-club consists of mountain bikers Forrest Hayashi, Mark Thome & Paul Carruthers. And I can't forget my good friend Pocher, who actually turned 40 a few years ago and now resides in Salida, CO. He spends his time designing sub divisions, restoring churches & dragging his KTM 520 EXC out of the Colorado wilderness.
That's a lot of baby boomers. I hope I'm as tough as they are when I turn 30, much less 40. Oh, yah guys. By the way, I heard Foreigner is the guest band on Mohr Sports tonight.
What 35 Bucks will get you at the KROQ/Levi's Inland Invasion at Blockbuster Pavilion in Devore
The final nail in the coffin of punk rock was painfully set this week when the line-up for the heavily publicized KROQ/Levi's Inland Invasion was announced. I'm not going down the list of every pathetic band on the bill, but lets just say the amount of hypocrisy that will fill the Blockbuster stage will be at an all-time high. It's ironic that many of the same bands that preached nonconformity & anti-commercialism for nearly two decades have resulted to an event that will feature the "Sex Pistols Pepsi Encore" and the "Cingular Wireless Offspring Sing-Along." Here's what else you're likely to see or hear:
1. Unwritten Law, New Found Glory and Blink 182 all paying homage to older appearing bands like the "Sex Pistols", Bad Religion, Social Distortion, The Damned, The Buzzcocks & Adolescents, by saying something like, "It's a real honor to perform on the same stage as (insert name of once honorable punk band here)."
2. Mike Ness of Social Distortion will mostly likely go off on a tangent about how he used to be a teenage heroin addict and how he hung out with pimps, winos, hookers & drug dealers. Then he'll say how he feels right at home in Devore and in the Inland Empire because he too is (self-proclaimed) white trash. And the audience will cheer.
3. You'll hear entertaining and at times good music, but you'll also have to hear the Offspring.
4. Pennywise will play two to three moderately entertaining cover songs of old-school punk orgin.
5. The worst and most embarrassing act is sure to be the return of the "Sex Pistols." Johnny Lydon or Rotten (whatever he calls himself these days) is sure to make a complete ass of himself and I wouldn't be surprised if he started a mini riot targeting the yellow windbreaker secruity thugs, who took the gig in the first place so they could see the Offspring without paying the 35 bucks.
6. And last, but certainly not least - the ticket paying public. Where do I begin? Drunk girls, drunk guys, freaks with piercings, freaks removing their shirts, lighting them on fire and swinging them around above their heads, freaks ripping the seats out of the pavilion, freaks fighting, freaks moshing (not pogoing), freaks with lighters, freaks with drugs, freaks passed out, freaks consuming funnel cake, freaks wearing the t-shirt of one of the bands appearing that night and my favorite - freaks that leave after the Offspring is done playing.
Brace yourself when the ground trembles because there's a lot of dead punks soon to be rolling over in their graves. The KROQ/Levi's Inland Invasion will further support the theory that Shane MacGowan, Jello Biafra and Ian McKye are the only real & genuine punks still around. All these other sell-outs should be beaten over the head with William Burroughs' cane, including Social D & Bad Religion.
I hate to end a posting on such a sour note so I'll add that Nathan Hughes just informed me that he inked a deal with a Chevrolet dealership that will see Nathan living in Muscoy for the rest of us life. I don't have the exact details of the contract yet, but it has something to do with a new Chevy Tahoe.
Congrats
To Adam and Venette Spik, who where married on Wednesday, July 31 in Hawaii. According to Adam, his bride was going to sport a scabbed leg on the alter due to a nasty mountain bike crash suffered a couple weeks before the wedding. Hopefully Adam was gentle while removing the garter and didn't rip off the scab prematurely.
I believe they're back on the mainland now preparing for their reception in Riverside this Sunday.
Happy Birthday
To Mark Foist, who turns 40 this week. Mark's mid-life crisis consists of competing in marathons, triathalons and drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade at Jerseys in Redlands on Tuesday nights. Mark's part of the 38 to 40-year-old hardcore crowd that I seem to spend so much of my time with. Also turning 40 this year (or coming damn close) is jack-of-all trades Aaron Gerth, motorcycle ironman Rick Daniel & the eyes and ears of Park View Middle School Terry Moreno. Then there's Steve Gildea, who got nailed by a car while riding his road bike on a Tuesday and was riding his mountain bike again as soon as the next weekend. In Orange County my 40-club consists of mountain bikers Forrest Hayashi, Mark Thome & Paul Carruthers. And I can't forget my good friend Pocher, who actually turned 40 a few years ago and now resides in Salida, CO. He spends his time designing sub divisions, restoring churches & dragging his KTM 520 EXC out of the Colorado wilderness.
That's a lot of baby boomers. I hope I'm as tough as they are when I turn 30, much less 40. Oh, yah guys. By the way, I heard Foreigner is the guest band on Mohr Sports tonight.
What 35 Bucks will get you at the KROQ/Levi's Inland Invasion at Blockbuster Pavilion in Devore
The final nail in the coffin of punk rock was painfully set this week when the line-up for the heavily publicized KROQ/Levi's Inland Invasion was announced. I'm not going down the list of every pathetic band on the bill, but lets just say the amount of hypocrisy that will fill the Blockbuster stage will be at an all-time high. It's ironic that many of the same bands that preached nonconformity & anti-commercialism for nearly two decades have resulted to an event that will feature the "Sex Pistols Pepsi Encore" and the "Cingular Wireless Offspring Sing-Along." Here's what else you're likely to see or hear:
1. Unwritten Law, New Found Glory and Blink 182 all paying homage to older appearing bands like the "Sex Pistols", Bad Religion, Social Distortion, The Damned, The Buzzcocks & Adolescents, by saying something like, "It's a real honor to perform on the same stage as (insert name of once honorable punk band here)."
2. Mike Ness of Social Distortion will mostly likely go off on a tangent about how he used to be a teenage heroin addict and how he hung out with pimps, winos, hookers & drug dealers. Then he'll say how he feels right at home in Devore and in the Inland Empire because he too is (self-proclaimed) white trash. And the audience will cheer.
3. You'll hear entertaining and at times good music, but you'll also have to hear the Offspring.
4. Pennywise will play two to three moderately entertaining cover songs of old-school punk orgin.
5. The worst and most embarrassing act is sure to be the return of the "Sex Pistols." Johnny Lydon or Rotten (whatever he calls himself these days) is sure to make a complete ass of himself and I wouldn't be surprised if he started a mini riot targeting the yellow windbreaker secruity thugs, who took the gig in the first place so they could see the Offspring without paying the 35 bucks.
6. And last, but certainly not least - the ticket paying public. Where do I begin? Drunk girls, drunk guys, freaks with piercings, freaks removing their shirts, lighting them on fire and swinging them around above their heads, freaks ripping the seats out of the pavilion, freaks fighting, freaks moshing (not pogoing), freaks with lighters, freaks with drugs, freaks passed out, freaks consuming funnel cake, freaks wearing the t-shirt of one of the bands appearing that night and my favorite - freaks that leave after the Offspring is done playing.
Brace yourself when the ground trembles because there's a lot of dead punks soon to be rolling over in their graves. The KROQ/Levi's Inland Invasion will further support the theory that Shane MacGowan, Jello Biafra and Ian McKye are the only real & genuine punks still around. All these other sell-outs should be beaten over the head with William Burroughs' cane, including Social D & Bad Religion.
I hate to end a posting on such a sour note so I'll add that Nathan Hughes just informed me that he inked a deal with a Chevrolet dealership that will see Nathan living in Muscoy for the rest of us life. I don't have the exact details of the contract yet, but it has something to do with a new Chevy Tahoe.
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