Forties and fifties of people came out on Saturday to watch the celebrities of a small subgroup (cyclocross) of a much larger not-so-popular sport (cycling) that doesn’t get a fraction of the media attention of Juniors Figure Skating duke it out for overall supremacy at PIR. Maybe it’s because cyclists never have musical accompaniment by Mannheim Steamroller. Or maybe it’s because the sport is always outside in the cold and never with established seating or mobile hot dog vendors that come directly to you. Whatever the reason, no one cares about cycling or its celebrities except cyclists.

Until one of those celebrities fucks an Olsen twin.

And this is why cycling is awesome. Cycling celebrities are just like normal people! Unlike normal celebrities, cyclocross stars  have to slum it with the proles. Unless they start fucking Olsen twins. And they aren’t going to make millions of dollars like Earl Anthony, The Greatest Bowler of All Time™ (who also fucked an Olsen Twin.) Cyclocross celebrities don’t throw TVs from hotel windows during drunken binges with prostitutes. Cyclocross celebrities don’t give a shit about the Bush tax cuts, because they are smart enough to understand how tax brackets and progressive tax systems work. They don’t send pictures of their genitals to sports reporters unless asked to do so, and they never… NEVER… murder their spouses in fits of rage.

This isn’t ‘Nam, Donnie. This is cycling. There are rules.

As normal cycling folk, we’ll never get to watch an hour long live broadcast called “The Decision” about Jeremy Powers trying to decide what kind of burrito he wants for lunch. But we might get to ride around on the same course as world champions, and sometimes we might even get pushed around by those people when we get in their way. And if we’re really lucky, someone will get a picture of us right before we get lapped so it looks like we were beating that world champion for a minute or two.

Here are a bunch of photos of normal folks racing with celebrities from the Men’s and Women’s Elite races.

Kruger’s Crossing this year was all kinds of miserable weather, and I didn’t have the energy to ride a lap or two while hoping for something to go wrong with my bike allowing me to quit guilt free. So I just didn’t race. I may have gone on The Worst Road Ride Ever™ instead, and that road ride may have ended with me barefoot and shivering in the isles of Safeway while trying to barter an uneaten Luna Bar and some almonds for a fresh pair of socks. I may have discovered that there is no established exchange rate for these items. So I may have also offered sexual favors to a septuagenarian in exchange for her overcoat, and she may or may not have rejected me.

It was a rough afternoon.

But not as rough as a certain unnamed Sheperd who has been BANNED from racing for a year for unsportsmanlike conduct. Check out this video of the Portland Velo dog in question taking someone out at the knees:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Put her right into the wall. Cold blooded.

Here are the bulk photos from the race. Nothing good. But lots of it.

Barton Park has always been one of my favorite race venues. Probably because it’s usually near the end of the season, and the end of the season means I don’t have to spend Sunday nights hosing off my muddy shit any more. I haven’t done many Crusade races this year, but it appears that while I was away every racer was assigned a team of reporters to follow them around. What was up with all of the press? Everywhere I turned there was a reporter. And a cameraman. And a gaffer. And a boom. And a dolly. And a key grip. And a best boy. And a body double. And a second unit body double.

I could do this all day… I love movie credits.

I once worked with a guy who spent years working on the TV show Renegade with Lorenzo Lamas, and he would regale us with his stories of hanging out with Mr. Llamas. He was super proud of it, like it was amazing that Lorenzo Lamas would slum it with the common man and go get nachos after work. I recognize that Mr. Lamas is probably the coolest guy ever to solve crimes from a Harley while wearing a black leather vest with no shirt… but it’s Renegade, man. Lorenzo Lamas was probably just stoked to have someone split the bill on some nachos. But he was recently in Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus with Debbie (Deborah) Gibson, so maybe he is actually awesome. Just now, when I looked up Lorenzo Lamas’ name, I learned that it doesn’t have two l’s like it should. Llamas. Here’s the trailer to Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fa7ck5mcd1o

My god. I’m so tired.

As a side note, A Series of Unfortunate Events™ led to the loss of my beloved slow motion camera. It’s red and tiny and it was thrown gently course-side during the B/SS race somewhere between the start and the run up. I know that someone saw me put it there. So if you’re that someone, this could be just like Sleepless in Seattle. Except I’m Tom Hanks. And Meg Ryan is a camera. And you’re like an asteroid that is going to destroy the planet.

Fine. I admit is. I’ve never seen Sleepless in Seattle. Here are some pictures from the race.

Don’t get me wrong, that PIR race was super fun. But if I had it all to do over again, I would have spent my afternoon in bed eating a 5 pound bag of trick or treat sized Snickers bars and watching season two of Veronica Mars, while trying to figure out the Scooby Doo endings before they become obvious. Because that show is awesome! It’s like Murder She Wrote. Only hotter. As if that were even possible.

But I didn’t. I went and got all shivery at PIR while it rained buckets. Usually I carry around a blankie with me whenever I go somewhere with lots of people, because I’m socially awkward and the blankie gives me something to talk to (“Well hello there, blankie…”) But I didn’t have a blankie this time, so I just wandered around. Awkward. And cold. And then to make things more awkward, I went and drank a watermelon Four Loko in the bushes with an unnamed accomplice, like hobos, because I thought it might make me feel warmer.Which it did, almost immediately, thanks to the combination of toxic chemicals and malt liquor. But I didn’t think about how it would feel 30 minutes later when, during a race, my stomach would remind me that I’d just consumed a watermelon flavored Four Loko. I didn’t even bother to eat my free oatmeal, and I love free shit.

The highlight was when I went in the tent and stood next to the heater and it made my crotch steam. Because a steamy crotch is a funny crotch. Also, crotch is an awful word.

And here are some visuals to help you wrap your head around the race that was.

Slow motion video of Tony bunny hopping that weird WWII bunker:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Slow motion video of Matt bunny hopping that weird WWII bunker:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Shunter looking like the lead electroniker of an awesome Euro electronika band:

And here’s a baby in a watermelon eating his way out:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=W3FlBC1fvqg

The rumor surrounding the new Ninkrossi CX course was that it was going to be flat and smooth. Which is apparently secret code for “not flat” and “not smooth”, a code I assume was developed on the OBRA forums to coax unhappy Sherwood fence sitters into going to Washugal instead.

Well played, Washugal.

On the Will Shortz scale of unbreakable codes, this one tips heavily on the “breakable” side. You know, because it’s just the opposite. It’s somewhere between the Enigma machine and the Highlights “word find” I used to do in the doctors office when I’d pretend my throat hurt so that I wouldn’t have to go to school.

The race was super fun. The venue was beautiful. The weather was amazing. And I didn’t have to spend two hours cleaning up my shit afterwards. It was one of the best times I’ve had on a bike all year, if I’m only comparing the times on the bike when I paid money so that I could ride around with other people on bikes who also paid money. Because this time they gave me a beer, which usually costs extra.

Money well spent.

And here is a video of kitten in slow motion. Because everyone loves kittens in slow motion.

Ah, autumn. The mornings are crisp and foggy, and people have again begun tweeting preventative excuses for their poor race performances (“I’m so sick” or “I’m working so hard” or “I haven’t been on the bike in X weeks”.) So much has changed since I wrote basically the same stuff about the same bike races almost a year ago. Fall 2009 was another time altogether. Back then we were still full of hope, the idea of an anti-masturbation senator would have been just a pipe dream, like a flying car or 8% unemployment or V brakes on a cyclocross bike. Oh, how naive we were. The future is now. And the future is run by people who deny themselves pleasure. In the biblical sense, I mean.

And speaking of the future, I saw at Heiser Farms what can only be described at the pinnacle of science and technology. I’ve seen a potato gun or two in my day. All of them awesome. But nothing I’ve ever seen compares to the truck mounted pumpkin cannon at the farm. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. Like a car wreck. Or exposed nipples. And in the short time I was at the farm, I developed a Pavlovian response to the vuvuzela that announced an impending launch. No matter what I was doing, I’d look to the sky for a flying pumpkin. I’m not good with weights or measures, but I have little doubt that some of these pumpkins flew TEN THOUSAND MILES.

Unfortunately, this caused serious problems with my race performance. I mean, I already had to worry about the fact that I’m SO SICK and I’ve been working SO HARD and I haven’t really ridden my bike in X WEEKS. But added to that, everytime the fucking canon kazoo went off I’d stop what I was doing (racing) and look up and exclaim “MY GOD DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT?!”

Anyway, I didn’t even finish my race. Because I’m lame. But quitting was SO worth it. I saw a pumpkin get shot into a car and explode.

Bad. Ass.

SO if anyone stumbles across this in the future and is interested in the farm, that place is great. It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had at a bike event.

As for the rest of my time in McMinville, here is some additional awesome shit that happened.

Cruise Night: The entire community went feral and did burnouts on the main strip while the rest of the community screamed encouragement and the police made themselves scarce. And they did all of this to support the food bank. Lawlessness to support the food bank. I’ve never seen anything so odd and beautiful.

Theater Sale: The local theater decided to sell all of their old costumes. For a DOLLAR. We bought three pre-teen turquise and sequin dance outfits that we have yet to sucessfully squeeze into. But If I can somehoe shed the Freshman Fifteen I put on (a decade ago) I’m going to wear this to the bar.

Evergreen Aviation Museum: That place is staffed with the cutest old men wearing green vest. Also, the Spruce Goose.

I really want to talk about the Mt. Tabor series, but all I can really discuss these days is my new slow motion camera. It’s just like a regular shitty old digital camera… IF A REGULAR SHITTY OLD DIGITAL CAMERA TOOK AMAZING SLOW MOTION VIDEOS! The uses are limitless. Unless you’re like me, in which case the uses are limited to funny faces and flying kittens. So let’s just set aside the details of the tabor races for a second, and instead feast our eyes on this…

Yea. It’s a race video. In slow motion. With a crazy kid spinning around like Stevie Nicks in the foreground.

The Mt. Tabor Race Series is exactly the same as it was last year. And the year before that. In fact, I think they just change the dates on the website because nothing else is different. SO rather than talk about the race, it’s easier to treat the time on the hill like one of those Spot the Difference video games that eats all of my quarters when I’m drunk and bored at the bar.

Here are the differences I’ve noticed between 2009 and 2010.

1. Lil’ Walton is still winning the fixed great category, but he has a mangy (not manly) beard. When I brought this up to him, my reference to “Grizzly Adams” was totally lost. That is how young kids today are. Here he is mugging for the camera… in slow motion.

2. Every team has adopted a whiter kit. White spandex makes you ride fast, because if you ride slow wearing a white kit everyone will see your hoohoodilly.

3. Where there was once a circle of people roasting marshmallows for s’mores, now there is just mud. These June rains have ruined the community aspect of racing at Tabor.

I’ll be there on Wednesday. Racing. In slow motion. But totally unrelated to my new fancy camera. So if you have something you’d like filmed in slow motion, please let me know.

I have to say that this has been one super fun week of cycling. It’s been so fun that it almost makes me want to start talking about cycling again. So consider this my triumphant return to the world of competitive talking about somewhat competitive cycling.

I welcomed myself back by going for a truly stellar bike ride before attending a BBQ on the route of the Mississippi Crit. I’ve been listening to people recount the amazing end of this race for 24 hours. Even my coworkers are talking about it. It’s practically an internet meme these days, like the sneezing panda or Star Wars kid. Though he swears “this has never happened to him before”, the tiniest sprinter is a premature celebrator. And he prematurely celebrated all over the Portland cycling community’s face. But you know what? He had a great race, and was about 2mm closer to victory than any other cyclist out there.

I missed the end because I was drunk at a BBQ. And from my vantage point, I saw the days most noble act of racing, when a leader sacrificed his podium position for the entertainment of his fellow man. Lost in the hoopla, I feel like the true hero of this race has gone unrecognized: Mr. Reeb. You are a patriot.

On the backstretch of the final lap, while being mooned by fifteen drunken buffoons (read: us), Mr. Reeb drifted curbside and slapped asses. I would expect this from a midpack finisher halfway though a race, but not a four man break on a final lap of a very warm day. Slow motion video here:

Above and beyond, sir. Above. And. Beyond.

Other highlights of race day?

- I drank most of a 4Loko (roughly 3.25Loko) though a red vine, until Jenny dropped it in the oversized can.
- We all discovered the value of slow motion spit takes during bike races.
- We learned how to make lips to unnatural things. Video proof:

This weekend a bunch of bike racers went to Astoria. At the time it seemed like fun. But now that I’ve been reading the internet it sounds like it was mostly miserable, and I just remembered it wrong. For me, it comes down to this simple relaization: I’m happy to spend time with people who drink beer, but I think I’d rather spend less time with the people who talk about drinking beer. At some point, drinking beer should be a thing that you do, rather than a thing that you try to impress people by telling them that you do it. Quietly drinking a beer is pretty awesome in most circumstances. But yelling “I’m drinking a fucking beer, bro!” is not awesome. It’s kind of dumb.

Anyway, Astoria was full of people yelling “I’m drinking a fucking beer, bro!”

Saturday was wet and muddy. I don’t know what happened on Saturday night. I think people had a bonfire and yelled to each other about drinking beer. I went to Ross Dress For Less and bought potpurri, some floral print capris, and lovely decanter.

Sunday was magical. We took turns jumping on our hotel bed. We dressed up our dog like a canine prostitute. We drank coffee. Quietly. Without yelling “I’m drinking some fucking coffee, bro!” We watched a giant robot chase bike racers. We asked the giant robot to pretend to walk into a portapotty so we could take funny pictures of a giant robot trying to use a portapotty. We raced our bikes poorly. We played around in the middle of the highway after it was shut down for an accident. We drove home listening to the Pixies.

It’s Tuesday, so I’m sure that both of you have already scoured the internet for all of the race reports and photos. Blah blah blah… a hill… blah blah blah… then everyone stopped for a little log… blah blah blah… horse poop… blah blah blah. Personally, I’m still reeling from the race last week, because Dawn got to meet Will Shortz and all I got to do was ride around in the dirt. Will Fucking Shortz. The puzzle master. It got me thinking that not-racing is maybe the best thing that can happen to someone’s weekend. But if I didn’t race, I’d have to find a whole new place to pretend to casually bump into (and awkwardly corner) people that I wish would be my friends but choose not to be. It makes me feel like that girl on Flight of the Conchords. Usually it goes something like this: “Oh hey! You’re at this race too? Weird. What are the chances! Anyway, as long as we’re both here, do you want to hang out socially and be my friend?” Usually people say no. But every once in a while, when things are just right, someone will sigh a resigned sigh and let me stand next to them for a couple of minutes.

I cherish those times.

Here are some photos from another awkward interaction I saw.

This is Tommy and Ira. Tommy thinks he’s about to pass. You can tell because he’s put his head down really low, in the hopes that Ira won’t notice. Sneaky. Like a rat. Or crazy like a fox. Or something like some other animal.

Then Tommy crashed. I didn’t take a picture.

But I did take a picture of Ira laughing immediately after it happened. Probably not at Tommy. Probably at a knock knock joke he heard earlier in the day. But the timing is suspicious, anyway.

Then I took a picture of Tommy looking like he’s going to try to eat Ira.

Funny stuff. Here are some more pictures from the race. Some of the people who race make very funny faces.