Evil Cycling

In support of today’s SOPA strike we are doing our part.

Good luck with that, but you can go ahead and keep your hands off ours.
In other news, politicians can eat a bag of dick. Unless Sov throws his hat into the ring (which probably wont happen after ‘Open bathrobe at the cheerleadercamp-gate’ of 2007) our money is on the clear winner.

The shit winds of war blow before every conflict……

I race bikes in Oregon. Poorly, mind you, but I race them nonetheless. I’m usually tacked on the back of crits, road races, TT’s, and some Cyclocross races just for shits and giggles, in the 3’s and Masters events. I race under the sanctioning body known as OBRA – Oregon Bicycle Racing Association (clever, I know.) I had lived in the Chicago area and the city of Milwaukee before coming out here 6 years ago, racing under USAC (then known as the USCF) and the grassroots organization ABR – which I liked much better, for the record.

Back in the 90’s, OBRA told the USCF to go piss up a rope, as huge sums of money were being sent to Colorado Springs for no return. Read about the origins here.

When I came here I found the racing organization to be top notch, and I still do. You name the amenity and it’s provided – from fantastic officials to expedient results, great courses, great attitude, easy event promoting, great everything across all disciplines. Really, if you want to have a blueprint for a sanctioning organization that knows what it’s doing, and provides the ground floor to be wide open to attract new people to the sport, simply follow OBRA’s plan. It works.

To stress the main factor: OBRA is committed to the sport on all levels, particularly junior membership to continue to propagate the sport, and their grassroots, all-for-one approach resonates through all teams of all disciplines.

So now, USAC wants back in. They just folded the poor Colorado based ACA in a somewhat hostile and contentious takeover, sending riders back to USAC like so many beaten slave laborers, back to the salt mines with their backs broken, handing over fistfuls of money to to mothership. It’s like a mafia shakedown.

Now those dickhammers, seeing OBRA’s success, have come around like neighborhood goombahs, looking for their piece of the OBRA pie.

Now, USAC does good things at the elite level. Can’t deny it. But their methods completely fuck up the pot up here. For instance: Cascade Classic, last year, when USAC originally started dropping nuclear grade farts in the elevator: a bunch of OBRA female Cat 2’s went to contest the matter. Being a UCI event, it needed dual licensing from USAC as well as OBRA. Not a big deal in and of itself, but USAC being USAC had to be complete fucktards about it. Their first move was to not recognize via reciprocity that our Cat 2’s were indeed Cat 2’s, so instead their solution was to make the OBRA Cat 2 ladies ride with the USAC Cat 4 field.

Pick your tongues up, put them back in your mouth holes, and keep reading.

Yeah, good idea USAC. Smart. That’s fair. Idiots.

So that was got smoothed out after executive directors, team managers, and every other manner of muckity muck made a stink about it, and the 2’s raced where they belonged in their right field.

That was sort of the first grenade of what was coming. ACA now back in the fold, it seems the lead dispshit Steve Johnson is taking a bunch of swings at OBRA. Now, rather than encapsulate the whole thing, I ask you to read these two excellent pieces by Josh Libereles (an OBRA racer himself)

Article one: calling bullshit on USAC.

Article two: USAC “responds”.

Now, let your blood pressures settle a minute. I know you’re asking yourself “just who the fuck does USAC think they are?”, and I am too. We all are. I note a couple of things about this “response”. Firstly, Steve Johnson doesn’t have the nuts to come out of his ivory tower and confront this shit head on. Maybe because he came off like a complete prick during the ACA meetings. Or maybe he’s a coward. Instead, they send this puppy out, who cries foul and basically calls OBRA’s opinions and the people they came from lies and liars. When you boil it down it read quite plainly as a money grab, plain and simple. A fucking hold-em-upside-down-by-the-ankles and shake all their money out of their pockets.

Who gets fucked? Riders. Promoters. You know, the lifeblood of any racing organization.

I understand USAC has to play ball with the Olympic committees as well as the UCI. I get that. And I get that this effects upper categories from a rider standpoint. And I get their good deeds on the elite level. But if they move in on the grassroots organizations and jack up fees to basically have the lower cats subsidize the upper cats with little or no return, then you, USAC, are pissing directly on the fire of grassroots. You’re shutting the door on the grassroots side of things, pricing people out of the game to do some of the marquee regional races. Also, you’re turning off promoters because (and I know first hand) your sanctioning paperwork is a complete and total clusterfuck, your fees outrageous. OBRA makes these things easy.You’re lining your own pockets firstly, then turning off countless thousands that under an OBRA approach might say “yeah, sure, I’ll try bike racing.” And you’re doing all of this while shoving a knife into one side, and removing the wallet from the other.

What would OBRA get? Higher fees, lots more hassle. What does USAC get? A lot more money. For doing what in the best interests for the sport as a whole? Nothing.

The whole thing fucking reeks of war. And I sure as shit know which side I’m fighting for.

The first battle lines are drawn at Cyclocross, it seems. And as is pointed out in the articles linked above “THEY’LL RUIN IT JUST LIKE THEY RUINED MOUNTAIN BIKING.”

Take heed, people. War is in the winds.

Merry Crassmas to me. Yeah.. That works nicely.

Our penises from the collective assfucking we give the bicycle-related world and catch up a moment. Too much butt humping means the hands do nothing, (unless reaching around to fondle Bear’s ponderous teets) and as we all know idle hands are the Devil’s plaything. So are stripper’s tits. Wait, those are our playthings!

Your Portland Evil update has you learning the following: Magic Gardens still has some of the best strippers in downtown. So easy to swing by for a pint or two and see the sights. Plus, the big and burly bouncer, recently out of prison, has the hots for Cheever. Then again, who doesn’t? Speaking of the bird-like one, he recently attended the USGP and appropriately raced (poorly) and heckled (rapha, and did well), so we’re all winners on that front.

At least he was upright. We know that sometimes the trajectory can take the opposite tack and head due south, with a bullet.

In other parts of the world, seems Evil’s doing fine. Carter is well in NYC, Bear-pi is in MPLS and well, along with those other a-hole naer-do-wells, Nick, Sov, Clark, Jro/Bro, and everyone else are holding their own. I’d rather them hold theirs than mine. Just sayin’.

Stevil’s just dropped some bitchin’ new kits and you should immediately buy two: because you’ll soil the first one you put on. If you’re not smart enough to navigate your way to new AHTBM kits, you can easily find other ways to adorn yourself in cool, simply by clicking here, and giving up all hope in yourself, and humanity.

Which is fortunate because after this year’s running of the SSCXWC, I maybe have about five to spare.

So as you might can guess, a partial (and mulleted) cloud of evil descended on the City By The Bay and not a drop of alcohol, or brain cell was spared. It’s probably a good thing that this event doesn’t happen more than once a year, because there’s no way my body could take it.

Mud and blood and one hour of pure, unadulterated suffering was what this year’s race offered up, and we drank every last bit that we could physically afford. Plus whatever happened to come out of Loudass’ mouth.

Photo by Skotty Pawz.

I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be in Philadelphia. But, as soon as I landed in MPLS for my layover, and upon finding out my flight to Philly was canceled due to a freak blizzard, I immediately went to work. I started by calling around, and strangely, no one was picking up. Although, if they saw my name on the caller ID, I don’t blame them for not picking up. But the erstwhile Bear picked up his phone, and offered a ride and his couch until my next morning flight to Philly. Then he informed me it was the Homie Fall Fest, that’s probably why no one was answering their phones. True that.

Bear scooped me up, we went to the beer store, and we set about catching up on the porch on a brisk October afternoon.

Then the lovely JRo and the Rabbit Costumed Brose picked me up and, on one of Bear’s almost-fits-me bikes, made our way to the Minnehaha trail to catch up with the homie. This was easy. Find the smoke, follow the smoke, and see shit like this:

There were hot laps, and I mean that – a huge bonfire got larger and larger as the night went on. Lots of beers met their deaths. A bottle of Wild Turkey in my bag slowly died as well. I hadn’t come rightly prepared, with my shiny work shoes and stupid pants, but hey, I wasn’t supposed to be here. Chewey was there, Sov, Geneo, and a host of other faces I hadn’t seen for a while, so that was nice. Bikes went in circles, over fires, into each other, and in every possible direction. It was a downright hootenanny. Until apparently some asshats made off with a couple of backpacks, and that just isn’t cool.

Before I knew it I was hammered, and no better place to go than the Sunrise! An open fryer pit with beers on tap, basically. They sold us “cheeseburgers” and “fries” in “baskets”. Moffit just looked around for food to pilfer.

This is the shittiest report with the shittiest phone photos ever, but hey, I wasn’t even supposed to be there.

Bear dropped me off at the airport the next morning and I continued eastward to the city of brotherly love. Yes, I had some cheez whiz.

that regular use of profanity is a sign of a low I.Q.

If this is true, Captain Dave is certifiably retarded, and the readers of this site are catatonic.

Yep, look.

Crash.

Anus.

Click of shutter.

Pic of shitter.

Listen to Slayer, for the love of God.