Rumors, Innuendos and Boldface Lies
Rumors, Innuendos and Boldface Lies
(WBL 2013 #3: Maysville)
Great thundering bolts of lightning, strike me dead if I'm lying, the third WBL event of the other season, the 15 December March Through Maysville, was simply another scintillating, stupendous and spectacular 75-mile, 4-hour day of circle-stomping in the northern quadrant of the Emporium. The Zealots spent the day exploring the remote nooks and crannies of Jackson County by pedaling down rarely used but scenic roads. Another spirited pack of around 90 to 100 warrior-Zealots signed in and sailed through the Maysville circuit at an average clip of 21 miles-per-hour, which is not quite enough heat to peel the bark from a tree, but certainly hot enough to raise blisters and boils in a few of the right spots. In fact, after the ride, Nathaniel Big Red Rowe, one of the several despised (and even hated) Georgia Tech riders on the ride, smiled like a saucy sybarite and said, "I might have a boil in the region of my oblangato caravagita, and brother, it feels just fine." He squirmed in his seat and grimaced in pain. Naturally, I was both shocked and appalled at his forward comment. Everyone knows that if a boil anywhere in the region of the petublium nacrobillybac gives Big Red pleasure then he's capable of prolonged and painful bouts of pedal-thrashing. However, Tomas Petit reminded me Rowe he was a Yellow Jacket and that we should give him a little rope. Tank Crumley spit a glob of tobacco juice on a roach scurrying past his feet and replied, "Yea, I agree, give him this one." He handed me a noose.
Once again the voracious pack of rabid Zealots who signed in for the day's misadventure to Maysville could not be contained. The air hummed with electricity and as soon as the start whistle blew this unruly horde of energetic plebs setoff down Prince Avenue, hell-bent on pillage and plunder and intent on rolling over anything in its path. From my vantage point, I could plainly see that this was truly a wretched and contemptible band of unwashed cycle-brigands, truly a vulgar mass, perhaps one of the worst ever in the 100-year history of the WBL. Then I remembered that last week's group was just as bad and that next week's group would probably be worse. It put a smile on my face because I fit right in. I looked around and laughed I noticed that several other first-timers—Keenan Howard, Nick Frazier and Paul Dallas—blended in too.
The group headed due north and scudded straight out the infamous J Riviera Road in its quixotic quest to conquer the world at large and all that there is, all that there was, and all that there ever will be. The pros in the peleton took over the helm at an early stage and tamped down the tempest. The Big Dogs pushed the petal not quite to the metal and quickly brought order into the unruly mix. T Brown, J Rosskopf, B Cornett and Yo Simpson were just a few the Heavy Hitters cutting through the wind at the front at a quick but comfortable pace as they lead the innocent lambs behind towards the abattoir. Today, however, they'd veer right before actually entering the front door. Looking around I noticed several young pedal-banging tyros from the two strong junior teams, the Fulton Flyers and Frazier Cycling. These two teams are run by experienced warlords who train their young tyros to conquer the world with their bikes. I smiled knowing that one day when we passed the torch to the younger generation that they would continue pounding any resistance into the ground by simply applying the proper amount of pressure to their pedals.
The group cut a rug around the Brockton Loop, flew up the entire stretch of the Apple Valley Road, hopped over I-85, immediately ascended the cruel slope of Mount Yo, stomped over a couple of large, rolling, brain-busting hummocks thereafter, and mercifully dashed into Maysville at the halfway point in the ride. At the store stop the pack was averaging a solid 20 miles per hour and all seemed well with the world. Then Shannon Parrish popped off at the mouth. She asked Birthday Boy Brian Molloy why he was thought he was "so damned good-looking." Molloy just smiled through his beard and threw his hands in the air and shook his hips like he was Elvis on stage in Vegas and said, "Baby, when you're hot, you're hot, and honey, I'm smoking." He gave his hips one final emphatic thrust and several ladies actually fell out on the ground. Iona Parks, Catherine Peacock, Shannon Wrege, Maria Carrelli, Stephanie Lin and Kathleen McKee hit the deck instantly. Thom Leonard and Jason Crosby wobbled for a few seconds and then went down. Russ Foster stayed upright but I saw him listing badly, as was Robert Conaster and Eric Murphy too. Little Zoe Frazier was the only one to remain unscathed, shaking her head at the others as they hit the floor.
After the store stop in Maysville the group pedal-stomped down the serpentine byways of the Grove Level Church Road. On this short but sweeping section, the roadway twists and turns continuously and around every bend the roadway tilts up or falls down at severe angles while simultaneously sweeping to the left and the right in rapid succession. The pack flew through this stretch and spread out into a perfectly formed double-file line. The pace quickened the group was having so much fun. I spotted poor Michael York and it reminded me of a story. I can't vouch for its accuracy so I'll just pass it along for what it's worth. Show Stopper is the one who passed it along to me, so any slanderous statements must be attributed to the source.
Dunn said that when York was in prison he had a tattoo of three falling teardrops etched under his left eye. He felt it made him look like a gangster. He was spending the rest of his life behind bars, so what did it matter? But then his conviction was unexpectedly overturned on appeal—he wasn't Mirandized before he admitted his crime—and York was a free man overnight, thrown back into the light of day without any time to prepare for reentry. When he looked at those hideous green droplets under his eye, he realized his blunder and he flipped out. He robbed a bank with a sawed-off shotgun and made off with over 3 million in cash. He was easily identified because of his permanent tears. At trial, he pled "Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity" and won an acquittal. He was let loose once again on the world at large. The Law never found the three million and now York now had enough cash to not only have the tear stains surgically removed, but to alter his entire bone structure by cosmetic repair. However, as everyone can now see, sadly, the operation went horribly wrong. It's hard to look at York now without grimacing. The sad result is that now he will never marry unless he is willing to pull a paper bag over his head. Therefore, next week the WBL will be conducting a paper bag drive.
After the wild ride on Grove Level the group passed back under I-85 and into and through Commerce, a longtime friend and sister city as well as a willing partner in the administration of the Emporium. The group flew down Broad Street, cutting Commerce in half, and escaped out the side door and onto 334 and began the trek for home. But Carney refused to let the Zealots ride a straight route home. The parcours turned and twisted and zigged and zagged and soon the pack was lost, only to be found. They realized they were never lost—it was only a cruel trick to rack-up more miles—as they popped onto Nowhere Road and began the last leg of the journey to home. Joey the Wrecking Ball Rosskopf continued his relentless assault at the front and hammer-pulled the pack home as if he enjoyed causing misery to the world at large. Even though the second half of the ride raised the overall average speed to 21 miles-per-hour, most held on until they were close enough to smell the bacon frying at home. Shout-outs and true grit points for tremendous efforts and stellar rides are herby awarded to Brian Molloy, Mike Stanley, David Gabriel, Maria Carrelli and Stephanie Lin.
After the ride the pack was treated to chocolate cake and many Zealots partook, including the well known henchman Benjamin Bryant. I was on pins and needles when I saw Bryant shove a huge piece in his mouth because I knew all hale was about to break out. It seems that Benjamin has a flatulence problem, and problem is putting it mildly. Benjamin can clear a large auditorium with one blast from his trumpet. Most folks would be embarrassed to host such a noxious odor in their innards, but Benjamin treats this trait as a badge of honor. It's shocking! Apparently on one occasion he let one rip in church while the congregation was standing and singing and the preacher had to evacuate the sanctuary in the middle of the service. Everyone thought a dead skunk was stuck in the vent system. One elderly female parishioner even passed out from breathing the rancid fumes. Most were holding hankies over their mouths as they ran from the church to avoid inhaling the putrid aroma. I heard that once outside, Benjamin smiled and said, "That ain't so bad." Bingo, there's your man. I passed on the cake and quickly left the premises before someone struck a match. I didn't take a breath until I was two miles down the road.
As the WBL heads to week 4, several dozen remain atop the leader board with a total of 12 points. With only two weeks until the sprinting begins, the battle lines are being drawn.