The Codex (WBL # 3)
Part 1: The Plot Unfurls
It was two days before the Cappy's Custom Cabinets Last Day of the Year Mandatory Maysville Classic and Overall Leader in WBL 2011 and current Yellow Hairnet owner Jamie Dinkins, a.k.a. Queen Dink, finished her one hour speech to the standing-room-only crowd of lovely ladies, and closed the massive cover of the ancient codex filled with handwritten gothic script. The unwieldy book with buckram binding closed a heavy thud. Queen Dink brushed the dust from her hands and asked, “Does anybody have any questions or comments about the instructions in the codex?”
A lady in the balcony that might have been Sam Rafal’s wife stood up and asked, “So you’re saying that if we let the men sprint for the WBL wins beginning on 31 December 2010 on the Cappy’s Custom Cabinets Ride we won’t have to have sex with them in the foreseeable future?”
“That’s exactly right,” Dinkins answered as a matter of fact. A murmur rolled through the crowd.
“But how will we continue to rule the world?” Andrew Smola’s old lady queried from a side row.
“I’ll summarize again: A man’s mind is like a small straw. An idea, or a thought, is like a pea pod. Only one little pea can squeeze through the straw at a time. Trying to force two pods through at once will simply split the straw at the seams. In other words, man’s powers of cerebration, like those of a jackass, are limited by nature. Asking a man to think about two ideas at once will cause his brain to leak oil. It’s all right here in the codex.”
Showing she was a skilled orator, Dinkins paused for dramatic effect, and then continued: “Now what are the two main things that most men think about? That’s right, sex and winning a WBL ride, not necessarily in that order. Food and drink follow close on their heels. So (now follow me here) if men are thinking about a WBL win, then they won’t think about sex. It’s impossible, like a talking fish. So we let them sprint now, so went won’t have to suffer through sex with them later. ”
“What about at night after the ride though?” Tony Scott’s gal-pal pleaded. “Sometimes Tony’s hornier than a toad on a wet sprocket. You can’t imagine how I’ve suffered.”
“After a WBL ride, they’ll be too pooped to pop. It will be child’s play to control their minds at that point. We can easily continue to connive, cajole, confuse, and confound them at every turn,” Dinkins said.
“Take their money too!” Christian Foster’s wife shouted.
“True,” said Queen Dink, “and we won’t even have to resort to our never-fail, super-secret, mind-blowing, bring-a-man-to-his-knees, wicked, woeful and wanton weapon.”
“You mean when we lie and tell them that we really do love them?” Briggs Carney’s wife yelled.
“Yes,” Dinkins replied, grimacing like she smelled a dead cat. “Now, if there are still any strong-willed men standing using these deadly tactics, simply ply them with alcohol and it’s lights out, curtains, roll the credits, katy-bar-the-door, sayonara, the fat lady can start singing.”
“Queen Dink?” Matt Karzen’s wife asked “Because God made man so stupid, does that prove that God is a woman?”
Damien Dunn’s wife stood up and proudly proclaimed, “I think it’s brilliant. It’s a no-brainer, boys. Why, I’d pay money not to have sex with my man. Of course, it would have to be my man’s money,” she added and ballyhooed loudly.
Erin Wintress gleefully added, “I wish someone would’ve told me this earlier.” The room burst out in laughter and Erin rubbed her Buddha-belly.
“I think my man might break the mold,” Gay Crowe stood and said. “I think he might try and win a WBL sprint and come home and want sex, not to mention beer and cigarettes too. He beats all I’ve ever seen.” She meditated for a moment, pondering what she’d just said, mulling over its true meaning, its actual import, and imagining all possible scenarios. Presently a mile-long grin spread across her face and she said, “No, on second thought, you’re right. That’d be a classic example of reductio ad absurdam. Hale, he still listens to REO Speedwagon when his friends aren’t around,” she said and guffawed to the high heavens.
“If we won’t have to have sex,” Big Cappy’s lady friend declaimed, “then I say let’s run with it. Let the boys sprint, and let the girls, like the invisible black hole swirling in the center of the cosmos, continue to suck the soul out of any unfortunate object that happens to float too close to our gravitational pull, which I might add extends outwards a helluva long ways.”
The ladies stood and cheered wildly, spinning their bras in the air like windmills. They were out for blood. Dinkins stood gripping the podium with both hands and smiling broadly, like a cult leader. After several minutes, Queen Dink had to ask for quiet, but it still took several attempts, and the smarmy smirk on her face only encouraged the dangerous crowd.
Part 2: The Plot Thickens
The WBL Whether-Wizards (who now also pull double duty as the Sanguinary Scheduling Department due the economic downturn) pulled a fast one on Mother Nature on the final weekend of the year in their quixotic battle for supremacy of the universe. As the weekend approached, it was clear that Mother Nature was planning a pluvial pounding for the Zealots during Saturday’s WBL ride. The Whether-Wizards patiently bided their time, and then pulled the old switcheroo and rescheduled the Saturday ride to Friday. By then, Mother Nature had already set Fortuna’s wheel in motion, and once the wheel begins to spin, like a watermelon dropped from a rooftop, it’s too late to change course, fait accomlpi. Friday’s forecast was fabulous, and the Zealots completed their 70-mile misadventure in clement conditions. The blue sky overhead was streaked with strands of milk-white clouds and temperatures at times topped a sultry 60 degrees. When the storm from the west did arrive and drop its watery payload on Saturday in a torrent of precipitation, the Zealots were safely tucked away in their dark and dusky hibernatums, cursing the hairball of the dog that was lodged in their mouths, swearing off drink forever, yet still dreaming of victory in the WBL. The scheduling move was a skilled and cunning poker play, like pulling an ace of spades from one’s sock. However, foreboding rumors, ominous warnings, and fatidic prophesies emanate from the west which suggest that Mother Nature is presently plotting a punishing reproof. But for now, the Whether-Wizards are basking in glory and demanding a raise. But sorry, boys, this ain’t Goldman-Sachs.
Although the WBL end of the year event was run in a serene and moderate clime, the ride itself was anything but. After a short splutter at the beginning of the affair (Jered Hegberg and Ruben Jacobo-Rubio were ignominiously bounced off the asphalt like two Meadowlark Lemon basketballs—we are happy to report that both bounce well and are A-ok), the ride eventually picked up steam, and the hammerheads and two-wheeled disc jockeys were soon off and running, galloping down the blacktop like a herd of gimlet-eyed gazelles. The tempo started at a pianissimo pace, but it slowly ratcheted upwards until it reached the distressful range. The pack drovers pushed the pace not only on the downhill pitches (as good frontmen do), but also rammed the needle home when the road tilted towards the sky. When the grupetto mercifully hit the Final Attack Zone at the 3-hour mark, the ride turned into a brutish, 7-mile affront to one’s sensibilities, an affirmation of Cartesian logic (I know I hurt, therefore I must be crazy), a rumbustious slugfest on wheels among pugnacious plebians, bellicose blackguards, and fractious fistics hell-bent on grinding their enemies into dust. At the end of the brawl, two men, both bloody and bruised, still remained standing: Igor Rudola and Michael York. At the post ride press conference all Zealots agreed that the torturous time spent on their bikes had brought them to the pinnacle of pain, which like New York City, Atlanta, most of Gwinnett County, Bogart, all of Alabama, North Dakota too, half of Canada, Havana, and John Best’s bedroom, are splendorous places to visit, but for a short time only.
Over 90 rock star Zealots signed in for the Cappy’s Custom Cabinets Maysville Classic on 31 December 2011 including former collegiate world champion Paul the King, current masters track world champion Steve Carroll, former New Year’s Day victor Tony the Blade Scott, eventual winner and former Russian National Team member Igor Rudolo, the evanescent Tank Crumley, the show stopper Damien Dunn, the blue-socked Drew Genteman, the boulevardier of Boulevard Russ Foster, the redoubtable Jason Bewley, the be-bearded Natty Dunn, the boffo Nick Fragnito, the bon vivant Charlie Ellis, the cagey Steve Kogan, the hubristic Clark Hurst, the indubitable Brook Lide, the man with an S on his chest Patrick O’Brien, the magus Eric Murphy, the roué Micah Rice, the philologist Colleen Paine, the phylogenist Sean Phylaw, the rara avis Roy Simmons, the contrast gainer Karl Langenbach, the bohemian luminary Chris Nichols, and the bellwether of the booboisee Amanda Brothers. After thanking Old Sol for providing a plenitude of sunrays, the Zealots clicked in and shoved off, headed again for who the hale knows where, and plunging into the wild blue yonder like they were driving off a cliff.
The double-file group danced down the J Riviera Road and dove headlong into the bumpy terrain of Jackson County. The lancehead of the line was a revolving door of rabid pedal bangers salivating and slobbering for time on the front—these fellows weren’t content at the back of the bus. But no pack-puller was allowed to hog all the fun, so no single person remained at the front for long. Thus, the short time that each galley slave spent steering the ship meant that each pull was a paean to pain, a hard and fast-paced effort that kept the riders riveted to their drops. But this band of hearty Zealots was fearless, and like the Light Brigade, simply charged ahead, at times flying forward at preternatural speeds.
The mercurial mercenaries rocketed beside white-fenced horse farms, cruised over a one-lane boarded-bridge, hustled through the three-horse town of Maysville, crossed railroad tracks, sped by a large lake on Grove Level Road, a large church too, waved to a multitude of passing motorists, dashed beside torn-out trailers, ripped beside railroad tracks in downtown Commerce, and bolted towards the arduous Attack Zone. There was no let-up, no deceleration, no easing of the rapid tempo, no rest for the slow or the weary. Still, though many riders’ legs turned to creamed mush, the resolve of these steel-willed fighters remained rigid, inflexible, and incompliant, like an intransigent wife who refuses to admit she’s wrong. This group would not fold and go home—a fistfight was looming on the horizon.
Finally, at the 3-hour mark in the day’s tempestuous trek, the group veered left onto Seagraves Mill Road, the whistler warbled, and the party began. After counting to ten, the first attack shot up the road. A small group followed and was soon separated from the herd. The eventual winner, the Russian Giant, was present among these early protagonists.
The escapees couldn’t quite get their groove on though they did cause alarm bells to clatter behind. After 2 miles of freedom, as the group neared the vexing slope at the end of Seagraves Mill Road, the fugitives were run down. As the pack tackled the savage 600-meter incline, Team Type I’s new signee Ty Magner blasted out like a cannon shot. Though Ty the Tyrant wasn’t eligible for the win, several perspicacious riders behind recognized this golden opportunity because the man-child could still pull. Behind Ty a revolution was taking place.
When the dust settled at the top of the irascible climb, a group of seven had pulled clear. As the seven fugitives turned right on Nowhere Road with 3 miles to go, they had a 20-second gap on the rampaging herd. Igor Rudola, Michael York, Ty Magner, Nick Housley, Jonathon Atwell, Christian Perret, and Crowe were the sapient members of the seven-man group. As the sentient seven scorched down the Nowhere Road, Crowe could be heard screaming like a schoolgirl from several miles away: “GO TYYYYYY, GOOOOOO. PULL NICK PULLLLLLLLL.” Naturally, Crowe shrieked his expostulations from the rear of the line.
The potent triad of Housley, Magner and Perret did in fact go to the front and rage, and the seven scarpers scudded down the straightaway like the house was on fire. They ripped down the road, pulling further afield, and effectively nixing the dreams of those left behind. With 1 mile to go, the insolent Crowe was still shouting, “HEAR THAY COME, YALL, GOOOOOOOOOO.”
With 400 meters to go, the Muscovite, Igor Rudola, attacked in a monstrous gear and instantly opened up a 10 meter gap. Ty shifted into overdrive and with M York on his wheel closed on Igor. York sprinted around Ty 200 meters from the line and closed rapidly but the big Russian was digging. As the line approached, York caught and passed Rudola, but who had crossed the line first? It was too close to tell. The WBL looked at the photos, consulted the oracle bones, read tarot cards, knocked on wood, and flipped coins, but to no avail—it was impossible to tell who crossed the line first. As a result, both riders were awarded their first WBL win. York wept like a sorority girl while Rudola looked on with disgust. Afterwards, in a rare display of genuine sportsmanship, Rudola, along with his teammates S Carroll and T Scott, only took the cash, the liquor, and the mighty fine cigar from the prize box and left the bulk of the booty to the young tyro and his teammates. Their magnanimous display of generosity surprised many, and prove that even the rascals and rogues among us are sometimes capable of selfless acts of love. Perhaps, however, this is overstating the case.
Finish Cappy's Custom Cabinets Maysville Classic:
- Igor Rudola / Michael York (tie—split points: 9 pts each
- Crowe: 6 pts.
- Jonathon Atwell: 4 pts
- Matthew Stewart: 2 pts.
- Ty Magner: Make the break and pull like a banshee point: 1 pt
- Nick Housley: Make the break and pull like a banshee point: 1 pt
- Christian Parrett: Make the break and pull like a banshee point: 1 pt
- J Hegberg: Bounce point: 1 pt
- Gene Dixon: Post Ride Keg Point: 1 pt.
The night after the Cappy’s Custom Classic Maysville Classic not one single male Zealot was having sex. Hale, not a single one was even thinking about it. Dinkins plan had worked to perfection. But man can’t be blamed for the size of his brain. Instead, like the giant sloth, we should be pitied. Needless to say, the ladies were all happy as clams.
2011 Overall Standings:
- Jamie Dinkins: 16 pts
- Michael York: 15 pts
- Catherine Peacock: 12 pts.
- Gina Voci: 12 pts.
- Crowe: 12 pts
- Igor Rudola: 11 pts
- Ty Magner: 7 pts
- Nick Housley: 7 pts
- Attendees at all 3 events: 6 pts.