The Confessions of a Fly on the Wall

The Confessions of a Fly on the Wall (WBL 2010: The Annual Report)

Briggs Carney (WBL 2010 Awards Gala): “Can someone turn the house lights down? Thank you. Can someone light my cigar? Nice. Is the microphone working? Hello-hello…I can’t tell: Do ya want my body, do ya think I’m sexy, come on baby let me know. Yea, it’s working. I can hear my bee-u-ti-ful voice. Can someone freshen-up my little drink-drink for me before I get started? Hay Buechel. You…yea you, Buechel. Yes you, jackass. Oh sorry, I forgot the mike was on—it wasn’t like you actually won though. Anyway, go get Sweet Papa a drink-drink. Next, let me just take a quick drag off my Cohiba and I’ll be golden… Whew, holy smokes, did somebody stuff that bad boy with wacky weed? Oh shit, I can’t feel my head. Oh shit, my mike is on. Oh shit, sorry, folks. Let me just kill this drink-drink. There, perfecto. Now, I’ll go ahead and get started, but Buechel baby, will you fill my glass again, Sweet Baby Jane? And is it too much to ask for a little less ice for chrissake. I’m not a damn Eskimo. Speaking of Yankees, is Nuck Reistad in the house? Turn up the house lights, please. Thank you. Is that Nuck giving me the finger? Right back at ya, bud. Turn the lights back down please—the sight of all yall hurts my eyes.

“Aaaa-hem, aaaa-hem, aaa-hemmy-hem-hem. Loogie warning: Stand clear! Ahh-thwooeeey. Great Bertha, I’m sorry something that disgusting was holed-up inside me. However, I’m very happy, ladies and gentleman, than you cannot see the green gooey glob of foaming expectorant that has landed on the floor behind my lectern precariously close to my right show. But let’s get on with it—we’ve got a really big shoe, a really big shew, a really big shoo.

“Thanks for coming to the WBL 2010 Awards Night Gala, lady and gents, let’s get down to the brass tacks. By the way, does anyone know what that means, brass f----- tacks? Anyway, we have a great many awards to hand out, and, of course, we’ll be passing the plate throughout the evening. After all, this fried chicken ain’t free. Also, if all yall could limit yourself to either a wing and a leg, or one breast, but not both, it would be greatly appreciated. If Tank Crumley isn’t here yet, will someone make sure he gets the message about the limit on chicken when he arrives. Mike Edmonds too. I’ve seen those boys plow through a bucket of KFC plum solo. And unfortunately, ladies and gents, there won’t be enough cold slaw for everyone, but that’s ok, because the slaw has soured slightly.

Buechel and Brown: Best Buds!

“WBL 2010 turned out to be a frozen 10 weeks in hale—the winter of 2010 was one surly bitch, if you’ll excuse my pig Greek. Most Saturdays were cloudy and cold and the wind was ripping across the arctic tundra in wicked, gale-force busters. And the rains fell from the skies on several occasions, once even pelting the Zealots with frozen spray for over an hour at the end of an affair. It was the only two hour ride ever to earn the distinction of “epic.” I froze my azzus off that day and I wasn’t even on the ride—I was home drinking bourbon. On those rare days when the sun did shine, the mercury typically never topped the mid-thirties, and at shove-off time, it was more frigid than Tiger Woods’s wife. (After the car wreck, of course. As an aside, and for the record, I do not agree with Erin Winter’s theory that she must be a “lousy lover.”) The Zealots earned their keep in WBL 2010, and I’m proud of each and every one of yall, even all yall buttercups that drink hard, sleep late and never pull. Is Brian Bibens in the house?

“The Humble Chronicler has summarized the last ride as well as the 2010 season as a whole in the printed bulletin on your table titled The Rockcreek Outfitter-Litespeed Bikes Hard Way to Homer Classic. It has 5 parts. Naturally he got everything all wrong, and his ordering of events is always out of sync. All yall can read that twaddle silently to yall’s selves and we’ll just move on with the shoe instead of wasting time on his tired treacle. We’ve only rented the gym for two hours. And gals, I’m told to tell you that the facilities in the ladies’ room ain’t working, so yall can either use the little boy’s room, or go out around back, but if you do, watch out for snakes.

“In closing, I’d like to thank the dozens and dozens of minor minions that make this marvelous machine work. You’ve made me a millionaire ten times over. I am confident that all yall would still give all yall’s liquid assets to me, including, but not limited to, cash, stocks, bonds, 401 k plans, Keogh plans, IRA’s, promissory notes, retirement accounts of all makes and models, and deeds to real property even if I wasn’t so damn good-looking, sophisticated, erudite, and elegantly urbane, but I can never know for sure. Beauty, ladies and gentlemen, is sometimes an albatross around my neck. Ode to a nightingale my ass, I wish I was ugly as the ass-whole of a red-headed skunk, like Sam Rafal. Sammy the Skunk has got it made in the shade. He finished the season with 25 points! Let’s have a quick round of applause for Sam the Skunk. Okay, that’s plenty.

“Now let’s go ahead and eat. All yall can glance through Humble’s bulletin if yall like at this point. Hay Buechel, will you go ahead freshen-up my drink-drink? Excuse me? What? What did you say? Why no, I haven’t kept count. Bullshit, I’m fine. Long night ahead, my ass. Don’t talk to me in that tone. Why don’t you go f—oh, sorry, I forgot my mike was on.”

The Rockcreek Outfitter-Litespeed Bikes Homer the Hard Way Classic

Part 1: 3 Miles to Go

(20 Feb 2010) 3 Miles to Go: Thomas el Magnifico Brown ripped away from the front of the field of flying Zealots as they rampaged up the huge hummock on Seagraves Hill Road and cruised over the sprint line with money to burn. The arrogant sprintster looked back over his shoulder and sneered at his arch nemesis—the dreaded Mike Buechel—who was still huffing and puffing up the severe slope with the rest of the field 200 yards in arrears. The 3 points el Magnifico earned on this sprint (within the Final Attack Zone) were crucial, and catapulted him into the lead in WBL 2010. He was now the sole virtual leader on the road, and there were only 3 miles to go in the other season. El Magnifico, realizing that he was close to pulling off an historic coup, and acutely aware that fame and fortune, rubies, diamonds and pearls, and fast cars and loose women were well within grasp, put his head down and hammered. El Magnifico lives for the limelight.

2.9 miles to go: El Magnifico took the right turn at Nowhere Road 300 meters after the intermediate sprint with a group of seven other escape artists—the fittest bastards of the bunch. He looked back over his right shoulder across a grass field in order to gage the distance to the first chase group—the gap was 5 seconds to a group of seven. El Magnifico could see the dreaded Buechel’s Yellow Helmet Cover bobbing in the group behind like a neon cork riding the rolling waves. Until his 3 point grab, Brown and Buechel had been tied for the Overall lead in WBL 2010, and now, the last three miles of the year was for all the marbles. The dreaded Buechel had to make contact with Brown’s group, and place in the top three in the final sprint, or el Magnifico would walk away with WBL 2010. Contrariwise, if Brown won the final sprint outright, it was lights out, kaput, the party was over, the fat lady was singing. But Buechel is one tough hombre and he wasn’t going down without a fight. The dreaded Buechel also stuck his chin into the wind, battened down the hatches, pushed all his chips in, and tamped down on his pedals in a detrimental way. He was detrmined to bury the hatchet…in the middle of el Magnifico’s back. Buechel also looked across the same dirt field and thought What a fool when he saw el Magnifico’s Helmet Cover glowing in the middle of the front group like a yellow-headed whore. Then Buechel remembered that he was wearing one too.

2.5 miles to go: Snot was arcing out of el Magnifico’s nose in twirling ropes, and his twelve-inch tongue was hanging out of his mouth and scraping against his top tube; the dreaded Buechel’s eyes were bulging out like giant olives and his head was about to explode; el Magnifico’s thighs were sizzling like they were filled with burning sand; the dreaded Buechel’s neck and back were aching like they’d both been caned and bamboozled: both riders’ bodies were singing the Delta Blues, circa 1932. Alongside el Magnifico in the select front group were his nefarious teammates Oscar Clark and Joey Rosskopf, along with known tax teats, cheap chippers and pretty thieves Nick Horse Housley, Billy Carlos Santana, Rob Yo Simpson, Travis Ted Turner, and Roy Simmons. But Buechel’s group wasn’t slouching towards the finish line either—they were pounding on their pedals with a predetermined rage. Accompanying Buechel in the first chase group were other no-count grifters and sad sacks including Nuck Reistad, T Mayola-Pic, E Wintress, J Crew-Shirey, J Dink-Dink Dinkins, C Litlle Cappy Capobinco, with Go-Slow-Crowe pulling up the caboose: Time to rumble.

2 miles to go: The pedal-rogues in the second group were circle-stomping like a bevy of angry ass-wholes in their bid to reconnect with those at the front, and under the impetus of Nuck Reistad, they managed to cut the gap to the front group to within spitting distance. At the rate the gap was falling, the dreaded Buechel calculated he should make contact with el Magnifico’s group with 1 mile to go. This would leave him just enough space to catch his breath before unleashing a furious kick to the line, and hopefully bouncing Brown into the ditch along the way. Buechel didn’t want to kill el Magnifico, just to bruise him up a bit, maybe break a bone or two. For Buechel, a top three would knock Brown off the throne and solidify his Overall win because of the double points…unless, that is, Brown won. There was only one BIG problem—Buechel’s heart was hammering like sixteen angry African war drums.

1.5 miles to go: El Magnifico’s henchmen could feel the dreaded Buechel breathing down their necks, so they kept the pistons pumping and the accelerator glued to the floor. Joey Rosskopf and Oscar Clarke, hoping to deliver el maximo jefe to the win, drove the front group like sex-starved galley slaves. The front group was single file and flying down the tarmac like an arrow flung from a Chinese bow. If the front group could stay clear, Rosskopf and Clarke knew that el Magnifico would give them a shot of booze from da BERRY BIG BRIZE BOX. Rosskopf and Clarke are both big time boozers from way back.

1 mile to go: Reistad pulled the chase group to within 200 meters of the front group’s last rider, and then he upped the ante in his bid to close the gap and pull his antihero (the dreaded Buechel) across the great divide. However, the last part of Reistad’s pull was so powerful that he unhitched himself from the chase and motored across the gap all by his lonesome self and connected with the front group with 1 mile to go. Behind, Buechel yelled, “[editorial abridgement]” to Nuck. Nuck turned around, smiled, and flipped Buechel the bird. Buechel would have yelled back again, and what he would have said was devastating, but he was still gagging from the first shout, so he kept it all in his head, and Nuck never heard. Without the pedal-power of Reistad, Buechel’s group stalled, then slowly slipped backwards. With 800 meters to go, Buechel made one final desperate bid to cross the gap, but the wind stymied his progress. The day’s winner would come from the front group. Barring catastrophe, el Magnifico would win WBL 2010. Buechel prayed that Brown might have a blowout and break his neck, but Fortuna’s wheel wasn’t spinning his way. El Magnifico fought valiantly, but unsuccessfully, to hold back the tears as he fled towards the line.

500 meters to go: With Rosskopf and Clarke forcing the pace at the front, el Magnifico sat third wheel biding his time, sucking his teeth, blowing the snot out of his nose, and chewing on his French manicured nails. With 300 meters to go el Magnifico made his final adjustment—he repositioned his ballsack with his left hand. Once he’d wiggled himself into position, he launched his thunder-dome, thunder-kick, wunder-sprint 200 meters from paydirt. El Magnifico exploded up the road and blew across the line by a country mile with both arms raised to capture a stunning win, his 3^rd of the year, as he stole WBL 2010 from the back of the dreaded Mike Buechel on the final event of the other season. Travis Ted Turner burned up the road and scored a solid second, but because of his yellow line violation, Ted was quickly booted to the back of the bus. Billy Carlos Santana, in an impressive turn of speed, made the lead group and won the sprint for the Non-Pros and took 3^rd overall on the day, this after also capturing the Homer City Limit Sprint at the midway point in the ride. Yo Simpson and Horse Housley finished close behind to round out the top five. Mayola-Pic won the sprint for the ladies, but E Wintress, with her 2^nd, soared up the leader board and tied the dreaded Buechel for 2^nd place in the Overall standings. After the sprint, it was tears and hugs all the way around, especially by me. Salud, boys and girls, raise your glass, it was one helluva year! Now pour yourself another.

Finish: (20 Feb.) The Litespeed—Rockcreek Homer the Hard Way Classic (80 miles/4 hours)

Thomas Brown: 10 pts.
Joey Rosskopf: 8 pts.
Billy Santana: 6 pts.
Rob Yo Simpson: 4 pts.
Nick Housley: 2 pts.
Hammer Point (Plus 1 point): Dude with all white Jittery Joes kit
True Grit Award (Plus 2 points): Chad Capobianco: Salud!
Everyone: 3 pts.

Ladies (Finish):

Tina Mayola-Pic: 7 pts
E Winter: 5 pts
Jamie Dinkins: 3 pts.
C Peacock: 1 pt

Non-Pro (Finish):

Billy Santana: 5 pts.
Yo Simpson: 3 pts.
Mike Buechel: 1 pts

Pro Sprint (Seagraves Hill):

T Brown: 3 pts.

Table 13: Buttered Biscuits and Baked Beans

TANK CRUMLEY: Scuze me yall, but just what the Sam hale did Carney mean by that little comment about me and fried chicken. I might oughta kick his asap asap.

RUSS FOSTER: Tank, please! Sometimes you are so temperamental. I think what he meant was that—

TANK: Just shut your piehole, Russ. Nobody asked your opinion anyways. You’re always buttin your big mug in where it don’t belong. Why don’t you go and twirl your purse or sumthin.

MIKE EDMONDS: Will somebody please pass the buttered biscuits.

KIRK ADSMITH (wide-eyed): My gawd, Mike. How many are you gone eat? Them biscuits is as big as a cat head, and I done seen you eat four.

EDMONDS (red in the face): I didn’t know we had to keep count. Gosh yall.

BILL BOONEN: I saw him palm three biscuits from the Magner brothers’ table before we sat down.

J SHIREY: Hay, Karzen, I’ll trade you my cold slaw for your baked beans.

KARZEN: Forget about it, Shylock. You know how gassy you get.

E WINTRESS: Whew, I’ll say. Don’t pull his finger if he asks you to. We’ll have to evacuate the premises.

BILL HARPER: Hush yall, I’m trying to read the ride story, and I’m only through Part 2. I read Part 1, the Last Three Miles.

CROWE: Is my name in there anywhere?

ROB YO SIMPSON: Only if it’s a police blotter. Hay, by the way, I was noticing, has your butt gained wait?

ALL AT TABLE (in unison): Who, me? Or him? (all at table pointing at Crowe, except Crowe who is pointing at Edmonds, and Edmonds who is pointing at Tank.)

KARZEN (standing up and looking at ass): Hay Yo, were you talking about me?

SHYLOCK (whispering to Buechel, who has just returned from handing Carney another drink): Hay Beak, pull my finger.

HARPER (pointing with upturned fork): Hay Karzen, there’s a fly marching across your mashed potatoes. But I’ll take em if you don’t want em.

BUECHEL (gazing at el Magnifico’s table of drunken revelers while languidly holding Shylock’s finger in a limp-wristed hold): I should be with them. I coulda been a contender. Ma, I coulda been a contender.

CARNEY (in background over p.a. system): Can I have everyone’s attention. Did someone take the basket of buttered biscuits from my table? Is Mike Edmonds in the house?

The Rockcreek Outfitter-Litespeed Bikes Homer the Hard Way Classic

Part 2: The Yellow Helmet Cover

Moring broke on 20 February 2010 for the last WBL ride of the other season (the Rockcreek Outfitter-Litespeed Bikes Homer the Hard Way Classic) to reveal a picture-perfect cerulean sky presided over by glorious Old King Sol himself. Sunshine and warmth enveloped us at last. Where ya been Old Man? You’ve been sorely missed. It wasn’t that the Zealots deserved the services of the sun, but after this brutal winter of cold weather bludgeoning , they’d at least earned the right to enjoy the day; and they would have were it not for the multitude of precipitous hills…combined with the reckless speed…mixed with the plethora of hammering hillbillies. Even so, when the temperatures for the day skyrocketed into the sunny sixties, the mood of the pack soared too. When the sun is showering us with warmth, it’s feels a lot like love…until the hillbillies start to hammer. Then it feels a lot like hate.

The Overall winner for WBL 2010 would be decided today, and the dreaded Mike Buechel and Thomas el Magnifico Brown were currently locked in a dead heat for the lead. It was the tightest WBL race in over a decade, and the two eyeballed each other suspiciously at the start of the ride. (Their bitter enmity for each other boiled over earlier in the week when Buechel blurted out at a press conference that “he’d fathered a love child with Brown.” Before Buechel could explain his quixotic remark he was whisked off the stage by his bodyguards and rushed into a waiting limo. Brown, who was on the stage beside him at the time, blew the water out of his mouth with a shotgun blast that showered the reporters on the front four rows. Naturally, Brown’s reaction lent credence to Buechel’s accusations, and the next day the headlines of the New York Times screamed: BUECHEL and BROWN FATHER LOVE CHILD!)

Erin Wintress and Yo Simpson were also still within striking distance after stellar seasons and if either pitched a shutout on the last ride, Overall Victory was well within grasp. In matter of fact, the entire top ten was tight and was a topsy-turvy fistfight for final podium positions. The season was on the line.

The Yellow Helmet Cover sat atop of four individual’s helmets during the Twenty-Ten season, and on the last ride of the year, it was still was worn by two, the Brothers B, Buechel and Brown, a modern day Cain and Abel. The only question that remained was Which one is Cain and which one is able, because one needed to snuff-out the other.

The year started with Little Cappy, 16-year old Chad Capobianco, donning the prestigious Yellow Helmet cover on the home opener because someone was needed to fill the big shoes of last year’s winner Slim Tim Henry who was away on maternity leave. Little Cappy filled the bill—he was the youngest, the strongest, the brightest, and in spite of his paternal genes, the best looking of the hole bunch of ass-wholes. Though Little Cappy would relinquish the lead later in the day, the sixteen-year old neophyte went on to tally an impressive first year, finishing 16^th Overall, and earning a Rookie of the Year Award. Look out for Little Cappy in the pages yet to come.

By the end of the first ride, the Yellow Helmet Cover jumped to the head of Jason the Peacock Belwey. Carney placed a sprint for points and the Yellow Helmet cover mid-ride on the first event and Bewley snagged both the prize and the points with powerful down-strokes, combined with a well-timed final thrust. Bewley was always rumored to be a pompous pompadour, but once the color Yellow enveloped his head, he turned into a truculent tyro with a bad attitude, a peacock with a wide berth, and his demeanor was worse than a self-righteous Serb. He never took the Yellow Cap off, even while barbequing in the nude. He wore it out at night to discos with a yellow vinyl jacket and yellow suede shoes. He wore it to interviews on the Toady Show dressed in a yellow, polyester suit from Sears with yellow bellbottom pants and a matching yellow vest with white buttons. But somehow, for the Peacock, like Liberace, the look clicked. He became an instantly celebrity and made millions. He was the spokesperson for the Yellow Pages. Lemon futures soared on Wall Street. Yellow Nike cycling shoes flew off the shelves. He is rumored to have purchased a small island off the coast of Cuba where he is currently a ruling monarch. He pays no taxes and has a magnificent tan.

Bewley held the Overall lead through all of December until Buechel grabbed first place on New Year’s Day with a solid performance. Buechel never looked back afterwards. Buechel scored second on the Jan 1 event behind Aussie Nathan O’Neill, and he held on through thick and thin thereafter. Buechel consistently scored points in all conditions (cold, windy, wet, hung over) and all terrains (up, down, flat, upside-down). Buechel fought to the bitter end. It even took Thomas el Magnifico Brown 3 wins to secure the Overall! Buechel , in a display of grim determination that made Carney proud, fought and dug and pedaled and the Overall win only barely slipped away in the final 3 miles. Buechel won Carney’s heart and is rumored to have become his sex slave during his time in Yellow. Of course, all that’s changed now—Buechel’s now been relegated to fetching drinks for Carney.

Finally the Yellow Helmet Cover rested snugly upon the head of el Maximo Magnifico, Thomasino Brown. Brown scored three wins during the 2010 season, including the granddaddy of them all, Alto, in a rock-solid ride. Midseason Brown came from mid-pack like a cruise missile and shot up the rankings and finally soared away for victory with his 3-win season. Pulling the trifecta is a feat only accomplished three other times in the history of the WBL. Brown became the impresario of sprinting during WBL 2010. With his 3 wins, Brown also climbed into 9^th on the all time win list. Brown bucked a little when he claimed that he didn’t realize winning meant he had to be “Carney’s catamite,” but Carney explained with a wave of the hands that “it was too late for all that now.” Carney gave el Magnifico broom with a bow, silk stockings, a petite French apron, and a pair of black high-heeled shews. Seeing Brown serve us tea, even I have to admit I now know why Carney calls him el Magnifico.

Briggs Carney (WBL 2010 Awards Gala): “Can I have eferone’s attention. Buechel, pour me a little drink-drink. Iz the mike on? Thank you. What? Am I drunk? Who jelled that? Peace now or forever hold your speak. Fruckin Blastard! Iz thif mike on? Geeeeeez, whatta I have to do to get a little help around here, fergawdzake.

“Fokes, I’ve been remindered that we’ve only rented the gym for two hourzz, so we need to keep tonight’s program moving.

“We are next hand out going to a few awards to a few well dezurving zouls. So if yall will hold it down a little, we’ll get started….Hay, HOLE IT DOWN IN THE BACK. ..IZZAT YOU, PARKER SMITH? Turn up the house lights please. Thank you. I thought that waz Table 12. How bout keepin your remarks to yourself? That goes for you too Hunter. And Joesy too…I mean Joe C too.

“Hay, is that Nuck Reistad giving me the finger again. Right back at ya, bud. Zee this—I got me one too. Kill the lightz, pleeze. What? I don’t give a rat’s ass zat da mike iz on. Yea, you too. Hay, can someone get me a freshy-fresh? Buechel! BUECHEL!

“First I’m gone zay a wood aboot this year’s stage winnerz. If yall will look on the big screen behind me, all yall will see a list of this year’s winners. Can someone put the list up?..................................Hello, can someone pleeze put the list up? Thank you. Can yall see the screen through all the zigar smoke? Yall can’t? Wale hale Table 4, jest get your big dumb azzes up and move then.”

2010: The Winners:

Overall: Thomas Brown
Sunshine Cycle’s New Year’s Day Hammer Fest: Nathan O’Neil
Full Circle Real Estate Ladies Day Slugfest: Erin Winter
The Atlantis Hydroponics Frozen Balls Classic: Brent Bookwalter/Joey Rosskopf
55nineperformance.com Get Plastered Classic: Thomas Brown
The Great Porterfield Tire Alto World Cup: Thomas Brown
Georgia Cycle Sport-Team Type 1 Hard Labor Classic: Brent Bookwalter
The Litespeed-Rockcreek Outfitters Homer the Hard Way: Thomas Brown

Now letz ear it for Thomas el Magnifico Brown, the Chairman of the Board, clocking in with three winzees this year. Ole Thomas twied to buck at first, but he’s been bwoken as Elmer Fudd would say. I don’t care what they say, waterboarding works wonders. Come on up My Magnifizent Man.

Table 12: Chicken Skin

PARKER SMITH: Oh yeah, Smola, well I will just throw your shit out on the front lawn then.

HUNTER GARRISON: Parker, do you want that chicken skin stuck to the side of your plate?

WHIT CLIFFORD: Does Carney look drunk to yall? Hay look, he’s pointing at you Parker.

JOE-JOE COLLINS: Parker, don’t play that game again.

NICK HORSE PULL HOUSLEY: He looks normal to me. Does anybody want to do a 9 hour ride tomorrow?

DON GIANNINI (disgusted): Whatza matta wid chu, Horse Pull? Are you freakin retadded ah what? Chu no whattime-sayin? I can’t even eat now—geeeeez.

JOHN BEST: Please don’t make the Don mad. It’s my face that will end up in the toilet bowl.

BRENT BOOKWALTER: What game?

DAVID TALBOTT: I think he’s drunk. Look how he’s flailing his arms.

JOHN MURPHY: And slurring. Was his mama of Irish persuasion?

HUNTER: Hay Don, can I have the rest of your chicken skin if you’re not going to eat it?

JOE-JOE: The game where they fight like two alley cats, then make up and have wild drunken sex all night. Yall will need to go get a hotel room if yall are gone carry on like that again. I’m tellin yall what—don’t yall never sleep?

WHIT CLIFFORD: She was an Irish Traveler. Is that the same thing?

J Murphy: Have yall read the ride story yet? I’m through Part 3 so far. That’s where Humble falls through the cracks if you ask me. Speaking of which, where is he tonight?

Talbott: Look yall, Carney’’s calling T Brown up to the stage.

SMOLA (incensed): You better think twice about throwing my shit out if you still want your clothes washed and your shirts starched, buster-roo. You can’t just kick me around like I’m some kind of cheap hore!

HUNTER: Smola, can I have your leftover skin.

SMOLA: I chewed it and spit it out.

HUNTER: I don’t care. I think I’m falling in love with you.

The Rockcreek Outfitter-Litespeed Bikes Homer the Hard Classic

Part 3: Thus Spake Sweet Shady Floyd

I woke up the Saturday morning before the The Rockcreek Outfitter-Litespeed Homer the Hard Way Classic only to discover I was a freaking fly on the wall, literally. It was a real shocker, trust me, but I decided to make the most of my situation. After all, I figured, how many times have I said I’d like to be a fly on a wall. I decided my WBL love-handle was Sweet Shady Floyd. The name was somehow stuck in my fly-sized brain.

I needed to make it to the start of the last WBL ride, so Sweet Shady Floyd buzzed on down the road at 200 miles-per-hour. I wasn’t sure how I’d manage to sign in, but I figured I’d worry about that when I arrived—I had to have my points! Perhaps I could smear a smidgen of fecal matter by my name with my foot. But I also had to make sure I didn’t get smashed to a bloody pulp. Sweet Shady Floyd quickly deduced that the hazards of a fly’s life are varied and complex, and the high points few and far between.

While ripping down Milledge Avenue at 200 miles per hour, when I flew by Kirk Adsmith’s antebellum mansion, my fly brain flashed with a bright idea. Sweet Shady Floyd decided it was payback time for all the hurtful remarks Adsmith has made about me in his weekly online newsletter wherein he discusses all aspects of astrology and the here-to-fore-after. He also sells “magic crystals.” He tries to disguise himself by using a nom de plume—the Humble Herbalifer or the Humble Magic Crystallizer—but I see through his b.s. I buzzed right on under his door and I dropped a little fly turd on his ham biscuit when he had his face in the fridge and his bony azzus in the air. Even though one of my turds is only the size of the dot at the end of this sentence, it gave my little fly-specked brain great satisfaction when he munched down into the greasy biscuit and stuffed the entire morsel, chocolate pin-drops and all, into the back of his mouth with his two fingers.

Knowing this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, I decided to make one more stop. I buzzed over to Patrick Obrien’s pad, found a portal, and inserted my buzzing body into his rancid Celtic love-hovel. My lady said he was “cute,” so now it was payback time. I first flew into the bathroom and sunk my feet into a healthy brown log slowly doing the Dead Man’s Twirl in his toilet bowl. I sank my feet in up to my flankles (fly ankles). For a moment, I was stuck. Once freed, I flew into Obrien’s bedroom. He was still in a deep slumber and sawing z’s with his mouth open like he was Paul Bunyan on twenty Quaaludes. I first landed on his head and proceeded to march back and forth across his unkempt, matted, Celtic hair. I also left muddy tracks on his cheeks and even wiped my foot on the edge of his lip with my toe. He never moved. Before exiting for good, I buzzed circles around his head and plopped two perfect little chocolate bombs into his waiting mouth. Ah, vengeance is mine sayeth the fly: sweet shadenfreude, sweet shade-in freud, sweet shadin Floyd: Sweet Shady Floyd!

After offloading my payload into Patrick’s open portal, Sweet Shady Floyd bombed down to the start of the ride and caught the Zealots just as they group was leaving—I would worry about signing-in later. I saw T brown’s Yellow Helmet Cover glowing like a neon yellow sun and I landed on top. A fly’s feet are sticky and Sweet Shady Floyd stuck like glue.

After a winter of nothing but hard knocks and inclement climes, the temperature finely soared into the sixties and the skies were balmy and clear. A hardcore group of 60 to 70 was on hand to bid adieu to the last event of the 2010 WBL other season including such warm-whether fiends as Marky Babcock, Daniel River Banks, Adam Fancher, Dan Grand Larseny, Lady Catherine Peacock, and the wild Tunisian himself, Matt Tunis.

The sixty sun worshippers headed out of town via the Prince Avenue-Jefferson River Road Corridor and were soon clipping along at well over 20 miles per hour. The pack transected Jackson County and continued its torrid tempo into Banks County. The parcours bent, dove and curled over the rippled hills that extend out like rolling waves from the southernmost ridge of the Appalachian Mountains only 20 miles to the north. One of these hills wouldn’t kill a rider, but thirty might rip him or her to shreds.

The group sailed towards the halfway point at Homer and the crucial Non-Pro sprint. The Homer sprint was critical for Buechel in his bid for the Overall win—he and T Brown were currently in a dead pretzel-lock for the lead. The sprint was for 3 points and 3 places, and even the third spot and the 1 point would push the dreaded Buechel into the lead. But lest we forget about Yo simpson, who was still in the hunt and had murder on his mind.

As for your very own Sweet Shady Floyd, I was super-glued to the top of el Magnifico’s helmet with my face in the wind, tears streaming from my lids, eyes narrowed to razor thin slits. In my mind I was singing an old Velvet Underground tune: I’m stickin to you/cause I’m made out of glue. Halfway to Homer I yelled, Man, this is living, but because I was a fly, no one could hear me.

On Stage: Beeple!

El Magnifico (on stage): Wow. Thank you. I don’t know what to say. Winning the WBL Overall is the highlight of my life. I can die now and be happy. I would like to thank my mere, my pere—

Carney: Thank you el Magnifico. We’re zin za bit ofva time crunch, so letz ztick to the glue. Hazanywun zeen my drunk-drunk. (After butting in on Brown’s acceptance speech Carney wanders across the stage looking for his drunk-drunk and exits stage left.)

Buechel (hiding behind curtain on stage gives the following soliloquey): I don’t care. I’m not going back out. He’s drunk as it is, and you know what a horn dog he gets when he’s loopy. I’ll not be tied to the whipping post any longer. He can fetch his own drinks. I quit! (Buechel turns and storms across stage in a defiant manner, swinging his azzus like a wayward wench, and exits stage right.)

Carney (appearing like a ghost from left side of stage and wandering across stage in front of Brown and exiting stage right): BEEPLE! WHERE THE HALE ARE YOU GOING? BEEPLE, YOU’RE FRIED! Yoo-hoo, el Magnifico, would you mind fwetching mwe a little drunk-drunk.

El Magnifico (dazed and confused): Ummmmm, perhaps I should just introduce the list of 2010 Special Award Winners. If you’ll look behind me you’ll see this year’s list. (Now talking to someone off stage) Should someone go check on him? Is this his cigar?—I’ll just take a little hit…Whoooooa, dude.

WBL 2010 Special Award Medals:

Chairman of the Board: Thomas Brown
First Lady: Erin Winter (2^nd Overall, Mean as a Rattlesnake Trophy also)
First Veep (First Non Pro): Mike Buechel (2^nd Overall)
Rookies of the Year: Chad Capobianco, Jamie Dinkins, Matt Karzen
Workhorse Award: Nick Housley, Dustin Mealor
Comeback Rider of the Year: Mike Buechel
True Grit Award: Patrick Obrien, Kirk Smith, Sam Rafal, Rich Nelson, Me!
Best Rides of the Year: Thomas Brown (Alto), Brent Bookwalter (Monroe), Erin Winter (Ladies’ Day), Joey Rosskopf (Alto), Jon Atkins (Alto), Billy Santana (Homer), Rob Simpson (Homer)
Meanest Sumbitch in the Pack Award: Andrew Smola
Best Looking: Damien Dunn, Billy Bray, Me (by proxy)
The Three Brother Award: The Magner Bros

The Rockcreek Outfitter-Litespeed Bikes Hard Way to Homer Classic

Part 4: The Homer Sprint

The sign indicated it was 5 miles to go to Homer. The Homer sprint was for 3 points and 3 places and only Vets and Cats 3’s and 4’s were eligible. This sprint was critical for Buechel, but there was a lusty group of old geezers moving to the front of the herd and jockeying for a prime position. After all, Jittery Joes coffee was also on the line, an old man’s second favorite vice.

The group flew down the flat runway ramp and finally the shrill cry of the whistle split the air. At the time, no one knew exactly where the sprint sign was. They’d learn soon enough that there were still 2 miles to pedal.

Because neither the protagonists nor the antagonists in the bunch knew where the sprint sign was located, the pace crescendoed rapidly. Rounding every blind bend the tempo ratcheted upwards and riders shot off the front in surprise attacks hoping to steal the thunder. But hearts were broken and left trampled in the roadway as each escapee rounded a corner or crested a hill only to discover the sprint sign was still making no impression on his retina.

The searing pace caused a group of fifteen antiquated geezer-Zealots to tear off the front and quickly fly away. Finally the Homer City limit sign revealed its position as the knot of pedal-bangers crested a small rise—there were still a long 400 meters to ride. Buechel rolled off a wheel and sprang away from the gaggle of angry old men and pounded away at the front. He stood up in the saddle and swung his arms wildly and rotated his legs maliciously. His Yellow Helmet Cover bobbed up and down, spittle flew from his mouth, and his knees knocked holes in the air, but it wasn’t to be. Buechel had left the safe harbor of the pack a bit too soon, and 20 meters from the line, Billy Carlos Santana and Travis Ted Turner went zipping right by. Santana edged out Turner at the line by a wheel and took the 3 points and the fine blend of Jittery Joes freshly roasted rocket fuel. And to add insult to injury, Yo Simpson snuck by the dreaded Buechel to capture the last spot in his last two pedal rotations. As Yo rolled by, he whispered, “à l'aspect du pus.” “Thanks,” Buechel replied.

As for me, I had a front row seat to the entire sordid debacle. I was still stuck to the top of el Magnifico’s head with my face in the wind like a dog and my tongue flapping out the side. The sun was shining so brightly by now that I had to put on my fly-shades, which makes me look like a bit like Bono.

Non Pro Sprint (Homer City Limit):

Billy Carlos Santana: 3 pts.
Travis Ted Turner: 2 pts.
Yo Simpson: 1 pt

After the sprint the route traverses the most difficult section of the day. The hills in the dozen miles or so between Homer and Commerce come fast and furious and pack an unforgiving, and an unforgettable, punch. They climb steeply into the sky and fall abruptly back down to the ground at precarious angles before bottoming out with a jolt and beginning the unholy cycle again. Like a nagging wife, the hills are enough to drive a poor soul to drink. They are relentless and unmerciful. But not for me. The hills caused me no consternation whatsoever as I remained firmly affixed to El Maximo’s Yellow head.

The pack whittled down to a solid core of thirty during this trip through Hale’s Kitchen as riders tumbled out the rear like an anchor dropped from an airplane. At one point I looked back and saw Crowe 5 meters off the back and grimacing in agony. I told Rosskopf to “hit it” and he did. Crowe’s legs seized-up like they were both filled with sparking electric wires and he stood up in his pedals and wrenched his head backwards like he’d been shocked with a stun gun. Oh Sweet Shady Floyd!

The pack zipperooed into and through Commerce and headed out the south side via the main exit hatch, Highway 334. Highway 334 is a straight shot back to A-Town. Not too far down the road, the group of lusty adventurers would enter the Final Attack Zone of the year. Buechel and Brown were still tied for the lead. WBL 2010 was coming down to the wire. This promised to be a fistfight all the way to the finish.

Table 4: Communication Breakdown

CASEY MAGNER (twirling a piece of fried chicken with two hands, he looks at chicken as he speaks like he’s Cool Hand Luke or something): Yo Bro, I think there has been a failure of communication.

TY MAGNER (nervous): But Bro, you said share and share alike.

CASEY MAGNER (still eyeballing chicken): I was talking about chicken, Bro.

TY (clearing throat): I thought you were talking about yo gal, Bro. And she didn’t exactly put up a fight.

BRETT MAGNER (wide-eyed): Yo, Bro.

COOL HAND CASEY (still twirling chicken): Yea?

BROTHER BRETT (still wide-eyed): I thought the same thing.

COOL HAND CASEY (blows chicken out of mouth and falls backward with a thud)

BIG JON ATKINS (smiling): Is yall talking about randy stuff? Come on, clue me in.

TIM CORNETT (frowning): I just finished the reading the last ride report about Homer the Hard Way. I’ve lost all respect for the Humble Chronicler. He wrote the last section before it even happened. For example, in Part 5 he writes about the Award gala tonight, and this was printed yesterday. He did get the part right about the fried chicken and the buttered biscuits though. I wonder how he knew? By the way, has anyone seen him tonight?

LEONARD SLOTE (pointing at stage): Look, Carney’s staggered back up to the stage. What? I can’t understand a thing he’s saying. What? What? Uh-oh, he might be goin down.

FRANK TREVESIO: Tim, I just noticed, there’s a fly on your head and he looks like he’s smiling.

MATT CRANE: Hey, the lights are flicking on and off.

MATT TUNIS: Whoa, Carney jus hit the deck. Look that fly just landed right on his face. Is that fly taking a dump?

TIM CORNETT (picking up bulletin and quickly thumbing to end): I’ll be damned!

Briggs Carney (WBL 2010 Awards Gala): “Dag blasted snagger fasted, he-he-he-he. Chuz whanzu dunk it zafe to zend yo willy wild chile offa on hur on, hairziam, ze ole lecher, he-he-he-, Bumbert Bumbert. HICCUP! Ja zoom iz zbinnin. Can zumbody zdop da woom fum zpinnin. Cwan I gtez a liddle dwinky-dwinky? Zoooooooooo zhit, I’m gwowin dwon…………………

The Rockcreek Outfitter-Litespeed Bikes Hard Way to Homer Classic

Part 5: The Awards Gala: I’m Going Down

Though the 2010 season was a magnificent example of human fortitude, the Awards gala fell short. Carney rented a Middle School gym and KFC catered the event. There were 200 guests and Carney only ordered one hundred box lunches. He told the audience to share their fried chicken. The slaw smelled like a dead skunk. Edmonds was rumored to have eaten twenty buttered biscuits.

He only had two hours so the program moved quickly. Carney drank like a fish through the entire event. He was drunk only one hour in. Buechel was fetching him drinks like his first name was Step. Carney was also smoking cigars, but the smoke sure smelled funny. Nuck Reistad was drunk too and kept standing up in his chair and flipping Carney the eagle.

I took the opportunity for one last round of retribution. I walked around in Matt Karzen’s mashed potatoes, I wiped my feet in Tim Cornett’s hair, and I took a dump right on Carney’s face after he passed out and fell to the ground.

I buzzed home afterwards. When the clock struck midnight, I was back to my old self again.

The WBL would like to raise its glass to the following folks for helping out this year: Bill Riecke and Poterfield Tire, Micah Morlock and Georgia Cycle Sport, Jimmy and the boys at Sunshine, Eddie O’Dea and 55nineperformance, Derek Imes and Terrapin Beer, Micah Rice and Jittery Joes, Patrick O’Brien and Full Circle Real Estate, Steve Sevener and Atlantis Hydroponics, Chris Chotas and Litespeed Bikes, Matt Karzen and Rockcreek Outfitters, and Phil Southerland and Team Type 1. The WBL would also like to give a standing ovation to our Left Coast Liason, Professor Scott Thomas for all the hard work, as well as anonymous donors everywhere. Last of all a pat of the back goes to all the Zealots. Once again, it was a helluva year.

Humble C

FINAL OVERALL WBL 2010

68 pts: Thomas Brown
55 pts: Buechel
55 pts: Erin Winter
53 pts: Yo Simpson
42 pts: Jamie Dinkins
37 pts: Joey Rosskopf
36 pts: Brent Bookwalter
34 pts: Billy Santana
33 pts: Dustin Mealor
32 pts: Casey Magner
31 pts: Nick Housley
30 pts: Ty Magner
29 pts: Brett Magner
29 pts: Crowe
29 pts: Big Jon Atkins
29 pts: L Slote
28 pts: Patrick O’Brien
28 pts: Chad Capobianco
28 pts: Tim Cornett
27 pts: Frank Trevesio
27 pts: Fiona Handsdrin
26 pts: Kirk Smith
26 pts: Catherine Peacock
26 pts: Matt Tunis
26 pts: Damien Dunn
25 pts: Malachi Peacock
25 pts. Sam Rafal
24 pts: Don Gianinni
24 pts: Hunter Garrison
24 pts: Tim Henry
23 pts: Matt Karzen
23 pts: Parker Smith
22 pts: Russ Foster
22 pts: Rich Nelson
22 pts: Morgan Patton
22 pts: Smola
22 pts: Ally Stäches
21 pts: John Murphy
21 pts: Jason Bewley
20 pts: David Talbott
20 pts: Scott Morris
20 pts: Bill Bray
19 pts: Dan McGarvey
19 pts: Nathan O'Neil
18 pts: Oscar Clarke
18 pts: B Parkerson
18 pts: Smola
17 pts: John Newton
16 pts: Paul Ozier
16 pts: Joseph Collins
16 pts: D Imes
16 pts: Matt Whatley
16 pts: Bibens
15pts: Bill Bray
15pts: Nick Arroyo
15pts: Tank Crumley
14 pts: Daniel Banks
14 pts: Whit Clifford
14 pts: Gina Voci
14 pts: Stephen Leotis
13 pts: Nick Reistad
13 pts: Travis Turner
13 pts: Sean Caroll
13 pts: Anthony Hergeret
13 pts: Eddie Murray
13 pts: Bill Harper
13 pts: Bill Watkins
13 pts: Eric Murphy
13 pts: Ricky Fuqua
13 pts: Glenn Imes
13 pts: Matthew Miller
13 pts: Jered Hegberg
12 pts: J Shirey
12 pts: M Whatley
12 pts: Ryan Wolf
12 pts: Bill Boonen
11 pts: Joe Eldridge
11 pts: Kirsten Davis
10 pts: Tina Mayola-Pic
10 pts: Mark Babcock
10 pts: Toth Lajos
10 pts: Kyle Shipp
10 pts: Kim Potter
10 pts: Matt Crane
10 pts: Terry Crisp
10 pts: Morgan Hunter
10 pts: Chase Lanier