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2007/05-Most Recent: Old 's

"All the New's Too Old to Print!"

Please read WARNING below.                                                       Whoops! TOO FUCKING LATE!

WARNING: If strong language offends, please leave this site NOW.

Please read WARNING above.                                                       Whoops! TOO FUCKING LATE!



Monday the 28th of May was Memorial Day. A single day does not seem nearly enough, so American Road Cycling will display the commemoration below for the entire week. During this time, SlingShot will also show his respect by remaining silent in the Chatter Box.

What the hell have I done?
Just bring them the fuck home...NOW!




Below is the latest photo submitted by Humberto Turtle Boy Cavalheiro.

It is the perfect example of the results of the fine work American Road Cycling has been doing providing correct role models (such as Steve below) for young gentlemen.

I want to grow up to be just like Turtle Boy!
Christian showing the results of riding his new bike
and hanging out with Turtle Boy.

There has been some confusion over whether Christian takes after Humberto or Jen. It depends on whether one sees the glass half empty or half full. That is to say, does the more interesting aspects of this photo push up from the belly button or hang down from the frontal deltoids?

In any case, thank you Steve (below) for providing such a profound positive influence on the youth of American Road Cycling.



During the Pre-Hump festivities yesterday, Fuji Steve and Scott Macmillin gave a hair raising account of their harrowing encounter with the infamous Chuckie Beast.

Apparently their own sighting was just one week prior to the one recounted here by Zirra on 05/20½/07.

Fuji (pronounced Fudgie for our purposes) began his story by saying to SlingShot, "I just ran into a friend of yours up north of here...or so he said."

He continued, "Me and Scott were riding along when some guy goes by in a Jeep waving and yelling. A little further up the road he pulled over and was waiting for us."

Then Fuji expanded, "He said he had seen Scott's %#!$ club jersey and that he used to live down here a couple years ago and ride the Hump. He said he was just getting ready to go hiking in the wilderness for a week or so."

"Hey Mary, listen to this!" shouted SlingShot.

So Fuji repeated the story right up to the punch-line that SlingShot had anticipated, which was: "He said his name was Tony Defeo."

The Black Widow peed and began to wax nostalgic about how Anthony is her favorite person ever, blah, blah, quack, quack.

SlingShot took the opportunity to explain how Chuckie was teaching at New Paltz and working on his PhD in cancer research until they closed the department. Then he went up to Cornell for a new job in stem cell research (cells from horse sternums—don't get yourself all hepped up in a controversial lather), but he soon found out about his own cancer blah, blah, quack, quack.

Catching on to what was being said, several other people said excitedly, "You saw Anthony?" and numerous little eddies of Chuckie talk groups swirled away from the main conversation.

Steve finished, "So then you you guys do know him. Man, you sure wouldn't suspect he was a professor. The way he looked, we were afraid he was going to ask for spare change."

There you have it. Chuckie is alive and well, has been seen by several local cyclists, and looks just as good as ever.

People might want to reconsider being seen in a %#!$ club jersey when outside this area.



Turns out the whole [rider's name stricken]/Poor Latrine fiasco was merely a publicity stunt introducing the new Stinkature Silos Competition Skewers. It is another example of the marketing genius of our little fat friend, Poor Latrine.

Once again Poor has found a niche in which no product existed and filled a need which was not necessary. Poor has recognized and responded to another golden opportunity to exploit the market place.

First Stinkature Silos put together the DKNY Race team and made them so strong that other riders are desperately looking for some way to beat them. Then Poor came up with the perfect (many would say only) technology to do just that.

In effect he established the problem and the solution at the same moment. He created the market and the product to service that market in a single fell swoop.

Here is the answer to the dreams of thousands of riders who have come to loathe the mere mention of DKNY.

 The new Stinkature Silos Competition Skewer Set

For your convenience here is a partial reprint from the brochure:

For all of you riders who thought the only way to beat DKNY was to spend $12,000 on a new pimped out Moe-veeeci, Stinkature Silos is now offering the perfect alternative. The brand new Professional Grade Ninja Skewer Set.

Cut the competition off at the wheels.

Only $20,000 per set.

Patent pending, International Trademarks Applied for.

Once used, replacement sets available for a mere $25,000.

Demos available on request. [rider's name stricken] will be glad to show you how they work.



Couple of mornings ago Palletman dropped by on his way back over the mountain to Sterling Forest. A little too excited to be on his bicycle if you ask me. A little too excited to have just come down Kain Road.

On his way out, you should have seen him humping up through the grass in our backyard. Skinny ass little mother fucker.

The next morning he was probably wondering why his shoulders and triceps were so sore, even though we warned him that his 10 minute jolting hand-stand down Kain, while squeezing his brakes hard enough to wring every drop of blood out of his finger nails, was going to result in muscle aches in places he never expected.

In any case, after Pallet left The Black Widow and I figured our leisurely morning should be capped with a nap. Except, when we went inside the UCI Palma de Mallorca Sprint Championships were on TV.

If track racing is not the most insipid, stupid, uninspired, and boring nonsense-competition in the world, then golf is a sport.

The Black Widow could scarcely contain her disgust. Actually, she did not contain it—in the least—just lots of, "So why are they doing that? What's the point of that? All of that for a 10 second sprint? You mean to tell me they built a whole stadium just for this crap? Look at them. Those girls are fat!"

The announcers even discussed a famous track race where the two participants stood in a track stand for 22 minutes, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Looking at typical competitors in the sport, it is surprising they didn't have pizza delivered out onto the track during their standing competition.

It was the world's record strategic motionless waiting, and it caused a rule change placing a 3 minute time limit on jerking off on a bicycle.

I explained to the Widder that this was just standard cycling procedure, "You know, like the club rides where a few strong riders call themselves leaders, then run up a couple hills real hard only to spend the rest of the time riding easy, talking and waiting for the slower riders to catch up in order to assure there will be a "sprint" at the end—with every level of rider in one big group and everybody too tired to keep their wits and safety about them."

"You know, how they make sure the ride never breaks up into smaller more closely matched rides, with people who know how to pace line riding with other people who know how to pace line, while the slower riders are left back in their own more rational situation, so people don't get stressed past their ability to cope. You know, something smart like that."

She said, "Oh."

We were so bored with the whole UCI Track Finals we almost stopped watching, but it was people on bicycles, and it was cyclists trying to kick each others asses, and they had wheels, handlebars, toe-clips, high-tech helmets and spandex—everything a person could want to have, or watch on TV.

Unfortunately, by the time we got through with all the TV race nonsense (because we couldn't bring ourselves to turn off a cycling program), the Widder was quite inflamed and ready to kick somebody's (anybody's) ass over some sort of a reputable distance.

Therefore, the next few weeks with Mary on her bicycle are not likely to be to my taste.

The only redemption for me might be the result of the Widder and me being "banned in perpetuity" from all Thursday night rides,  because we fucked up and convinced Poor Latrine to show up.

If only I can manage to get us banned from the Hump as well.

Poor, don't miss the Hump this morning. It is important!


[rider's name stricken] DEEMED HERO

During yesterday's Trailside Ride, [rider's name stricken] made an unselfish and heroic attempt to save Poor Latrine's ass. [rider's name stricken] was consequently deemed a hero despite the partial failure of that attempt.

What happened was this: [rider's name stricken] saw that Poor was on the verge of crashing as his left side brake lever was ready to scrape the ground. [rider's name stricken] saw this happening but was immediately amazed to see an incredible save on the part of Poor who recovered to upright briefly, only to continue over the other side and barely miss hitting his right hood.

[rider's name stricken] watched Poor travel left and right in the exact same way several times in a row, until he finally felt compelled to intervene. Risking his own safety, [rider's name stricken] came to the aid of an obviously out of control Latrine.

[rider's name stricken] moved up and invited Poor to lean into him. Unfortunately, he misjudged the weight of Poor's hind quarters, because when Poor leaned onto him, it happened with such force that [rider's name stricken] nuts got caught in Poor's wheel and snapped off several spokes.

Fortunately, nobody went down, because someone decided we should save all the really good crashes for Terry Bowden, The Bull. In any case, [rider's name stricken] gets partial credit for an "intended act of heroism."

Of course, [rider's name stricken] receives this partial credit because of his misreading of the situation. He gets only the credit for the fact that he would have been saving Poor, had Poor in fact been in any actual danger.

The confusion stems from [rider's name stricken] not being familiar with Poor's ride. The back and forth handlebar dragging, staggering side to side, is merely the way Poor climbs every hill. Also, when Poor shouts, "Going backwards!" it is not just a euphemism for, "People are going to be passing me now," but he does in fact truly mean that he is going backwards. Look out. Duck!

In any case we got some great pictures out of the situation, because Dangerous Dan and Turtle Boy were charged with driving Poor's mini-van out to get him and his broken wheel.

Putting those two in charge of Poor's mini-van was very much like unleashing gremlins on it. We are surprised there was anything left. We are also surprised Poor did not just walk home in the time they dilly dallied around in order to fuck with his van, stop for ice-cream, and cruise for chicks in Monroe, before they finally moseyed on out to pick him up.


Editor's Note: Thanks to Lynn Meyer for paying attention and noticing the near crash was actually the result of [rider's name stricken] getting his nuts caught in Poor's spokes.

Of course, on hearing [rider's name stricken] nuts got caught in Poor's wheel, all the women in the parking lot began tittering, except of course The Black Widow who, for a very long time now, has not had herself associated with any word containing: tit.

And thanks to Cranky for reporting the image of spokes that went spewing all over the place like a deck in a game of 52 Card Pickup.



A few days ago Nuclear Dan Buckley was engaged in a running workout near his house, maybe in Wawayanda State Park.

He happened to have his camera with him so took the photo below and sent it in. He asked that we caution everybody about being careful out in the wild.

Dan apologizes for the quality of the photo. He almost stepped on this and did not want to get too close.

Wayayanda State Park, May 2007
photo by Nuclear Dan Buckley

American Road Cycling hates to rain on Dan's "helpful" parade, but SlingShot himself is hyper-allergic to poisonous encounters of this sort and has done a great deal of research on the matter.

Therefore, SlingShot is exceptionally careful during all his outdoor activities, and he would like Dan to be assured that he, for one, would never be caught unawares by such a "close call," since he always maintains the highest possible level of awareness of his surroundings.

SlingShot would also like to admonish Dan to be a little less neurotic about the natural environment, because, what Dan has photographed is, in fact, NOT poison ivy.

Those leaves have serrated edges. You might get a little "thistled" if you brushed by them bare legged, or put your hand down there. No doubt it would sting for awhile but nothing to worry about. There would be no long term itching and discomfort. No trips to the doctor for chamomile. It would be over before you knew it.

Remember Dan, this is quite simple, "Leaves of three: let it be."

Please, Dan, get your shit together and pay closer attention—just like SlingShot!




Good thing I was lucky enough to have my third flat in three days yesterday (15th for the year), or I would have missed seeing an obvious problem.

I am not talking about the open fire we saw at an illegal campsite near the bottom of Tiorati Brook Road. I had every intention of turning those buttheads in and saving the forest, but by the time we got to the top, things were threatening to become a bit frisky, so I forgot all about it—especially after I cut through the circle backwards and almost got busted by a ranger.

The forest is pretty much on its own when it comes to my distinct need to stay in a ride.

The problem that I am talking about relates to what I saw on the way down 106 at the end of the ride. A little before I saw it, I had noticed a little too much wiggle in the curves, so I decided to back off the pace and coast down slowly. Mary went by me and slowed when I told her that I thought my tire was too low and iffy for a safe descent.

Good thing I slowed down, or I would have missed it just like Nuclear Dan, BLASTER and Frankypanky. Dan said afterwards, "I didn't see anything. We were going so fast when we went by, I was only barely aware of a blur (maybe it was riders on the way up) and we were gone."

As for me, I was going slow enough to get the full picture. We came around a left hand curve and saw a group of five other riders coming up the other direction. In the front of that group was [rider's name stricken], or as all of you like to yell, "[rider's name stricken]!"

Well, that [rider's name stricken] had the look of absolute bliss on his face. He was smiling, animated, and obviously enjoying the climb.

I am sure you will agree. Nobody should ever, never, ever enjoy a climb up 106. The riders behind Tom were obviously not enjoying it. I have never enjoyed it. You have never enjoyed it. Nobody should be allowed to enjoy it. Like all altered states of euphoria, it should be illegal. What the hell is wrong with that [rider's name stricken]. There oughta be a law!

Other Laws: While reviewing ARC usage logs after I finished writing the above, I half listened to Charlie Rose interviewing Jimmy Wales of Wikipedia.

Actually, I started out by fully listening until I realized I was witnessing the longest-running steady-stream of self-serving outright lies about technology that there has ever been.

If this sort of nonsense catches on again, "Here we go again." Hold on to your checkbooks.

The basic thesis of this shit stream of lies was, "If open-source had only caught on, we would now be living in a technological Utopia. Please invest in my next project."

An old quote from John Mitchell (my nephew and former open-source guru) puts this crap in perspective best it can be, "Linux is free...if your time is worthless."

Poor Charlie obviously had not a clue about the depth of deceit he was aiding and abetting. There oughta be a law!



Yesterday me and The Widder did the High Point loop from the Big-V parking lot. Since this was a Monday (not a Saturday, Sunday, or Holiday) we learned some things that might not be common knowledge.

The plan was to go out Pumpkin Swamp in order to avoid being on the Hump as much as possible—which is standard protocol for me. Unless it is the Hump, no need to even think about the Hump, certainly don't look at the Hump, and never ever ride on the Hump.

My rear tire spit spitted to flat just before Mt. Eve on Pulaski and shifted our time frame by an hour, because after the tube change we realized we were close enough to Big-V to go back, grab another tube, and use the floor pump to make sure my tire was back to full pressure.

Of course, we looped around the Mt. Eve Time Trial backwards to further avoid being on the Hump. That wasted hour allowed a special insight.

One has not lived until having sailed down Rte. 6 toward Port Jervis at just over 40 mph while being buffeted by blustery side winds thrusting over your right shoulder and being crushed against the ridge on your left to be thrown back in your face at the same moment eighteen wheeler after eighteen wheeler shakes the road beneath you and roars past at 60 mph just an inch from your rosy cheek.

Of course, maybe it was rather a case that one has not died until doing exactly the same thing but making a single slight unfortunate error. Your choice.

In any case, the panoramic view down a few of the right side embankments is absolutely breath taking, especially when your squiggly bike gets pushed stuttering over close enough to the guard rail to open your eyes so you can really enjoy it.

Maybe it was because a jam on 84 had diverted vehicles onto side roads, but the traffic was horrible. It was so bad that the Widder exclaimed, "This is almost as bad as Floriduh!" [State]

If it was due to a detour, that only begs the question, "Why was traffic more or less the same a couple hours later coming back into Florida on Rte. 1.?" [NY]

Probably the answer is "rush hour," so next time we will take extra steps to avoid being on those roads at that time. We should factor in a tire change with an extra 10 miles just to be safe.

Be that as it may, our 50 mile loop became 63 and left us a little dopey, so we hit the couches to watch a movie afterwards and received another object lesson.

The movie was "The Curse of the Golden Flower." To call it a martial arts movie would be to toss it off in an empty and easy comment.

In fact, this movie made the referential nature of Tarantino's work far too apparent, and even went so far as to reveal the works of Shakespeare for the trite mawkishly sentimental water cooler chit-chat they are.

Talk about your final scene of littered corpses and broken dreams...jeesh. And the convoluted circuitous route to get there? Holy moly! Plus the incredible beauty of the whole thing that kept us watching it? Great gawber balls of horse snot! Fuck!

 Production values, scene design and framing, and the costumes, not to mention the costuming of scenes and the digital compositing, all left no doubt about a narrow range of possible futures.

Given that all movies invariably portray an impossible view of the world existing beyond their own prescribed confines, one only knows for certain that absolutely everything shown in this movie would not, could not, and should not actually exist in China. However, one can look at the level of excellence of the film itself and draw a pretty clear conclusion.

That conclusion is one I have drawn after viewing numerous films from China over the past few years. Now, I don't want to scare the shit out of anybody, but here it is.

If the Chinese ever decided to put their full efforts into waging a war against us, it should take them about a week (and a half tops) to virtually obliterate everything in this hemisphere. They probably wouldn't even have to dance into their nuke pile to do it.

And there ain't jack shit you, or I, or anyone else can do about it. Whatever genie it is that you wish could be returned back to its jar on the beach, you can just forget about it. The jar is crushed, the beach is gone, there ain't even a wish remaining that we could split among us. It's probably why we focus so ferociously on the nonsense we focus on.

I am left thinking merely this: if only one of those eighteen wheelers had sucked my tire just a little harder, I wouldn't have to be the one to break the bad news to you.



Here are the follow-up photos promised by Zirra in the article below titled: THE BEST DAY EVER.

You know, you think you're finally getting used to the way Zirra looks, and then...

It was horrible! I came around the corner, and there's Zirra talking to this, this THING!

Ok, Chuckie. Let's hear what you've got to say about Glade Hill Road through a crushed larynx.

Unfortunately, the Chuckie sighting happened so quickly Zirra didn't get a photo. Fortunately, we had file footage.

I'm going over here to take a piss. No attacking! No, really...get off your bikes.

You can read about this exciting Chuckie sighting in the article immediately below.



Today's 35.6 mile ride with BLASTER in the warm and windy sun after the %#!$ club ride was cancelled due to rain was only the start of it.

The bright open fields and long view over the three mountain ranges to the shining prison while a massive tail-wind pushed us down Mountain Road into Otisville during completion of our makeup ride from the General's Desertion Outing of last Tuesday was only the start of it.

The lovely mountain wench who smiled and cooed her way across the road before us, marshalling a 10 year old and an 8 year old boy, all carrying green leafy tree branches for dumping down the embankment on the other side, was only the start of it.

At least I had the good sense to mention to BLASTER, "This is it. It doesn't get any better. Don't forget to enjoy this," and he assured me he already was, but that was only the start of it.

Finding what was in the evening e-mail was what really got things going. Here it is from Zirra:


So I am sitting in my DKNY kit in Lake Placid and getting ready to go out on the course when someone yells out, "ZIRRA!!!!."

I look over and this gnarly guy says, "Hey... I am a member of the OCBC or whatever. I recognize you from the American Road Cycling home page. You have that picture that looks like you are choking someone. I am Chuckie.

I can't help but say, "OH, you're the guy with cancer!!!"

He says, "Well, not anymore. I am fighting back and have spent the last few days hiking in the high peaks around Placid and came to town for supplies and a bed for tonight."

So Chuckie says hello and that he is working on some base training with hopes to be back at the Hump soon.

He looked great: fit, lean, and pretty happy— although I was looking at him after 5 days in the woods.

More action photos to follow.


There you have it. The best day ever. And that is only the start of it. It isn't clear if photos were supposed to be in the e-mail, but none arrived.

Therefore, while we are waiting for Zirra's Lake Placid action photos we are republishing his photo that was mentioned by Anthony "Chuckie" Defeo above. Here it is:

It's only a quarter mile back to the highway. I'll just let go of your neck, and you make a run for it. Ready, set...
It's only a quarter mile back to the highway. I'll just let go of your neck, and you make a run for it. Ready, set...

The text of the rollover pop-up to Zirra's photo has been repeated below it. Somebody mentioned that their Netscape browser doesn't show the pop-ups, and this is one that nobody should miss.

In any case, if this isn't the best day in SlingShot's life, he can't imagine what day that would be.

For all you newbies, here are links to the two original stories that made these two people famous:

Eagle's Nest was great today but of lowly heights compared to receiving this e-mail.

Thank you BLASTER, Zirra, Chuckie, and especially The Black Widow for getting all excited and reading the mail to me.

Editor's Note: This is really tomorrow's article (05/21/07), but SlingShot couldn't wait. Besides, FG would kill him if he did.



Please review the chapter titled Explicit v Implicit in the Team Tactics section of the SlingShot's Secret Race Secrets page. Apparently some of you missed its importance. Here's the link.

Yesterday at the Hump, during the pre-ride meeting, Dangerous Dan Sullivan pulled out from between two parked cars directly in front of The Black Widow who was busy spinning around the outside of the meeting and reviewing her game plan by thinking such things as, "Did I leave the bathroom light on? I wonder if the back door is locked? My IBS is acting up. Should I take my arm warmers off? I think I have to pee again. Do I have Gu with me? I better check the car door once more. I wonder what my puppy is doing? Did I bring tubes? Did Cranky just look at me funny? Am I still a moron?"

Her last question was answered almost immediately as she collided with Dangerous, and they both went down in a clattering pile.

A mere 20 yards away, SlingShot did not even take a sideways glance on hearing the crash but merely asked, "What happened? Did The Black Widow go down again?"

Everybody else only remembers hearing the rousing chorus of, "Left." "Right." "No, go left." "Right." "NO... your other left." "Right." Then the crash.

Later, after the Hump, SlingShot could only wince in horror as The Black Widow reviewed the crash for a group of "AA" riders and ended by saying, "The next thing I knew, Dangerous was on top of me moaning."

SlingShot winced, not because of the blood and guts details, but because he knew it was merely a matter of a few small fractions of a moment before somebody chimed in, "So?!... Who in this parking lot has NOT been found on top of you moaning?"

Turns out this particular chorus was performed in unison by the choir even more precisely than was the entire "Left. Right. No, left." operatic duet previous.

People: work on the specificity of your signaling. Here's the link.



(follow-up and retraction for the
Non Sequitur article further below)

They gave me a note right here, let's see, it says, "Don't make eye contact, and back away slowly."
It's for the Record. All I need is half the story.


This sure never happened before. Now SlingShot is all confused, because the Times Herald Record actually sent over an athlete to do the article.

The reporter also had a brain and a sense of humor. Looks like a break in tradition for The Record.

SlingShot found only one flaw in her character, which was proven by the fact that she sold her bicycle on eBay after having her ass smacked around by Mike The Spin Guy Finnegan in recent spin classes.

Generally, people leave the country after a couple encounters with Mike.

Good news: the article will still be filtered through some fat-ass loser desk-jockey's idea of correctness at the paper before publication.

Therefore, the Non Sequitur article below will still ring true.

If that booger moves one more time, we're going to be reviewing my breakfast.

Editor's Note: The reporter's name is being withheld because she obviously has talent, taste, and a future. It won't be long before she will wish no document whatsoever remains tying her name to that of the Times Herald Record.

Most of you kids do not remember, but long before the Internet the Times Herald Record actually had a slight degree of relevance. It is still a place where young young writers can get their feet wet. Many of them eventually move on to become journalists, so we do not wish to hinder this person's prospects by putting her name on a resume she will live to regret.

More photos from today's hump.



Get ready for it. This morning's Hump is to be visited by a reporter from the Times Herald Record. Therefore, just in case an article ever does see the light of day, you are probably going to be amused at the result.

More than likely the Record will follow their standard process, which is to send a per-word for-hire hack knowing little or nothing about cycling who will try to make sense out of something that is well beyond their own understanding as well as that of their readership.

The chopped up and edited version of whatever they finally submit for publication will serve only to reinforce misunderstanding about cycling in general and about the state of cycling in Orange County and surrounds in particular.

Many of you will remember the last article that spoke of how spring had finally arrived, because cyclists were seen gathering at the Big V parking lot in Florida. In fact, most of the cyclists there had been riding all winter. Spring had little or nothing to do with their showing up for the Hump.

Also, you may remember the article about a young cycling hopeful who, to the reporter, appeared to be so frail and delicate. Funny that we all know that cyclist as Iron Mike. Would you expect a new installment of clever text to be any closer to the truth of cycling, when it originates from a position that regards lean and strong as weak and frail?

It is unlikely a reporter sent to investigate cycling sport will have ever attempted a slow grind up Kain Road, nor a rugged spin up to High Point.

Also, the hundreds of miles of quiet low-traffic rolling-hilled cycling-perfect world-class roads that are chock full of three to four mile climbs and liberally sprinkled with quarter mile power climbs and sprint flats to die for will be totally invisible to an uninitiated writer.

In fact, Orange County and surrounds currently represents the best cycling environment in the world. Merely ask anybody who has been to Spain, France, Brazil, Italy and other parts of the U.S. for cycling vacations and who gladly return to the daily group rides of 30 to 100 miles over roads and terrain equal to, or better than, anything they have seen anywhere else.

From the Belgium like climbs of Big Pond Road, to the broad vistas past Cornwall and West Point, then down into Harriman and onto a nationally ranked race course, to... well, there are just too many to name. One could easily ride here for an entire year, never repeat the same course twice, and enjoy routes of all skill levels equal to any in the world.

Any reporter who is not already close to the vibrant local cycling scene is not very likely to realize what a large number of passionate cyclists can be found riding on the roads of Orange County every day of the week, all year round. Not to mention, these cyclists include a large number of riders who compete locally, regionally, nationally, and internationally—successfully.

Of course, our local (and not so local) cyclists with all their bugaboos, successes and cycling dreams are already chronicled right here on this website, so it makes little difference whether the Record gets it or not.

Also, it is not an aside to mention that cyclists are not merely degenerate reprobates who have nothing better to do with their time than clog up the public roadways.

They are more often than not members in good standing of the legal, medical, business, education, and trades professions providing indispensable services to the communities around them. Their cycling is a regenerative recreation that keeps them healthy and returning to their careers refreshed with extra energy to enable greater productivity.

Happily, the bullshit stops about halfway up most local hills, so politicians and people from the news media are never found among the strong riders.

It has been correctly said that cycling is the new golf, and the public roads are the new country clubs, with the same level of valuable networking found now in side-by-side bicycle riding.

Therefore, it would be nice if a little educational content was included in the article in order to remind motorists that cyclists do in fact have the right to be on the local roads, and that a cyclist on the road constitutes not an illegitimate encroachment on a public right-of-way but an equally allowed vehicle of the road.

In any case, get ready for another hatchet job, but be heartened by the fact that this very article you are almost finished reading will reach many more people than anything in the Record.

American Road Cycling is hard put to find a single person who will admit to wasting time reading the pages of the Times Herald Wreck-turd on any regular basis. And why should they?

There are roads out there to ride on.

See follow-up: UNBELIEVABLE



The number of people who arrive at American Road Cycling via Google searches looking for generalized cycling information is on the increase. SlingShot has decided it might be important to avoid disappointing such people by having some useful information published here for them.

Due to the large percentage of these new arrivals who are searching for race related information, SlingShot is now compiling a page of racing tactics based on common search criteria found in the website usage logs.

Short articles will be published on the home page and then included on a cycling race tactics compendium page.

The first article is titled: Explicit v Implicit.

Thus the article dovetails into a practical cycling example of a linguistics concept complementing recent discussions regarding the manner in which American Road Cycling strives for correct grammar and syntax in articles.

In this way, we can move the underlying technical linguistics goals of American Road Cycling into the background while providing a practical example that embodies those stated goals in a real world application—illustrating by example rather than by discourse.

In any event, here's the first article in a long series.

Explicit v Implicit:

The distinction between explicit and implicit communications may be the most important concept for any race team to understand and observe.

Every possible effort should be leveraged toward increasing the percentage of explicit communications, and decreasing the percentage of those that are implicit. A clearly articulated "signaling" vocabulary should be established with drills performed to refine and enhance the use of that vocabulary in as close to race conditions as possible.

Here is an example of team communications gone terribly wrong, illustrating the absolute need for explicitness.

A big time road race included a relatively new team in the ranks of the competitors. One of the individuals on the team was naturally selected for nurture and protection in order to secure the win.

Unfortunately, this team member was a novice racer, even though he had the basic strength, character, and stamina to complete the win, a single miscue put him (and thus the entire team) out of contention.

In fact, somebody mentioned afterwards, "He was going back so fast, I was surprised he even finished the race."

There were several veteran racers among the team members, and they had done a terrific job of moderating the entire peloton's tempo in order to assure that possible contenders were being used up, spent, and shelled out the back. It was a perfect game plan.

These experienced team members knew most of the riders in the race and were carefully watching them. Therefore, they knew for certain when a breakaway was significant, and when a move was pure puffery without substance and with no chance of sticking.

Sadly, our (projected) hero in the story never got the memo, and long before it was time for him to leave his cushy seat of drafting privilege to go up to the front, take over, and finish off the few riders who had managed to survive the onslaught of steadfast blocking and mocking leaders of his team, our intrepid racer chased, to his detriment, a totally bullshit breakaway, and one that was later callously termed, "Two Bobs, a Black Widow, and a SlingShot."

Later the race newbie reported, "I thought it was a serious move. I thought my teammates had pulled me to the front in order for me to attack and go with the breakaway."

Lesson learned: Teams must require well practiced explicit signals for such maneuvers. Believing that a signal is implied can never be acceptable. An unmistakable hand sign, a phrase, or a secret word would have avoided this error in judgment and possibly saved the win.

This article is first to be included as part of:

SlingShot's Secret Racing Secrets
(Competitive Cycling Race Tactics)




Early readers of the GREAT RIDE article below, be advised that their has been a slight change since you read it.

Actually, Catskill John caught the Sunday "front group" not merely the "front poursuivant." SlingShot mistakenly left in the term from the description of Catskill's move taken from his original first draft at which time he thought he was describing the Saturday Hump.

On Saturday that group would have been merely a poursuivant to Iron Mike's Hump decimation. On Sunday (sans Iron Mike) that group was way the fuck off the front.




It ain't Patrick... but it's a smile.
I didn't know you fixed the place up. It looks just like The Trailside Pub.
Palletman in his street clothes looking very
unlike he does when suited up for a ride such
as in the photo above this one.

Yesterday, Palletman came over for an impromptu ride. Fortunately (for SlingShot), it rained before the start, and Palletman went on to make the best of a bad situation.

Actually, by the time he left, we are pretty sure he thought that the ride did in fact happen and that he had merely stopped over at the bar for a little post ride chattery.

We used the opportunity to weasel some information out of him.

First off, he reported that a mere few hours after our Two For Tuesday encounter with Iron Mike Norton, Mike showed up for Sussex and LAPPED THE "A" (1, 2, 3's) RACE!

Also, Palletman added an addendum to our addendum for last Saturday's Hump. Turns out Pretty Boy Glen Babikian followed Iron Mike off the front during the first breakaway... and stayed with him to the finish.

Also, also, Palletman reports that during last Sunday's ride, on Rte. 88 after the turn off of Oil City, Catskill John made an incredible successful solo bridging attempt and caught the front group—and that was after they had already put the hammer down for serious and for good. At that point, if they had given Catskill a mere 10 seconds for recovery, instead of only 4, he would have stayed with them to the end. [Editor's Note: It won't be long, my friends, not long at all.]

Also, also, also, Palletman turned in an application for the Deep Lungs position. We just laughed at him and refused to reveal the identity of our current Lungs-er.

On leaving, Palletman remarked, "Great ride! One of the best."

Editor's Note: Any similarities found in the photo of Palletman above to the appearance of Woody Allen are purely comical in nature and should not be mentioned in Palletman's presence.



It was a bluff gone horribly wrong; and, unfortunately, it may be the start of a horrid tradition. Last time this happened was a couple weeks ago when SlingShot doubled up on the Harriman ride by going right back out with the %#!$ club ride. That time it was somewhat expected, but this time it was a total surprise all around—due to the second ride's humble beginnings as a highly laughable bluff.

Of course, the morning ride was planned and went more or less as expected.

Chester Peetie Pete, Peetie Kaka and Dr. Artie Art, Artie Art Donohue showed up in Sugar Loaf for a scheduled 40 mile tempo ride with SlingShot and The Black Widow.

Man... I haven't even been on my bike since 7-Eleven ruled the world. I probably can't even get up that hill over there. Let's go try. Let me just get in front of you for a moment.
Dr. Artie Art,  Artie Art Donohue

La donna mobile qual piuma al vento muta d'accento e di pensiero... man I really love singing along with this stuff a lot more since I put the disco lights on my helmet. Chester Petie Pete, Petie Kaka Cotsis

The morning ride was organized by Chester Pete.

SlingShot was dearly hoping Artie Art was in as bad a shape as he claimed, so he could stay back with him while Pete and the Widder went off up the long hills to play by themselves.

Surprisingly, the pace was not so cruel on the Shot, even though Dr. Artie Art was far from the pitiful condition he claimed, and Petie had just enjoyed a major success in the High Point Hill Climb in which he beat his stated goal by about 7 minutes (for a 5.5 mile time trial) and kicked the asses of a shitload of Cat 5 racers in the process.

Actually, things remained tame only until the group spotted Iron Mike Norton going the opposite direction in downtown Goshen. Mike was still on the wheel of that thief on a motorcycle recently reported to have stolen something from Mike in order to sell it on eBay.

The group of four seemed to know immediately what the result of running into Iron Mike was likely to be, so the pace picked up considerable in anticipation of Mike going 5 or so miles in the opposite direction and grabbing his stuff from the motorcyclist,  before being unable to stop himself from turning around to come back with a little pain to add to their pressure.

Turns out the group did much better than expected, because by the time Iron Mike turned around and finished his ten mile chase, they had gone almost a full mile.

Things might still have gotten pretty ugly, but Petie Kaka had the good sense to blow out his rear tire (real loud), so everybody could bore Iron Mike enough for him to leave the ride, go home, and take a nap.

SlingShot was pretty glad to get home from the ride and have a whole day ahead of him without cramps, screaming lung fits, etc. He was also basking in the glory of having finally understood the difference between a sentence and a clause. It had only taken him a month of research to figure it out.

Just when Shotster was thinking his quandary about sentence vs. clause sounded like a joke, that fuckhead Poor Latrine returned the Widder's phone call which she had made during the flat repair. She had placed coyly on his answering machine, "Iron Mike is killing me!" and hung up. Poor says, "Too bad you've already gone out. I'm going to ride at 5:00."

The Black Widow is incapable of showing weakness so merely replied, "That's not a problem. We can go back out."

She was fully counting on Poor canceling just as soon as he got his senses about him later in the day, and he would have, if he hadn't  gotten busy with a fitting and not noticed the time until it was only 10 minutes before the ride—too late to cancel.

Since SlingShot merely does what he's told, riding a metric century (where there's a hand-off to fresh riding partners at the half way point) is something to be endured without comment, much like the new tradition of the Two For Tuesday's.

Editor's Note: During the preparations for the second ride from Poor's house, SlingShot noticed another ride leaving a neighbor's house. Nothing can be reported regarding that ride, because it was a Super Duper Pooper Scooper Top Secret Training Ride for a famous racing team. Who knows what that's  about? In any case, we wouldn't be able to say anything about it even if we knew. You had to have decoder rings and know secret handshakes and shit to go on it.



Place your pointer over the photo
then let go of it for a moment.

Oh, no! Do I see a bear coming?



Yesterday SlingShot received what appeared to be an official letter through the U.S. Postal Service snail-mail. It looked like a bill for domain name registration, something of the sort he always gets when web names are coming near to their expiration. He always gets one from his registrar, but also several from other companies who are trying to become his registrar. They all try to pretend to be his current registrar (if not the ONLY registrar), but this one even went a step further.

It appeared to be a bill for registration, but it was an offer for "search engine listing submittals," which means they'll submit your web domain name to the various engines and get you a "high ranking."

The truth is that a real search engine is designed to actually "search" the web for content. One does NOT have to SUBMIT to them. Their job is to find. That is why they are called search engines. The idea that they are called search engines because people can "search" for stuff on them is a tweaking of the term as a marketing ploy

Here is a ranking that SlingShot managed all on his own, without submitting nothing to nobody, without paying shit for shinola, by merely phrasing the content on the web page correctly. Look at this Google search for: Rich Cruet.

Here is another one. Remember the article exposing the bigotry of the The Hudson River Museum & Gallery Guide? How do you imagine those people are enjoying their ranking these days?

While we are at it, you don't even have to put quotes around American Road Cycling anymore. Just putting in the words "american," "road," and "cycling" gets you this.

Well, after all, we are the top name in American road cycling. In fact, we pretty much define American road cycling such as it is; and, in a very true sense, American Road Cycling did not even exist until SlingShot created it.

In any case, there is no need to give specific information about the particular company that sent SlingShot the most recent nonsense offer disguised as a bill/slash/offer. It will arrive under a different name next time anyway.

If you are using the Internet, just go a little out of your way to learn something about it. Be careful and skeptical.

Editor's Note: The three Google search criteria linked above appeared in our usage logs thanks to recent viewers who found their way to the American Road Cycling website by using them.



We recently spoke with another person who was somewhat nearer to the actual front (than was our Field Correspondent) at the end of Saturday's Hump.

From what we hear, at the front front, in front of the front group, Iron Mike Norton took the final sprint.

However, since Mike was riding without a team (and since he was most certainly everybody's primary target besides), we cannot report on his win, because it might appear to lay waste to Deep Lungs' previous story about the importance of team work.

In truth, Iron Mike merely represents the exception that proves the teamwork rule. Therefore, the less said the better.

Also, if we reported on his win (a blowout really), we'd have to list a few pages of disclaimers and caveats due to the number of solid excuses we would receive such as, "It doesn't count. He's a Pro!" coming from all sorts of people dearly wishing to have the incident hidden without documentation.

In a related (and unfortunate) story, there seems to have been an incident of theft in the Big-V parking lot. At least that's our impression.

The story is related to today's Hump Addendum (this very article), because Iron Mike appears to have been the victim of the theft, and he would not have been the one to get clipped had he not laid waste to the main group, the splinter groups, and the hammered groups, plus any and all of the other people strung out all along Pulaski Highway who were dropped and riding alone.

As it happened, Mike beat everybody by a such a terribly long distance that he found himself in the parking lot alone.

That's when somebody swiped his trip computer, or water bottle, or dew rag, or hair comb, or something like that, in order to sell it on eBay as a prime example of collector's edition memorabilia.

When last seen (just when the first stragglers were finishing the Hump) the thief was observed on a motorcycle going back out towards the "S" turn with Iron Mike in hot pursuit and just about to catch him. In fact, Mike was so close to catching the guy, it looked like motor pacing.

We'll check into to it, and see how things turned out. Obviously our motorcyclist thief was not very bright, because anybody who thinks they can use a motorcycle to outrun Mike Norton on a bicycle is just plain stupid.




[rider's name and photo stricken]
[rider's name stricken]
Thanks to a tip from:
Mike "The Spin Guy" Finnegan


Hump Report: Today's report on the action of yesterday's Hump was sent in by our new Field Correspondent whom we will call Deep Lungs for lack of a better nom.

In any case, you will understand this person's need for anonymity. In a sport where each of us is horrified if another rider even hears us breathing hard, or catches a slight whiff of stress during a simple conversation, it is unlikely this rider would ever wish to divulge his (or her) identity. We must protect our sources.

Therefore, if any of you wish to lodge a complaint regarding the veracity of what is reported below, you may make up your own imaginary friend to lodge it with.

Here's the report.

Hi Bob,

We were all impressed with DKNY's well disciplined use of team tactics today—which were apparently orchestrated by Dangerous Dan Sullivan.

Halfway to Ridgebury (that is to say, once we reached Rt 12 North), Pretty Boy Glenn Babikian broke away, and Dangerous blocked the group to help widen the gap for him.

Five minutes later Iron Mike Norton gave chase alone, burning rubber as he jetted away from the pack.

Five minutes after that Kevin Haley sprinted away. When it became apparent that Kevin would not be slowing to rejoin the pack, Joe Straub sprinted off alone to catch him.

In hindsight, Kevin's early attack and breakaway was smart, especially since he lured Joe into coming up to work with him in an attempt to catch Glenn and Mike Norton.

After Ridgebury, only Tom and Mike Donnelly remained with the DKNY team. For the next 10 miles DKNY sent a steady stream of attackers off the front roughly every minute at the mid-point of the ride.

Finally, Humberto broke away solo, and never bothered to drop back for even a quick check-in with the pack.

Soon afterward, Dangerous broke away solo for a few miles and was joined by General G Douglas Allen for five miles thru Pine Island. His little break lasted until [rider's name stricken], Palletman Dan McNeilly, and Mike Donnelly rejoined him on the long gradual hill north of Pine Island.

Eventually, Dan McNeilly broke away solo, with just a few miles left to the finish. He never got reeled back in.

Doug led what was left of the pack into the final stretch, where Dan Sullivan took the sprint in a scathing defeat over [rider's name stricken]. A dastardly deed, no doubt, but one which was not without precedence.

If one ever had a doubt about the value of teamwork, today's events on the Hump would certainly lay them to rest. Riding in this sort of race without numbers with so many strong cyclists brings certainty about the value of teamwork.

On your own, without bold moves, you drop to the back. However, even with bold moves, you can drop to the back even faster—if you misjudge the group's response, plus your ability to sustain an attack.

The early attackers had balls today! And they held on to them to the very end.

Deep Lungs

Editor's Note: Before anyone gets very far into speculation, "No, we did not send a helicopter out to follow the ride." And yes, "We know this kind of reporting is just exactly what you have all been waiting for." And yes, "We would have provided it previously were it not for SlingShot being such a slow-ass loser." And yes, "We will try to bring you more reports just like this."

On the other hand, this whole affair has SlingShot all the fuck pissed off.

Not because of the reporting (that was stellar), but because SlingShot holds the firm belief that nobody should ever  be required to endure the insult of looking down at a trip computer, noticing that they are pacing along the flat at just over 33 mph, then look up again only to find they are still being dropped.

SlingShot is also pretty upset because moments after that The Black Widow herself looked down at her own computer, saw that it read 35.6 mph, and thought, "What?! I can't go this fast" only to look up and realize her momentary lapse in concentration had gotten her own ass dropped.

Not to mention, the story about the momentary lapse in concentration is one that SlingShot is likely to hear oft repeated for some time to come.

SlingShot believes that Twin Lynn said it best: "You'd think that at 30 mph, you'd be granted automatic clemency from any and all droppings."

SlingShot was even too tired to get going on a good crack.




Your left, your right, your left, right...wait a minute. I'm confused again.
Today's Hump photos



Psych out...
And on the 8th day God created Ridgebury.




(Please read all three, and in order)
there's a little navigation bar above each title that links
#43   #44  #45




If not for my bunions, I could have calves too. Oh, to be 52 again. This getting old is cutting into my biking.
You don't get stronger while you are working.
You get stronger while you are resting.




I would kick your ass, but that wouldn't even be a nice thing to say.
And your point is?

(and the deserters)

If I had known it was just going to be a ride full of losers, I might not have bothered going. Of course, one can never be certain that people are total losers until they prove it.

These losers proved it.

The Widder and I had planned an easy ride up Ski Run Road and Pickles with BLASTER, but The General G Douglas Allen e-mailed about a ride from his house. From the description of the ride (40 miles, Eagle's Nest, Guymard, etc.) and the looks of his CC list, the General's ride was going to be quite severe, but what the hey.

BLASTER was easy to convince, and the Widder had hopes Twin George and Humberto might show up. Plus Palletman had been invited, so at least we could count on him being there.

Therefore, despite the promise of Eagle's Nest, Guymard Turnpike, Mountain Road, and 209/211, it appeared to me that I could easily get lost in the crowd, dropped and forgotten.

I did not stop to consider that George, Humberto, and even Palletman would not bother to show up. After all, this was a ride from The General's house. I expected the Bicycle Doctor, and Dangerous Dan Sullivan would make an appearance too. Who knew it would end up being a ride for losers only.

Actually, things weren't going too bad at first. We were just over 20 mph after Doug pulled all the way to Bloomingburg. A quick spin later, out to the turn onto Roosa Gap, and we began the 5 mile climb which would end at the top of Mountain Road.

Of course, my move to stay on the wheel of G Douglas at the bottom of Roosa Gap was ill advised, but then again, I had no idea I was riding with such pitiful losers. If they had just left my blown ass on the side of the road and gone on about their ride, maybe I would not have found out.

I only found out what losers they all are, long after Eagle's Nest was complete, and we were pulling up to the stop sign in Otisville. That's where those weak willed gutless wonders showed their true faces.

I thought that Doug said we were going up Guymard, down to 209, then up 211 back into Otisville and on to Middletown. Coming into Otisville he told Mary that only two more climbs were left, so a big Guymard climb, topped off with a giant slice of 209/211 pie made perfect sense...that is, unless I thought of it as being me who would be making those climbs with the trek back to Middletown afterwards. If I thought of it that way it made no sense at all. Forget: perfect.

No way. No how. Time for me to bail out, start spinning back, and let them catch me near Doug's house.

At the Otisville stop sign, I came up beside Doug and said, "That's it for me. I'm going home." Doug just stared at me and smiled in disbelief as I turned onto 211.

At the exact same moment I heard whimpering calls of desperation coming from the Widder and BLASTER.

"I'm coming with you." and, "Me too."

Thus General Douglas was left to finish his ride on his own, and we finished with a mere 31+ to Doug's 40.

Can you believe the Widder and BLASTER went back with me, and BLASTER pulled the whole way...without complaint? What weenies!

Plus, our pitiful 17 average can't even be swept away with forlorn statements like, "But there was Eagle's nest," seeing as how The General pulled into his driveway with an extra 9 miles, and before we could cut the bullshit and scoot outa Dodge to avoid his arrival.

At least we got to see Doug's wife Amy (strong Tri competitor) greet him with, "I can't believe you got dropped...and on your own ride!"

Otherwise, what a sorry-assed pack of namby pamby, weak kneed, sissy skirted LOSERS. Following me away from a ride like that. Why, I never! I don't know why I even bother riding with them.


No, really...I feel pretty good. That pace wasn't as fast as I expected. No, really...

- Dan McNeilly (Palletman)

With $700.00 in cash prizes available to dole out between the top ten finishers, many riders were already cashing their checks before The Ride Up Sunrise Mountain even began last night.

The weather conditions were near perfect for this 4.6 mile uphill climb to the top of Sunrise Mountain, so it looked liked a piece of cake for the regulars to walk away with something in their pockets. The turnout was light, perhaps because of the High Point Climb race just last Saturday, May 5, 2007.

The format was this: a qualifier race for the Cat 4/5 first, then a qualifier race for the Cat 1,2,3's, after that the race for the money.

The mass start on a narrow one lane road at the base of the climb made for a hairy beginning.

The Cat 4/5 had representation from Skylands, DKNY, Army, and Colavita, as well as a number of un-attached riders. This rider (your cub reporter, SlingShot's Pal Palletman) was feeling pretty cocky at the outset, because I had recently faired well in some uphill duels with fellow riders. [see: BOBBY CRACK CORN]

The climb started with a fairly gradual incline. The pace was brisk, but not overly so. The peloton stayed tightly together on the narrow road. I was surprised—thought the group would be spread out more due to the challenge of the climb.

No talking, no banter, everyone working. Several attacks, but nothing serious. This race should still be over in less than twenty minutes even at the rate we are going.

Joe Straub attacks and forms a gap. I am just starting to settle in and feeling good. We reach a flat area. I make my move. There's a hard right turn coming up just ahead and one mile remaining.

We turn right. The peloton surges to close the gap to Straub.
At that instant my legs give out. I implode. I have nothing. I feel like Landis must have felt on Stage 16 in last year's Tour.

I watch the peloton pull away, not understanding how they could all be so fresh. The next half mile to the finish is agony. Where did it all go? What happened to my months of training? Why the frickitty freakin' frick am I out here? Screw the money race coming up, I'll be lucky to even qualify! What the horse hair halters am I doing riding with these twenty-somethings?

I finish, God knows where in the qualifier, but I make the cut to the money race. "Oh great, I get to do it again!" I tell myself, "Treat it as a training run, don't even think about trying to cash in."

I ride back down the Mountain with the 4/5's and wait for the Cat 123's to come back down for the money race.

We start up again. I ride within myself. Feeling better. We reach the point of my implosion in the last race, and the field surges.

I drop a chain. I am done.

Thanks to Dangerous teaching me how to fix a dropped chain in motion, I touch my lever, rotate the chain back on, and resume pace. But by then I realize that I already feel like crap so probably would not have been in the hunt anyhow. I finish 15th.

The twenty somethings are having a feeding frenzy at the top, when I look at them and think to myself, "They have something I can't buy."

TP Straub - 5th, Pretty Boy Glen Babikian - 14th, The General (G Douglas Allen) - 18th.

Editor's Note: Ah...I'm not sure that I agree with you 100% on your police work there, Dan. Yah?

Or at least you can by bliss! The Widder'll bring you a sample to the Thursday Trail Side Ride.


No, really...I feel pretty good. That pace wasn't as fast as I expected. No, really...
The girls like it. SlingShot doesn't. (Yes, it's Humberto: now very un-Turtle-like.)

Editor's Note: Before you begin reading the following article, make an entry into your diary that (in another story), Zirra is now on SlingShot's shit list for kicking his ass on the next to the last hill of Tiorati Brook Road on the Harriman race course yesterday. That is an aside, but do it anyway.


As you may know, there are two separate uses for the term "crack" in the world of cycling.

Most widely used is the sense that Phil Liggett uses during play by play for bicycle races such as the Tour De France.

In that sense it means going over the edge of performance, past the point of no return, where the will and/or physical ability has topped out. The cyclist falters into failure.

In that sense "cracking" is pretty much the same as "blowing up." However, "cracking" retains a degree or two of more subtle connotation. It is somewhat less than a total rout, but it is not a minor event in any way so nowhere near the dreaded "bonk" which requires a entirely different set of circumstances.

Somebody who "blows up" on a climb, is not likely to finish the climb any stronger than survival mode, though they may recover after the climb. Somebody who "bonks" will not recover for an entire ride, maybe not for a few days and/or rides after. A "crack," on the other hand, may not mean the ride is over, nor even the full mountain. Of course, during strong competition, the win is likely lost (for the top and/or for the finish), but a strong level of performance might still be maintained.

Let us say you are at your breaking point, and the person beside you finally drops back a few inches and slowly begins to fall behind, their "crack" is that very first instant of those first few failing inches. Very rewarding.

Most fast rides (in particular The Hump and all other races), are finely tuned performances of evenly matched strong riders who are each doing their very best to lure everybody else into overextending themselves—just enough to crack, then fall off the pace, and be gone from the ride, at least until a regrouping, where the cracking begins all over again.

The big hills are generally where this happens, and usually it can only be accomplished through guile, knowledge of the abilities of the other riders, some luck, and (if you are really lucky, of course) teamwork.

The more sophisticated a group is, the more difficult it is to get someone in the group to crack. Therefore, the tactics in such groups become more and more subtle.

In the second sense of the term (used only by strong riders in Orange County, New York and surrounds), a "crack" means that somebody has "lost it" and explodes into a verbal rage.

A "crack" in the second sense is a true prize among winners, so the amount of energy that is put into trying to get somebody (anybody) to crack on any given ride is considerable.

This past Sunday, it was revealed to SlingShot that the local use of the term is even more subtle than he had believed.

At an intersection after a major hill near the end of the ride, Poor Latrine and The Black Widow were waiting for him and yelled that SlingShot should stop, because the ride would be turning left.

However, Shot saw clearly that the ride had gone on straight ahead, and he could see overt attacks were in progress just out of reach. Plus, only one single smallish hill remained before the parking lot and ride's end.

The Shotster thought, "Right...those two are bailing out of the ride while nobody is paying attention, and they are going to blame it on me later." He is quite accustomed to being everybody's best excuse whenever needed.

Therefore, he blew past the intersection, and stood in a last ditch effort to catch the group. At the same time he yelled, "Fuck that! I'm going home!"

Back in the parking lot somebody named Widow yelled, "Bob cracked back there and started yelling fuck this and fuck that. A real crack. His first ever."

Then began the circumstances through which Bob came to realize the true essence of a crack is not the gaping catastrophic disembowelment of virtue coupled with a cascading loss of self control (such as the legendary standards set by Kevin Douchebag Haley) but that a crack can be truly subtle.

A crack can be the merest sliver of a break in the skin which allows the tiniest whiff of blood to escape and provide the piranhas a focal point for their fevered post ride frenzy.

He tried in vain to raise the point that he had not, in fact, cracked; but that he had merely stated a simple fact about his intent toward homeward bound, and that was only due to his rational belief The Widow and Poor were up to their old tricks of taking a shortcut.

SlingShot could only wince as the verbal pummeling he was enduring crescendo'd again and again, spiraling out of control.

He soon realized he had chosen the absolute worst way to handle this paper cut by trying to point out its status as "minor." Not that there was any good way, nor likely any way of any kind, to get out of this. His every attempt to diffuse the situation was only inviting greater verbal abuse, so finally SlingShot went down in a hail of (no, a perfect storm of) invectives.

At the end of it, his only recourse was to crumple over in a fit of stuttering laughter, or was that a pile of weeping sobs? Depends on who you ask.

The onslaught had been so severe as to rival that of a pack of Jack Russells tearing apart their dying grandmother. 

[The paragraph above is a reference to an actual true life local horse industry story in which a bunch of dog's killed and ate their own sick grandmother. Jack Russells are like that. Just like cyclists.]

In any case, it wasn't until a couple days later that SlingShot found out the true story behind his supposed crack. In the meantime, he merely basked himself in the glory of having finally finished close enough to the group to be accused of cracking.

What had actually happened was this: Just before that last hill, SlingShot found himself finally on a course he knew...instead of the constant bullshit, "Let's turn here," and "Let's turn there," crap-fest that was being fed to him in the lead-up to every fucking horrible-ass hill in the Warwick area for all the live long fucking day by that fucking Dangerous fucking Dan ass-wipe shit-hole.

That last hill was on SlingShot's very own Triple Loop which he does a few times a week, weather permitting. Therefore, he knew just exactly how he was going to handle the hill.

Unfortunately, just at the base of the it, he thought he saw a friend at a farm house on the left, yelled a greeting, lost his focus, was backed off the pace just far enough to realize there was no way that he was going to be able to hook back on, so he started spinning, hoping to survive the hill and stay within range.

Soon afterwards he noticed that Poor Latrine (fifty yards or so ahead) had been dropped. And not so very long after that, he saw The Black Widow drop. SlingShot figured she was only waiting for Poor, to make sure he wouldn't shoot himself in the head before ordering her next saddle...which would this time be, "Not too hard. Not too soft. Just right."

As soon as SlingShot saw the Widder and Poor waiting for him after the hill, he decided, "Ok. They've given up. But I'm going to chase those motherfuckers to the end."

He only screamed goodbye to make sure he was heard.

The rest of the story about that hill had taken place beyond SlingShot's focus, which was alternating between his small ring and his cassette.

The Widow wasn't waiting for Poor Latrine, she had maxed and blown. Soon after that, Dangerous Dan got dropped. General G Douglas Allen got dropped. Twin George got dropped.

The only riders who were left toward the top were Palletman and Humberto (Turtle Boy) Cavalheiro. These two had gone off by themselves to fight their own little war.

It is not even now clear whether or not Palletman had stayed all day near the back of the ride due to The Widow having bluffed him into submission before the start, or whether he was actually lying in wait for this last hill, and his perfect moment to make a final statement.

In any case, whoever it was that actually took the hill remains a matter of conjecture, because everybody but the two involved were way the fuck dropped.

However, Humberto has remained mute on the subject for lo these several days, and that alone gives us a certain belief.

Therefore, given Palletman's recent surge to the top of all the leader boards, it is only logical that American Road Cycling must declare a winner. We have a certain responsibility.

We have gathered all the relevant data and attached special significance to recent cycling events, and also to Humberto's silence on the matter. Still it is a tough decision to make, but due to Palletman's strong showing in all recent races, we have but one choice.

Therefore, without any further hesitation, resoundingly and immediately and without prejudice, the hill is forthwith awarded to: Turtle Boy!

Congratulations, Humberto. Another great ride.

As for the Bobby crack corn? SlingShot is in a constant state of cracked. It is just that he's never gotten close enough to the end of a ride for anybody to notice.





The image of a pants-ed Kevin Haley was more than I could endure (see photo).



I Talk to the Wind
Self portrait unthinkingly passed on to SlingShot
for further development.

Hint: rollover

Caption Contest

Entry #1 from: Jean-Claude Smmoot


Entry #2 from: Princess Cranky Pea

Upon adjusting his C5, Slingshot's jersey decayed beneath Artie Art's hands, and all that was left was Bobby's Bones!


While we are at it: Most of the time, an image that does not harbor a rollover will still have "trash text" attached. People have been missing some, because in order to view them you have to leave your pointer over the image and not move it (in the slightest) for about 4 seconds. You might even like to take your hand off your mouse, till you get the hang of it. In order to practice, take a look at the most recent ride photo pages linked from the Photo Directory.



Things continue to rage out of control at American Road Cycling. More and more people are showing up every day, and we are up to UV104 with a more solid and regular usage.

Now SlingShot has begun to feel pangs of responsibility.

Although the reasons people are coming back is pretty clear, all this attention is beginning to attract hapless wanderers who arrive innocently and get clobbered by what they find.

In casual conversation, SlingShot has noticed that it is not uncommon for people to be flabbergasted by what they read here, and he has begun to worry about entrapment of good people who otherwise harbor good intentions.

Study the photo below of a long ago family gathering. That is SlingShot on the right. Do you see what is happening?

Fucking jerk!

No really...look at SlingShot's face, and think about this.

The photo above is Thanksgiving Dinner at SlingShot's and The Black Widow's. On the left is SlingShot's niece with her boyfriend Ted.

Can you guess how SlingShot feels about that guy? Pretty obvious, wouldn't you say?

In fact, Ted is someone whom SlingShot thinks is one of the most interesting and entertaining people on the planet. Ted has a Willem Dafoe air about him, plus a self carriage and presentation very close to Johnny Dep and/or Dali.

At the time of the photo, Ted was fronting a really excellent band in Boston. He was also working as a bike messenger.

He and SlingShot had just been rousted out of the recording studio, where they had been playing music and talking about art until somebody's sister forced them to show up for dinner.

In the photo SlingShot is thinking, "Man, this is great. Look at Ted mugging it up for the camera. I'll help out and play the part of the enraged 'father of the bride'. This picture is going to be hilarious."

Weeks later when the pictures finally came back from the lab, SlingShot opened them up thinking excitedly, "I can't wait to show these to Ted. He is gonna' poop!"

One look at the photo and, "Shit. This isn't funny. I just look pissed off. I really must remember that my acting skills are a bit too evolved for my own good. Well, at least Ted still looks great."

I didn't learn my lesson. Here's a recent photo that people tend to take literally.

Pssst...SlingShot. Come out for a ride with us. We know you've been hurt before, but we won't hurt you. We promise. Just a nice friendly little ride...hehehe.

"Man! Look how uncomfortable SlingShot is. He must be worried about The Black Widow finding out...or maybe she's the one taking the photo."

So how do we handle people who get here for the first time, see the American Road Cycling brand name, take it literally, believe it is a real organization (not just a figment of Shot's crumpled brain pan) and then take time out of their day to fill out forms, figure out the rules and regulations, etc.?

There is even a little cadre of people who are horrified at the content but keep coming back for more.

I asked our friend, Marie, about it and she explained, "It's like a car wreck. People are disgusted, but they just have to look."

Pretty much sums up this website, doesn't it? A real car wreck, or even better: a slow motion train wreck in progress.

In any case, how do we avoid totally misleading the public at large? How do we make it clear to everybody who gets here that this ain't nowhere near something to be taken as anything more than, well...?

Marie suggested disclaimers—not like they aren't already all over the site.

It is not always easy to make a distinction between what's serious and what's not. We used to rely on people using their common sense. Now we probably have to go a little farther.

The photos above are fiction.

The story titled: HUDSON RIVER MUSEUM & GALLERY GUIDE: an exposé of bigotry and political correctness in the arts? That is just a plain statement of fact.

The stuff about the Chester Town Board and Planning Board is merely the horror story of local carpet bagger mentality. It is true, as is the stuff about the local Taliban bike club.

Otherwise, there's nothing much here that makes any sense at all, once it is stripped a few centimeters off a funny bone.

Of course there is also: The Little Book on Writing, which some people missed, while others missed only the photo payoff at the bottom. SlingShot forgot to upload it, but that's been fixed.

You have to see the photo right after reading the last few lines, and it is probably only really good if you've just finished reading the whole thing for the first time.

For now, it appears our only choice is to try harder to make the distinction between fact and bullshit a little more explicit.

The two photos above are bullshit. The photo immediately below (TP Joe Straub being instructed in ride etiquette by SlingShot himself) is totally real.

Joe is not that good of an actor, even if he had Gene Simmon's tongue.

Here, Joe. I think Dr. Art does it like this.

BTW: Does anybody give a shit about how Joe has been winning his races like nobody's business, but the powers that be are still refusing to upgrade his Category? Somebody must be shittin' big silver bullets over the impending doom of a bunch of soon-to-be, used-to-be winners.

American Road Cycling should boycott the motherfuckers.



When the group turned into the parking lot at the end of the Farmland Century, the shock on everyone's face was rather pronounced. Although it wasn't the strangest thing that had ever happened, it was quite unexpected. Plus nobody thought they would ever see it in their own lifetime. But there it was, plain as day, undeniable, and odd.

SlingShot had finished with the group.

Nobody wants to hear about the whole Century, least of all those who endured it, but there were a lots of transcendent moments for the Shot. Here is one of them which might summarize all the others.

This little tale happened sort of late in the ride (at about 73 miles), well past a number of benchmark hills, even those big triple-rollers that gave SlingShot nightmares all year as he prepared for the ride, because he had never gotten past them (for four years) without being dropped and left to ride alone with only strong cyclists (who had started late) sporadically passing him all the way to the finish.

This hill is very similar to the Lakes Road section of the Harriman race course, the part coming off the 106 circle and going toward Tuxedo. The hill on the Century has slightly more slope and is made up of three smoothly connected sections.

The ARC group had been drafting a tandem from Skylands for lots and lots of miles before it, and Nuclear Dan seemed toned down a bit as a result.

SlingShot's theory is that Dan saw the tandem guys as part of his tribe because of the Skylands logos, and because SlingShot had trashed them by asking where Heather and Kevin were.

Probably the mention of Kevin Haley also helped tame Mr. Buckley down. He may have felt, "It's Skylands, therefore it's Kevin, so it's ok to stay behind them. No need to attack."

However, at the beginning of this longish hill the two on the tandem were backing off a bit, and another strong rider in our group (a stranger) couldn't take the slower pace so pulled around them...with Nuclear Dan on his wheel!

When SlingShot saw that, he immediately moved to get on Dan's wheel, but found BLASTER already there, then Brand New tacked on to BLASTER'S while Frankpanky had himself tucked firmly under Brand New's shadow.

Shot's sick feeling (from recognizing the hill) changed over to resolve. "Ok, this is going to be a long one, but so long as Dan stays on that guy's wheel things should be alright. That guy's plenty strong but not so frisky."

A few moments later SlingShot broke out of a zone induced trance when he noticed the wheel he was on had been dropped. He thought in a blurt, "I've got to get around and up to Brand New. Soon as that guy pulls off the front, Dan is going to surge, and I'll be gone."

Then just as the panting Shotster finally got up to his next wheel, he realized Brand New had also been dropped.

He had to get around Bruce and up to Jim, and do it soon, or there was going to be a major blow-up. As he slipped up beside Bruce, he noticed the front guy falter just slightly and then resume. "Watch out Bruce, that guy's about to pull off and Dan is going to be set free."

It did not feel like a full hour had passed, just most of one, when SlingShot finally reached Jim, only to realize that Jim was, by then, also dropped. There were 10 yards to go to Dan's wheel and the front guy was starting to crack and pull off.


Digging very close to six feet deep, SlingShot bridged the last bit of a gap and grabbed Dan's wheel to let it carry him to the top as they finally dropped Mr. Front Guy.

But the damage was already done.

Nuclear Dan had been triggered and was spinning down the rifled barrel of no return. Mr. Front Guy also quickly got his hill legs back, so a half hour or so of king of this part of the mountain ensued. SlingShot hung on to whatever shred of a tire there was to be grabbed.

At last on a longish downhill SlingShot got up beside Mr. Front Guy and asked, "What is your name?"


"I'm Bob. Is your first language English?"


Louder, "English! Is English your first language!"


"Then you probably know the word 'uncle.'" Could you please yell it out as loud as you can toward that guy on the yellow Calfee, so we can be done with this shit?"

He did it in a laugh, and the loss of a personal best for SlingShot was averted...just.

SlingShot would never have been able to hang on to the hill that started it, if not for the schooling in quintuple attack he  received last week from Cranky on Demarest. Not to mention the double ass whorping strength-workout she handed him the next day on Bank Street.

Thank you Cranky and Louie Prince of Pain. If SlingShot ever gets hold of the two of you...






Bob, since you weren't there to report it first hand, I thought you would like to hear how yesterday's Hump went.

With a good amount of the really good riders doing either the Farmlands Century or the High Point Time Trial, the large numbers of riders one would expect on such a beautiful day was down.

In any event, the ride started out pretty good until about a mile out when Poor Latrine had the entire group hold up, so he could tighten his handle bars.

This request came at the most opportune time to screw up everyone's trip computers and make sure nobody could get an accurate mph for the Hump, so you know right there that it was fast yesterday. Exactly how fast? We'll never know.

There was a Verge guy with a Black Widow clone [Jen] with him pushing the early pace. Our DKNY team had a strong showing in Twin George Meyer, Dangerous Dan Sullivan, and myself.

Oh, as mentioned earlier Poor Latrine was there for awhile, but he must have suffered a further mechanical.

Dangerous Dan attacked Ridgebury which is normally understood as his M.O. for staying with the field at the top of the hill. Sullivan Bob attempts to bridge up. Twin George and I realize that if we don't bridge up, Dangerous will be out there all alone, and by himself.

George moves up. I'm stuck and boxed in by the Verge rider and the Black Widow clone [Jen]. I wait until the roadway on the right side opens up forming a drainage ditch and pass them on the right. They've got about fifty yards on me at this point. I realize this is DKNY's [Donkey Kong Neutered Youth's] opportunity to make a statement, so I dig deeper.

I pass Sullivan Bob with twenty yards still left to get back to Dangerous and Twin George. I close the gap just at the top of Ridgebury.

Sullivan Bob catches my wheel, so it's the four of us off to the races. I was humming My Old Kentucky Home during the ride, thus the "off to the races" metafore (sp?). [Exactly. Also it was Kentucky Derby day.]

It's three DKNY riders with Sullivan Bob. We're riding very smooth and smart. The pace is crisp, with short pulls. I sense Sullivan Bob is suffering. His pulls are getting shorter and shorter.

On the hill just before the camel farm a dog runs out into the road and chases us. This was a BIG dog! Apparently, Sullivan Bob lost his fight to the dog, because Dangerous, Twin and I never saw Bob again after that.

From there on in, it was all DKNY, working together like a well oiled machine. We all crossed the finish line holding hands together. It was beautiful and gay.

Dangerous was heard to say that we had thrown Sullivan Bob to the dogs...he might just be right.


File footage of some other DKNY team member
during better times.

Editor's Note: It appears the publication (below) of The Little Book on Writing has already paid dividends.

** Otherwise, ARC Staff feels it is incumbent upon us to point out that the truth of the matter is this: The Black Widow only wishes that she herself could be a clone of Jen, who is in fact the real deal. But Palletman is just doing his best to survive.



For the past few weeks I have been working on an extended writing project, and this is your lucky day. It is ready for  publication.

It was written specifically for somebody I am helping with some of their own writing.  However, one of my standard goals is to always work in a way which allows greater use of whatever final product I complete, other than merely making it useful for the specific task that required it.

This one is called: The Little Book on Writing.

It will not only be helpful with my current project, I will reuse it for similar projects from now on.

It is simply a few practical tips for use in the writing process. It is meant for sophisticated readers, so it jumps quickly to the guts of the matter. It is non-technical, but it is not stupid.

Here is a sample chapter:


Fly in above the radar

Often, new topic headings with their associated thematic interrelations occur to you only after much of the internal structure of whatever you are writing is already worked out. This happens because you are using your own writing as a tool to fly in over the terrain progressively higher thus gaining an increasingly broader view of the big picture.

Each time you reread self-edited work, your newly completed edits help you move to a higher level of abstraction. As your writing is tightened up, it begins to read back with more ease and clarity. Since you get less hung up on grammar and syntax problems, you tick through the ideas faster and faster. Eventually, just like a flip-book, indistinct concepts begin to resolve into movement and meaning. There comes a smoothness to the flow which allows you to see the overall motion of your articulated ideas, thus you can follow their trajectories to unexpected distant ends. This moving picture of your writing prompts you to discover, then enhance and expand, ever more interesting connections.

After all, writing is a primary tool for thought. If one could do the same quality creative thought without writing down ideas, then writing would never have evolved. Or to put it another way, if God did not want us to think, she would not have given us pencils.


Having read that chapter, you can make an informed decision whether you want to read the rest. Also, the section above contains my favorite paragraph, so at least you have seen that.

You probably want to read at least the first few paragraphs of the booklet itself. It basically summarizes and explains the reasons that American Road Cycling has been so successful.

It took me a long time to understand why this website is working, and I am sure you will agree with my conclusions.

The booklet is published on another one of my websites. That one is hidden from search engines, so people can only find it when I send them to it myself.

We will all be better off if nobody considers the other things on that site as anything more than notes to myself for passing along to people who need of them. Please just ignore the rest.

I have placed links at the top and bottom of the booklet so you can get back here easily. With this booklet published, I will not have to put anything else on American Road Cycling for the next couple days. You will have plenty to read.

Here's the link:


How lucky you are to be one of the first to hear it said about SlingShot, "Yeah, that's right. He wrote the book on writing."

Now I am going to bed, because I have to get up at 4:00 am to ride a Century with Nuclear Dan, Brand New Bruce, Franky Panky, and BLASTER. We are all pretty distressed that Zirra will not be there to pull us this year. We still may try to finish under 5 hours. I already explained to Zirra how unfortunate it is that he will not be there, because this is the year I was going to kick is ass.

Otherwise, if all goes well, I might show up for the Wallkill ride on Sunday.

Good night, and get fucked.



The Hump starts at 8:30 am tomorrow!






For Thursday's Trailside Ride, Twin George sent over a gift for Cranky Mary Beth Henderson. Mary Fugett was rather jealous at first (livid), but she overcame her anger to do the right thing and get a photo of Cranky with her new gift mug.

Here it is:

Gee George. This is great! I was afraid you were going to put "Cranky" on it or something.
Cranky with Mug from Twin George

We aren't sure why Mrs. Fugett had such a turn of heart, but we do appreciate all the extra work she did preparing this photo for publication. We also can't figure out why it took her so long to get the photo prepped.

Tutorial: To whom it may concern, all articles on this website are archived after publication. They go immediately onto the the Old New's pages. That stands for the old things that were highlighted by the "New" logo, like the one in the column at left. Therefore it means the (plural) "New's" which are not always merely the old news. You'll probably want to think that through a few times.

The plan is to always change the home page right around midnight. That way people who check in late get to see the day's articles, and SlingShot doesn't have to get up at 4:00 am just so Palletman, Paul Latrine, Zirra, UV71/44, sometimes Cranky (shown above) and FG don't get disappointed by having nothing new to read in the morning.

Sometimes SlingShot gets too fucking tired to wait for midnight, so he posts the new pages, moves the older articles back to the archives, and goes to bed.

It is unfortunate that some people then arrive a little too late and might be confused to see tomorrow's offerings already published. That is what has happened tonight, because SlingShot is seeing double after the ride. Especially the way the ride ended with him and Cranky doing two loops up Bank Street just for fun.

Actually, SlingShot is pretty pleased with himself, because Cranky only beat him up Bank Street twice, plus he has now confirmed that he really is starting to hate her. Before today he only surmised he was starting to hate her.

In any case, people, who show up here after articles have changed over, can always check the older ones by clicking on the Old New's button at the top of the "Today in American Road Cycling" section, or the "Old New's" near the bottom of the section. Also the "Old New's" button is now part of the repeated header buttons that are found below this section.

Good night, and good luck.


(They will claw your eyes out for you.)

Pssst...SlingShot. Come out for a ride with us. We know you've been hurt before, but we won't hurt you. We promise. Just a nice friendly little ride...hehehe.
If you didn't know better,
you might think this was fun.

Soon as I get a chance I'm tossin' SlingShot to them harpies and bailing out of this ride.
SlingShot under the mistaken belief
that he has finally found an ally.


Only an idiot like Palletman would think the photo at top shows anything but trouble.

At least we get to clear up once and for all the confusion over witch is witch. Actually we don't think they look at all alike. Twin looks mean, and Cranky looks nasty. That's Twin Lynn on the left, Cranky on the right.

The bottom photo shows SlingShot with Scott who is quietly packing his parachute.

Editor's Note: Please, please, please get some more people to show up for the Wednesday ride, so SlingShot may hide under cloak of crowd.



I want it noted for the record that I called Latrine to see if he was doing Harriman on Tuesday.

He said he was going to check his schedule, make changes, and call me back to let me know.

NO call back, and he goes anyway. I think he is afraid of getting dropped by some flatlander from Jersey.

I am calling punk.


And punk it is Kevin. You also probably thought you were getting a window seat just because you called dibs. I have two words for you: Paul Latrine.

Wake up and smell the Moe-vicis.

As an aside: Thank you for the e-mail from the UV87 IP#. That moves another unknown over to known. I may survive this yet.

BTW: So far, it is just me, Nuclear Dan, Franky Panky, BLASTER, and maybe Brand New Bruce for the Farmlands Flat Tour Century. See you for the start at 7:30.

Here is a pre-translation in case you speak to Paul to see if he'll be coming with us. When he says, "I'd love to," that is Paulie Speak for, "No fucking way, dude! How 'bout a Moe-vici?"

Otherwise: We are keeping your photo on the home page for maybe the next couple months. I can't stop looking at it, and I keep rolling my mouse over it in order to see the pop-up text. 

It might be my favorite photo ever.

I had a long discussion with The Black Widow this afternoon about the perfect composition. The gnarled and weathered tree flowing into the frame from the left, counterbalanced by the cold and empty blue sky on the right. The wind swept trees inviting your imagination into the poignant and desolate background. The Van Gogh hills on the right. Your Zen-like lack of expression which might be a yawn or a deeply disturbed pallor of rage. And that singular lone power line.

The Widder was at the computer looking at it, and I stepped her through it from memory.

Just perfect. I knew it couldn't have been taken by Latrine. There's an honesty to it.

Finale: You know...there's no reason you need to have Latrine come hold your hand in Harriman. I believe I recall him phoning, and we told him that you would have contacted us if you were coming, so maybe that pulled him off the case. Also, I think I recall something about a last minute fitting cancellation.

Give the poor boy a break. Do you have any idea what it did to him to find that you beat him onto American Road Cycling the morning of the 1st, and that you will therefore be above him in the listings for the entire month?

Just relax and quit screaming.



NIGHTMARE: Last night I wrote the article below (Super Tuesday) quickly and in a haze due to the ride(s) it describes.

This morning I woke up remembering a bad dream. In the dream I was climbing a long cold hill, and couldn't get my bike to work correctly. I was creeping along and couldn't understand why.

Then I remembered where the dream came from. Yesterday, Super Tuesday,  I took a short cut onto Lake Welsh during the first loop in hopes of surviving the ride. Paul, Mary and Dan were long out of sight, because I had hooked onto Humberto's wheel off the circle on 106, and the others refused to play on the Lakes Road climb.

At the next bottom, Humberto wouldn't follow me on my shortcut (up the wrong side of the road), and when I turned onto Lake Welsh my glance back revealed that Dan had finally left Latrine and the Widder, so he saw my cheat.

About three quarters of the way up Bob's Favorite Hill (as we call the first hill on Lake Welsh), Humberto came spinning by me.

I was still fresh, because I was smartly playing my cheat card to the max. However, when Humberto flashed past I could only pretend to latch on. I thought, "That was certainly not a 'use my forward momentum before this guy can respond' move. He just spun up the hill from a quarter mile back...and I couldn't even stay with him as the hill broke. No way! My brakes are stuck, or my rear axle is hung up, or my chain is all grungy. What the fuck is wrong with my bike?"

Later when Dan caught me before the top of Lake Welsh, and the beginning of the fast downhill, I wasn't much surprised. I knew I was going to be his target the moment I saw him snap his head toward my cheating. Afterwards, the triad of near-max heart rate moments he hammered into my chest while repeatedly dropping and waiting for me going up Tiorati only reinforced the subconscious horror that later became my nightmare.

Of course, my second Eat Shit and Die Hill ass kicking of the day, which that little shit Arctic Paul gave me during the second loop, did not help things either.

Still, it was strange how eerily exact that feeling of helpless cycling inaction in my nightmare tracked so perfectly the actual feeling of having Humberto pass me on a hill like he was in his car.



SUPER TUESDAY: Did you know that there are four separate rides going out on Tuesdays? I feel like I did them all, but I only did two.

I did the Harriman Ride with Nuclear Dan. It was billed as an easy ride, because Franky Panky was going to be making his Harriman debut for the year, so we expected a lot of side by side riding, with talk about Franky's races.

Then Paul Latrine got involved. He decided, what with his ongoing cough and all, that it would be better to show up for Harriman rather than his scheduled ride with Humberto.

Then there was a big traffic jam on 17 because of traffic spillover due to a truck crash on the highway. That meant Franky Panky was not going to make it to the start of the ride.

The prospects for a slow ride dropped several levels. If Franky didn't show up with talking points, things might hinge on something else, like maybe, "Are we sure Paul knows Nuclear is no sap?" and, "Are we sure Nuclear knows Paul is no sap?"

You know, the sort of crap which can only be answered in a way that includes the ass whipping of SlingShot.

Whether the stone hits the vase, or the vase hits the stone, it's not going to be pretty for SlingShot.

So Paul pulls up in his mini-van, and just when things look like they couldn't get any worse, somebody shouts (very quietly), "Fuck. Humberto's with Paul."

The (very quiet) shout was followed immediately by excited smiling chatter all around, because it is very special to have Humberto show up for a ride, so everybody's initial excitement overshadowed the approaching hell that Humberto's arrival heralded.

Suffice it to say, the Paul v. Buckley smack-down was waylaid when The Black Widow (quietly to herself) came up with her very own, "Are we sure Humberto knows The Black Widow is no sap?"

Just a little while later, SlingShot found himself nearing the top of 106 on a year's best pace, while The Black Widow half-wheeled Humberto, and Paul tried to break the Widder's concentration with outbursts of his new favorite game (May-weeee...cough, cough, cough, May-weee...cough, cough, cough), and Dan Buckley sat on the back trying to figure out why this was a day for a fucking record pace. After all, he had planned hill sprints for later in the ride, and a warm-up first might have been nice.

SlingShot was in the roll of innocent bystander, breathing very hard, taking the full brunt.

Oh yeah, Humberto was in full giggle mode. That is to say, the tougher it got for everybody around him the more humorous he was finding it, and the more that god-awful laughter mega-phoned from his horrid rat stained putrid motherfucking mouth, the more that self perpetuating laughter increased the pain of the mortals around him. Or at least, that's the way SlingShot saw it.

In any case, Humberto's standard laughing at mortals is spot on, but the part about the horrid rat stained putrid mouth is probably just SlingShot's view of it.

SlingShot was still smarting from Sunday's ride which ended with Humberto's laughter getting louder and louder as more pain was applied to the gasping SlingShot by the thumbs of Humberto's little demon friends, Twin George, General G Douglas Allen, and that fucker Latrine.

Therefore, you would have thought SlingShot would not run off after the ride in order to go try out the Tuesday Sterling Forest ride, which ride is lead by this Motherfucker who merely proceeded, with help from his own little friends, to continue where Humberto, Dan, Paul and the Widder had left off—with similar result.

Fucking assholes.

Now, think about it: this was only two of four rides available every Tuesday. It has truly become Super Tuesday.

Editor's Note: The motherfucker mentioned above, whose photo is linked, must not be confused with [rider's name stricken] by those who are not very circumspect with their pronunciation, even though [rider's name stricken] treatment of SlingShot is generally much the same.

Editor's Suggestion: SlingShot, why don't you take it easy next week and go over to the The Bicycle Doctor's ride in Middletown. Or phone up Brian at Joe Fix It's in Goshen to see if enough people are bored with kicking Brian's ass to be willing to gang up on you and slap you senseless like you are used to.

Heard on Yesterday's Second Harriman Loop: "I've heard about the Bicycle Doctor ride. You do not want to show up to that ride unless you are in really good shape." To which SlingShot mumbled under his breath, "And if I ever did get in good enough shape, I still wouldn't want to show up for that ride. Come to think of it: I don't want to be on this fucking ride, right the fuck now either!"

Best Exchange from Yesterday's Second Harriman: "That's the same truck following us again! They must be waiting for someone." To which SlingShot responded, "That's my wife. By your tone, I guess you know her."






RELAX AND QUIT SCREAMING: Yesterday, we set a new single day attendance record with 23 readers showing up. SlingShot has decided somebody is messin' with his head.

Maybe this photo of Zirra will scare them away -

It's only a quarter mile back to the highway. I'll just let go of your neck, and you make a run for it. Ready, set...
Submitted by guest photographer: Paul Latrine
We don't know if Paul took it. We just know he submitted it.
Guess he made it to the highway.


2007/04: OLD NEW'S - American Road Cycling Archives


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02/01/2015 10:38:58 PM

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