Almost End of the Line

There is definitely something about the holidays that drags people out of the house to do the things you wouldn’t typically expect them to do on a major holiday such as Christmas (or Hanukah for those of the Jewish persuasion). Maybe it has to do with the fact that everyone realizes the chances to escape from these Hallmark holidays--holidays meaning in-laws, cooking, caroling, too many cookies, watching A Christmas Story for the umpteenth time, etc.--are few and far between so if you actually have the opportunity to duck out for a few hours, you better take that opportunity because it may be a long while before you can do it again.

Most likely, this is exactly what everyone was thinking when the alarms began clicking on this morning. After a friend called last night and cancelled--that friend would be Kenny Picco, if anyone’s wondering--a mountain biking trip we had scheduled for this morning, I thought, I wonder if any of the Staten Island gang will be out riding the day before Christmas. Packing my gear last night and setting my own alarm for 6:45 AM, I figured that even if no one other than myself arrived at Miller Field this morning, I would go out and put in some miles regardless, so the potential downsides were slim.

By 8:30, with the sun well overhead, there were more riders in the parking lot than there have been in a while. Why? It’s the holidays, of course. Everyone wants out of the house, almost everything is closed tomorrow, and most everyone has the day off (for those of us who are yet to reach the age of retirement), so why not show up and ride for a few hours?

Needless to say, we had a full crew, including Grandmaster Ed Dalton, Big Horace, Kelly, Tommy, Vito, Rob, some guy without a helmet, and maybe one or two others I’m unable to recall off the top of my head. Once we reached Fr. Capodanno, we picked up Lester, his brother, Dr. Rob, and Greg. That makes roughly twelve, which, based on my experience, is a decent amount of boys and girls for a Sunday ride. Granted, I’ve never ridden with these guys in the summer, but based on winter standards, a dozen is a good group.

More importantly, what that means is the casual insults were flying nonstop. In the space of just over two hours, I heard more references to girlfriends with boys’ names, short dresses, push-up bras, thongs, and pantyhose than I’ve ever heard in my life. Riding with these guys, there seem to be some jokes that just never get old. For example, I don’t think ten minutes pass without hearing Ed yell out, “Hey Vito, where’s your girlfriend today?” Or, “You know, I bet you’d look pretty good in a push-up bra.”

I don’t know what the story is between Ed and Vito, although obviously they’re close considering the banter. Riding with Ed is like riding with an Irish gangster who decided to take up cycling. As a further example, Ed made reference to Brent’s girlfriend last weekend as we started the hill-climb ride.

“I’m going to pretend I know who you’re talking about,” Brent replied.

“You know,” Ed said, “your girlfriend so-and-so. The one who looks cute in tights.” Ed actually mentioned a guy’s name, but I don’t remember it. Sue me.

“Actually,” Brent said, “you make mention of his posterior much more than I do.”

Whatever the case may be, whoever may be hurling the insults, and whoever may be the recipient of said insults, it was a good ride this morning despite that goddam incessant wind. Ed pulled, Rob pulled, Dr. Rob pulled, and I even hopped in front a few times (I would do so more often as I know I break a fair amount of wind with my height and I want to do my share of the work, although most of the group doesn’t seem interested in riding behind me for much longer than a few seconds--someone’s always pulling out in front of me), although by the time we reached the end of Richmond Terrace, most of the team was gone. The guy without a helmet, Lester, his brother, Kelly, and Horace were nowhere to be found. Someone must have suffered a flat or just plain backed off. You never know when someone’s nursing a cold that makes nineteen miles-per-hour with a headwind feel like thirty. And then, some days, your legs or your lungs simply refuse to cooperate.

Random tangent: here’s a link to a nine-minute video clip from the 1987 Tour de France I found on YouTube.com. I don’t know who half the riders are (actually, I don’t know who any of them are, although I believe I might have spotted Greg LeMond), although it’s entertaining to watch the guys kick ass up those climbs almost twenty years ago:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QO9CfgoZ5c

(If the link is not live--meaning you're unable to click on it--simply copy and paste into your browser and that should work.)

That’s about it, really. I can’t think of much else to say (which is probably a good thing, at least for the few people who actually read this thing).

Finally, here’s another link to another cycling clip: four-minutes overlapped with a great tune by Muse. In one sequence, the camera is following a T-Mobile rider along what appears to be an uphill time trial when some schmuck in the crowd jumps into the middle of the road to snap a pic. Unfortunately for the rider, the dick-for-brains fan has his eye glued to the camera too long so that when he tries to sidestep out of the way, he jumps right into the rider, knocking him to the ground. God, can you imagine the embarrassment of (a) doing something so incredibly stupid in the first place, and (b) having to live with such stupidity caught on video for the rest of your life. Also, I have to imagine that if the kid with the camera knocked over a French rider, some of the other fans nearby probably slapped him around a bit after the fact (which he most likely deserved). Anyway, here’s the link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pCLfOlEBdA

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year!