Showing posts with label dirty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dirty. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Safe, sane, and consensual.
So as I'm gearing up to go over to Leanne's and eat all of her food, Morgan "Drift King" Tsaylor rings me, and he's all hepped up on some n+1 business because he bought a new BMX, and I think he's trying to offer up his old tank as some kind of compensation for getting scooped on the GT. He sounds like he's been into the tall cans:
Damn, son. If I even look at a bike with 3-piece cranks these days, my body involuntarily shuts down and I wake up rocking back and forth in a corner muttering to myself about bottom bracket shell standards. So yeah, the ol' wrist ain't doing so well. It's been a rough couple of weeks, and having a veiled offer of an indestructible 20" hackmobile (with pegs!) waved under your nose after losing out on a $300 track bike isn't making it any easier.
It's a rugged life, son. It's war out here in these streets. Burrard St at full chat dropping down northbound past triple-seis last week. Nitwit pedestrian steps out into the bike lane between two parked trucks. Car in the lane to my left, nothing but door on the right. Of course, when you ride with a bunch of random hoons, one learns to watch for the quick leg-twitch and react accordingly: quick metal-on-metal bark up front to scare the shit out of him and set up the weight transfer for a full lock on the rear. Hip-drift onto the grease strip, breaking traction for just the sweetest, neatest little Scandinavian Flick six inches into the left-hand lane and another flick back to the inside because if the juice is flowing, I am coming down that hill like a wolf on the fold. Like fucking plague. Captain Trips, son. M-O-O-N spells "Get money."
Sunday, though, we were all Tom Boonen. And B-O-O-N-E-N spells "owned." Sure, maybe you didn't get to bring home the Queen of les Classiques, but it was mos def one hell of a dance, and everybody got to come home bloody, dirty, and drunk. And on Sunday, Mr. Boonen rocked quietly back and forth on the Grandview Park polo grounds, and tried to piece together just how it all went down. Something about taking a moment to compliment Mr. Luciano (the hardest-working man in show business) re: a fine last-minute wheelbuild from Rob, and then borking it not five minutes later via a kamikaze derby run at Kelly. And making her cry. Work bike vs. polo bike. Comedy wins. Mavic Open Sport and short-term memory lose.
Except that out sur la pave, Tommy Boy is getting the first ever custom-molded bicycle frame to accommodate 13mm worth of back discomfort, and out on these streets, kids can't even get a muthafuckin' dental plan. Shit, some of the hardest female riders in this city are wrecking themselves because they can't even get a frame that fits.
How can you be bitter, though, when guys like The Artist Formerly Known as Nagasawa Mike are screaming "PACK-A-GESSSSS" at you in the elevator; or when Bun Guy appears out of nowhere just as the bonk is coming down; or when you get stopped out of the blue to show off your Midnight Mass emo-button for a Momentum Magazine photo shoot; or when Skylar gets screamed "EYYY! FUCK-A YOU, AH!" on him within seven minutes of leaving the house for a breakfast hoon run out to the Drive?
Or when you're three knuckles deep into the smoothest, juiciest run ever, and the Asian chick smoking a blunt in the black AMG is checking you out and bumping this shit as you lock up:
Steady on that grind, son.
More shit from the B-Tionary:
Pick-n-roll:
Timing your turns so as to keep a vehicle or pedestrian as a barrier against oncoming traffic. Shields up, Mr. Sulu!
Pump-n-dump:
BK1 cheque delivery to a junior mining firm of dubious credibility. Cashout-n-dashout. A good 30% of these offices are shuttered by the time I get there, and I can only hope that their officers and directors had the good sense to break out like Stuart O'Grady to a non-extraditable country before the hammer drops. I suspect that in some instances, I've made it mere moments in advance of the process servers.
HOT BIEK RACE ACTION THIS SATURDAY. BRING INTERNET MEEPING AND A TALL CAN TO CRAB PARK AT 4:20PM. For the record, my race strategy is "Don't fucking hang out with Wendell, Skylar, Leanne, Tara, or Kelly the night before, you fucking degenerate, and maybe you won't be dry-heaving at the starting line this time around."
MORE HOT RACE RIOTS SATURDAY SATURDAY SATURDAY APRIL 5TH! BURNABY VELODROME 3-DAY! BEER GARDEN, CHEAP EATS, HOON SHIT, KASEY SPINS ELECTROQUEER MAKEOUT, SOME OTHER DOODS SPIN HIP-HOP AND FUNK!
Hayhayhay.
Stay tuned for more sporadic alcohol-fuelled updates: the long-procrastinated Project-B winter gear review wrap-up; gettin' dirty with MEC, Park Tool and Filzer; the unkindest words we've pretty much ever had to say about a cycling product since fucking BioPace; and the finest in girl-girl makeout action that the internet cycling press has to offer. As always, somebody gonna get-a hurt real bad.
(photopropz to Trent)
"Dude, do you realize that there are people who actually just get on these bikes and do jumps and shit? Like, they're not breaking any parts or hurting themselves or anything - they just ride the fucking things?"
Damn, son. If I even look at a bike with 3-piece cranks these days, my body involuntarily shuts down and I wake up rocking back and forth in a corner muttering to myself about bottom bracket shell standards. So yeah, the ol' wrist ain't doing so well. It's been a rough couple of weeks, and having a veiled offer of an indestructible 20" hackmobile (with pegs!) waved under your nose after losing out on a $300 track bike isn't making it any easier.
It's a rugged life, son. It's war out here in these streets. Burrard St at full chat dropping down northbound past triple-seis last week. Nitwit pedestrian steps out into the bike lane between two parked trucks. Car in the lane to my left, nothing but door on the right. Of course, when you ride with a bunch of random hoons, one learns to watch for the quick leg-twitch and react accordingly: quick metal-on-metal bark up front to scare the shit out of him and set up the weight transfer for a full lock on the rear. Hip-drift onto the grease strip, breaking traction for just the sweetest, neatest little Scandinavian Flick six inches into the left-hand lane and another flick back to the inside because if the juice is flowing, I am coming down that hill like a wolf on the fold. Like fucking plague. Captain Trips, son. M-O-O-N spells "Get money."
Sunday, though, we were all Tom Boonen. And B-O-O-N-E-N spells "owned." Sure, maybe you didn't get to bring home the Queen of les Classiques, but it was mos def one hell of a dance, and everybody got to come home bloody, dirty, and drunk. And on Sunday, Mr. Boonen rocked quietly back and forth on the Grandview Park polo grounds, and tried to piece together just how it all went down. Something about taking a moment to compliment Mr. Luciano (the hardest-working man in show business) re: a fine last-minute wheelbuild from Rob, and then borking it not five minutes later via a kamikaze derby run at Kelly. And making her cry. Work bike vs. polo bike. Comedy wins. Mavic Open Sport and short-term memory lose.
Except that out sur la pave, Tommy Boy is getting the first ever custom-molded bicycle frame to accommodate 13mm worth of back discomfort, and out on these streets, kids can't even get a muthafuckin' dental plan. Shit, some of the hardest female riders in this city are wrecking themselves because they can't even get a frame that fits.
How can you be bitter, though, when guys like The Artist Formerly Known as Nagasawa Mike are screaming "PACK-A-GESSSSS" at you in the elevator; or when Bun Guy appears out of nowhere just as the bonk is coming down; or when you get stopped out of the blue to show off your Midnight Mass emo-button for a Momentum Magazine photo shoot; or when Skylar gets screamed "EYYY! FUCK-A YOU, AH!" on him within seven minutes of leaving the house for a breakfast hoon run out to the Drive?
Or when you're three knuckles deep into the smoothest, juiciest run ever, and the Asian chick smoking a blunt in the black AMG is checking you out and bumping this shit as you lock up:
My roof back, my money rides
I'm on the pedal, show you what I'm runnin' like
Steady on that grind, son.
More shit from the B-Tionary:
Pick-n-roll:
Timing your turns so as to keep a vehicle or pedestrian as a barrier against oncoming traffic. Shields up, Mr. Sulu!
Pump-n-dump:
BK1 cheque delivery to a junior mining firm of dubious credibility. Cashout-n-dashout. A good 30% of these offices are shuttered by the time I get there, and I can only hope that their officers and directors had the good sense to break out like Stuart O'Grady to a non-extraditable country before the hammer drops. I suspect that in some instances, I've made it mere moments in advance of the process servers.
HOT BIEK RACE ACTION THIS SATURDAY. BRING INTERNET MEEPING AND A TALL CAN TO CRAB PARK AT 4:20PM. For the record, my race strategy is "Don't fucking hang out with Wendell, Skylar, Leanne, Tara, or Kelly the night before, you fucking degenerate, and maybe you won't be dry-heaving at the starting line this time around."
MORE HOT RACE RIOTS SATURDAY SATURDAY SATURDAY APRIL 5TH! BURNABY VELODROME 3-DAY! BEER GARDEN, CHEAP EATS, HOON SHIT, KASEY SPINS ELECTROQUEER MAKEOUT, SOME OTHER DOODS SPIN HIP-HOP AND FUNK!
Hayhayhay.
Stay tuned for more sporadic alcohol-fuelled updates: the long-procrastinated Project-B winter gear review wrap-up; gettin' dirty with MEC, Park Tool and Filzer; the unkindest words we've pretty much ever had to say about a cycling product since fucking BioPace; and the finest in girl-girl makeout action that the internet cycling press has to offer. As always, somebody gonna get-a hurt real bad.
(photopropz to Trent)
Friday, February 09, 2007
If you survive this checkpoint, you will be a minister of death, praying for war.
Preliminary scouting of our position revealed suitable training grounds at the Science World playground, originally involving a reverse scramble up the tube slide. This plan had to be scrapped because 1) it was fucking impossible, and 2) the slide had a large aluminum restrictor plate covering the top end. The latter was particularly notable because it had non-security bolts holding it on, and that it hadn't been absconded with by False Creek tweaker-pirates. I unsheathed and prepared to deploy the Park MTB-3, but Sgt. Kavanaugh pulled rank on me and we devised an alternate strategy. We assumed defensive positions, and kept a lookout for incoming blinkies to target and engage:
And then there was Ifny. Last time around, she was the hottest one out of the gate and never let up. This time, though, the race face was gone. Broken. Homegirl walked the field back in September, but the Winterbee spam queen could muster no better than 4th. I didn't have the heart to go too rough on her, and NikCee was grinning too bloody hard for me to slow him down too much as well. About halfway through the peloton, my throat was getting raw, and seeing as how we had more than enough Canadian Club to last us through, it was time to start passing it around.
Things started getting dirty and blurry. They always do. Leanne had me beating a hasty retreat back up to my parade podium after I dared contradict her orders in front of a recruit. Camilo managed to embarass the entire profession of bicycle messengering, take me out while rolling down the hill, and then tried to gnaw his way through the recruit in front of him on the way back up. James earned the nickname "Private Joker." I threatened to keep some Portlander at the checkpoint until he died. One saucy little number gave as good as she got and spat the onion out in our faces, and Brandon and I started running out of ammo, which meant that the onions we'd been pelting the recruits with would have to be found and recycled. Our recovery mission netted several viable specimens, and we gave them a quick wipedown before handing them off to the latecomers.
At some point Leanne took the bottle away from me and we decamped for the rendezvous point/party bunker. Bhangra, dancehall, 'ettes, cl'ettes, etc's, bikegirl-crushes, free drink tickets from Morgan, mini-circle of death (my apologies for being a complete fucking hoon), cameo appearances by the Purple House, Pedal Play made enough cream to keep them choppin' through the spring, and Morgan got to be "that guy" with his shirt off all night long.
Wendell's back in town and he's into the sauce again. Apparently this blog is worth something on the order of $564, which is almost enough money to cover the KillHlimber's rear wheel. At this rate, we can hopefully sell this shit out to Giant in a year or so and retire. Project-B: monetizin' r contentz, replaced by botz.
Why settle for a snack when you can get the full meal deal? More Ian Schwartz poached from The Come Up:
Ain't no freecoaster on the dessert cart, son:
...like I can taste anything anyway. After fighting off the Dirty Biker Bronchitis, I got dropped by the stomach flu this week, went from 40ish hours of riding down to about two, and I'm going all Bart of Darkness up in this bitch. To hell with bikecrushes, time for a date with La Maraca Negra.
Pray for dry.
"NOW DROP THAT GODDAMNED SILLY LITTLE BICYCLE AND COME TO ATTENNNN-HUT, MAGGOT! FROM NOW ON, THE FIRST AND LAST WORDS OUT OF YOUR FILTHY SEWERS WILL BE "SIR." I CAN'T HEAR YOU! NOW PICK UP THAT BICYCLE AND YOU CYCLOCROSS IT UP TO THE TOP OF THIS HILL AND REPORT TO ME, MAGGOT! SHOW ME YOUR WAR FACE! YOU CALL THAT A WAR FACE? LET ME SEE YOUR REAL WAR FACE! NOW DROP THAT BICYCLE, ROLL DOWN THAT HILL, AND REPORT TO THE NORTH CORNER OF THE PLAYGROUND! FASTER! I WILL KICK YOU DOWN THAT GODDAMNED HILL, MAGGOT! I WILL KICK YOU INTO NEXT TUESDAY! I WILL KICK A FUCKING HOLE IN YOUR THROAT! SO HELP ME GOD I WILL KICK YOU BACK TO THE LAST CHECKPOINT AND MAKE YOU APOLOGIZE TO YOUR LAST TRAINING UNIT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT MOVE IT!"...and so on. After running the playground obstacle course and doing a shot, recruits were then required to report to Sgt. Kavanaugh for push-ups and Christ-knows-what-else kind of abuse, then they had to crawl back up the hill to their bicycles and report back to me:
"HAVE WE BROKEN YOU YET, MAGGOT? ARE WE READY TO MAKE A SOLDIER OUT OF YOU? ARE YOU FIT TO SERVE MY BELOVED CORPS? THEN WHY ARE YOU NOT CRYING? THEREFORE, WE MUST MAKE YOU CRY! BITE THIS ONION, SOLDIER!"And so our little maggots earned their maps, and spread their dewy new wings into the night and towards the party. Lyle was the first one in, and got an onion-bye because he was down with the program and cried on demand. Nick B was hot on Lyle's wheel and appeared to be suffering from mild shell-shock. Morgan fucking TRYKED it into third.
And then there was Ifny. Last time around, she was the hottest one out of the gate and never let up. This time, though, the race face was gone. Broken. Homegirl walked the field back in September, but the Winterbee spam queen could muster no better than 4th. I didn't have the heart to go too rough on her, and NikCee was grinning too bloody hard for me to slow him down too much as well. About halfway through the peloton, my throat was getting raw, and seeing as how we had more than enough Canadian Club to last us through, it was time to start passing it around.
Things started getting dirty and blurry. They always do. Leanne had me beating a hasty retreat back up to my parade podium after I dared contradict her orders in front of a recruit. Camilo managed to embarass the entire profession of bicycle messengering, take me out while rolling down the hill, and then tried to gnaw his way through the recruit in front of him on the way back up. James earned the nickname "Private Joker." I threatened to keep some Portlander at the checkpoint until he died. One saucy little number gave as good as she got and spat the onion out in our faces, and Brandon and I started running out of ammo, which meant that the onions we'd been pelting the recruits with would have to be found and recycled. Our recovery mission netted several viable specimens, and we gave them a quick wipedown before handing them off to the latecomers.
At some point Leanne took the bottle away from me and we decamped for the rendezvous point/party bunker. Bhangra, dancehall, 'ettes, cl'ettes, etc's, bikegirl-crushes, free drink tickets from Morgan, mini-circle of death (my apologies for being a complete fucking hoon), cameo appearances by the Purple House, Pedal Play made enough cream to keep them choppin' through the spring, and Morgan got to be "that guy" with his shirt off all night long.
Wendell's back in town and he's into the sauce again. Apparently this blog is worth something on the order of $564, which is almost enough money to cover the KillHlimber's rear wheel. At this rate, we can hopefully sell this shit out to Giant in a year or so and retire. Project-B: monetizin' r contentz, replaced by botz.
Why settle for a snack when you can get the full meal deal? More Ian Schwartz poached from The Come Up:
Ain't no freecoaster on the dessert cart, son:
...like I can taste anything anyway. After fighting off the Dirty Biker Bronchitis, I got dropped by the stomach flu this week, went from 40ish hours of riding down to about two, and I'm going all Bart of Darkness up in this bitch. To hell with bikecrushes, time for a date with La Maraca Negra.
Pray for dry.
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