That's only a start. But a fine place to start nonetheless. Seven days, twenty thousand. Two thousand, eight hundred, fifty seven and fifteen per day. Not in sales (volumes), at least not persay. But all told. Were it being told to me (directly) in deferrable, corruptible, offsetable, untraceable INCOME. Run money. Exhausting the more obvious, it's time for actual and more tangible measures. By desperate I don't mean, send inane ...
Not unlike a fragile babe, for the second time in one week I fear I may have been concussed. This the time without the dramatic aid and painkilling effects of alcohol. Unlike the first incident, I was not attacked in and of a jealous troll rage, this time I was merely and innocently collecting my toys from the bathroom floor. Then. Suddenly. I was near-decapitated by an edgy and aggressive ...
Last (BRECK) day. The other day. For Stage SIX of the BRECK EPIC there was miles and there were feet. Distance and vertical I'm told. Surely to hold trials, tribulations controlled by a medieval system of measure. Updates of a (more) timely fashion, while obviously more appropriate, would not have reflected the intense (and debilitating) nature of STAGE SEVEN. Five days the previous, the hangover is now subsiding. Suffice to ...
Stage FIVE. 40 miles. 7somethingthousand' of climbing. Wheeler complete. Repairs held. Legs held even more so. Although they needed to be reminded regularly that it was in fact a 'bicycle' race and not a 'Hey fuckwits, what say we grab our bikes and walk around the backcountry for six days and see how much we can puke at altitude' race. So I rode more than in past days. Sometimes quickly. Mostly ...
With repairs made. Repairs holding. All that remained for Stage Four was to ride out the 7600' and 40 miles. Ride I did. Rode indeed. There was a glorious five mile uphill sprint. A return to better days. Better results. Rider after rider fell to my superior powers. Then. There wasn't. There were no explosion. No fire. No sparks, blood or any grande spectacle of mine demise. Legs stopped. But still. ...
Day Three. There was no death. That doesn't mean I wasn't willing it on no less than two corporations. The steak knife corrections to the Easton free-hub held (at around 75%) for 20 miles. After which the hub was unable to withstand the whispy madness imposed by this monster engine on anything above 8 degrees. Bullshit really. My legs were okay with this. Modifications made to E13/HIVE/WHATEVER cranks held for 15 miles. ...
Stage ONE provided a major kick to my general preparedness. Stage TWO was only marginally longer (2 miles or 30 km). Stage TWO offered 50% more vertical (at 7300'). I could wax for some time about how this feels. But. None of this matters. Above all. The hub stunked. The cranks crunked. Something had to be done. Hub rework took place between beers the night prior and utilized our ample shop inventory. Steak ...
Year to date single track mileage. Successfully doubled. Year to date cycling vertical. Successfully tripled. Body summary: Road legs - Good. Climbing legs (low-moderate) - Adequate. Climbing legs (moderate-steep) - Non Existant. Endurance - Adequate. Recovery - Poor. Giving a fuck - NOT A ONE. Remainder: Bike(s) held fantastically. The Manitou TOWER Pro was the right thing, this time. The Gates BELT Drive ALC isn't the world biggest piece ...
Ten reasons why New Peter is going to kick the living fuck out of the BRECK EPIC 2011. New Peter did not get working wheels. I say this without an ounce of surprise. New Peter needs not one-thing that actually works. New Peter is broke and financially pathetic. There will be no Porsche. No stripper powered massages. No cocaine sandwiches and no 100$ bill tire patches. A budget limited to petty theft ...
My NEW Easton XC ONE wheels are toast...pop. Surprise! And, despite itself, the belt drive continues to hold. The only thing I do NEED before soon, is a set of (matching only please) wheels that I can run with the belt drive. To borrow. And use. At The Breck Epic. Then return. Light, durable and available are the only three musts. And by durable. I mean, they aren't shit. ...
DEL STALK and ANTI RACE have been determined. October 22, 2011. Collingwood, Ontario. Poster. Medium is Sharpie on Paper. Fuck colour. In no particular order: Catheters and Chaos. Del the Barbarian*. Fuck Collingwood. I'm sorry Lepper. You deserve better. I forget what you look like. Arty and oversold. *Models for Del the Barbarian (supporting cast ONLY) will be held with little notice and less clothing. Final to follow.
Previous charitable efforts towards TEAM DICKY have failed to substantially (and monetarily) benefit Corporate Psycles. We attempted to Feed the Dicky. This was a Waste Management initiative and it was quickly marred by shitty accents and concrete Sidi's. We attempted to Uncorporate Euro-Dicky. Basically. Fuck France. We attempted the Ribbon BeCause. Slow initial sales were a minor concern when compared to the ribbon's eventual adoption and subsequent exploitation by SftPoCtP (...