The year is 1932.
Black Tuesday long since past, the effects still linger.
FDR accepts the democratic nomination and campaigns on the promise of a ‘new deal’.

Throughout the nation men and women, forgotten in the political philosophy of the Government, look to us here for guidance and for more equitable opportunity to share in the distribution of national wealth… I pledge myself to a new deal for the American people. This is more than a political campaign. It is a call to arms.

Despite a decisive victory in the presidential elections of 1932, the ‘new deal’ would not be as entirely popular. Many of the programs introduced were considered fascist by critics. Early into the ‘new deal’ FDR felt compelled to justify this expansion of government.

(They) will try to give you new and strange names for what we are doing. Sometimes they will call it ‘Fascism,’ sometimes ‘Communism,’ sometimes ‘Regimentation,’ sometimes ‘Socialism.’ But, in so doing, they are trying to make very complex and theoretical something that is really very simple and very practical. . . . Plausible self-seekers and theoretical die-hards will tell you of the loss of individual liberty. Answer this question out of the facts of your own life. Have you lost any of your rights or liberty or constitutional freedom of action and choice?

The tremendous power of organization has combined great aggregations of capital in enormous industrial establishments . . . so great in the mass that each individual concerned in them is quite helpless by himself. . . . The old reliance upon the free action of individual wills appears quite inadequate. . . . The intervention of that organized control we call government seems necessary. . . . Men may differ as to the particular form of governmental activity with respect to industry or business, but nearly all are agreed that private enterprise in times such as these cannot be left without assistance and without reasonable safeguards lest it destroy not only itself but also our process of civilization.

Historians and economists are divided as to the effect this ‘new deal’ had on the great depression…in all likelihood a consensus will never be reached…

How is any of this relevant?

Well, there was a Black Tuesday.
The great depression ended (regardless of any deal) with onset of World War II.
And finally, in the first days of his term, FDR legalized the sale and production of alcohol (during prohibition – that is prior to the repeal and amendment XXI) and this long BEFORE any other economic stimulus or program was introduced in those all important ‘first hundred days‘.

PRIORITIES.

Once I was blind and now I can see…she sells sea shells by the sea shore.

More Santa.
Starting today I will be more Santa and less spandex.

Be afraid. Very afraid.

Your results may vary but last night, the sound I heard was no primordial scream. What I heard was a faint whimper of the least climactic sort; no snap, no crackle, no pop. There was only some cackling of critics as the brutal effects took hold.
It is true, there are those that took pleasure in this collapse.
Such is the price of fame.
I should be flattered.

My deconstruction was completely dull in spite of its apparent grandeur, offering absolutely no audible or visual panache. Absolutely nothing for the fans, no explosions, no yard sale, no excuses, just a slow fade into the scenery.

I would say that the tipping point in itself was near impossible to identify. I won’t say that I felt good on the prerequisite ride up from the Black Bull but the lack of any sort of pain and strain leads me to assume this was a complete collapse.

The worst kind.
The stupidest kind.
Novice.

Yes, in hind sight I should have seen this coming. A 24, an 8, two Series races, rides, trainer…all in just over a week. That runs over 480 dirt kms, not counting trainer time, in 8 days. That’s a lot of racing-type behavior for a generic (GENERIC not GERIATRIC) hack such as I.

Granted, wee Thomas (and likely others) completed NEARLY the same feats in the same time frame. I said nearly…and by nearly I mean almost, just shy and not flipping quite.

*SECRET SATELLITE SPY TYPE IMAGE*

Apparently Tom…‘forgot’ ‘didn’t know’ ‘wasn’t informed’ ‘whatever’…that he could head out for another lap at this weekends Epic 8.

More likely there was something more sinister, something more ‘my mommy never loved me’ ‘my daddy didn’t put gas in the car’ to it.
I propose, here and now, that sensing BOTH my certain victory AND my immense suffering, Toms ‘error’ ‘lapse’ (or subsequent lack thereof) was all part of his tiny-man-brilliant-type-plan.

There I said it.
Yes, I sullied last nights victory for you Tom.

But please, go ahead, drink from the mug of victory, if you can swallow through the burning constriction of SHAME in your chest!

As for your cronies, your new supporters, your henchmen. Enjoy it while it lasts, they will turn on you as well, mark my words.

Stay tuned tomorrow when I shall reveal:
ULTIMATE SIMPLE PLAN FOR IMMEDIATE RECOVERY AND SUPER AWESOMENESS!

Then I will boldly predict:
TOM WILL HANNEM HIMSELF BEFORE THE SEASON IS UP!
“You totally can’t possibly relate. You weren’t there. I rode the Cokapoo Trail and didn’t lose, you hear me? I DIDN’T LOSE!!!”

The crowd goes hush…except for Craig who is typing a generic ‘I hate you, what’s your problem, leave my trip alone’ email…

Strange things happen when you recover from the biggest thing you’ve ever done under a particular set of circumstances…life’s like that. Destroy to build.

Sometimes, with the right amount of thought and planning, these things can be most solid and generally super. I would consider my performance Tuesday of last somewhat remarkable. Not in terms of blistering speed but of recovery, post 24 and all. Victory.
Sometimes, with the right amount of ignorance and binderdundatitude, these things can turn out to be terribly painful life lessons. I would consider my performance Saturday past remarkable. Not in terms of blistering performance but of ineptitude, post 24 and all. Utter defeat.

Approaching the DUKE’S SPRING EPIC 8 this past weekend my attitude was blissfully flippant. I was firmly entrenched in mine own personal eliteness. I had, after all, ridden a bike for 18+ of a possible 24hrs less then 7 days prior. The coming 8 would be a walk in the proverbial park, never once thinking it just might be CENTRAL PARK.

Rigid singlespeed. 33:19. Liquid nutrition. Rabbits. Bloody rabbits.

Finishing lap 7 I had to beg for something, anything to numb my lower back. It came in the form of ALEVE. I can’t vouch appropriately for its effectiveness, the results were inconclusive and the cheque isn’t in the mail. It numbed my elbows and hands sufficiently but it only assisted my back long enough for me to knock over a tree. The subsequent damage to my forearm offered ample distraction from my back.

Starting lap 10 I was tossed a dusty life raft in the form of a complete roll of Rolaids with CALCIUM. Craig, I am still not sure if your witch doctor vodooism works but I can assure you that the tropical chalk you tossed my way was either medicinally effective or just the placebic prescription I needed…13 laps. Victory, albeit snatched from the jaws of total embarrassment…

Today.

Nothing.

Nothing except maybe a warning to all parents…perhaps even to meddling spouses that choose to get in the way of…
dum dum dummmmmmm

Aside from that, get me a NEW BIKE or die. Whatever.

I had a fantabulous story written describing in great detail the exploits of Marc Risdale…despite auto save and the lot…poof…gone…reset. That kind of genius cannot be re-written and survive the over critical eye of an author scorn. I say darn.

Either way, yesterday, I promised details on the following…grudgingly I will re-write them all over from my watery memory.

The antics of one Marc Risdale:
On Saturday May 17 Marc and Kim set out like so many other riders to complete and maybe even compete in the “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” 24hr shindig. They set out to ride for 24hrs solo, by themselves and usually together. The pair toiled away until sometime in the early evening where Kim retired, Marc then changed to his ‘night-bike’ and spun away. This time he spun away solo, all alone, by himself.

Lap after lap Marc churned away at the pedals, by midnight it was only Marc and the eventual victor abusing themselves in the solo and alone category (give or take a few riders who were NOT me or Tom or THE Lepper). Kim and the remaining half-men slept the night away. Not since Tom told his mom “No, I am NOT bringing another pair of boots” have I witnessed such Machismo.

Just before dawn riders started pouring back on the trails, one at a time – by themselves – THE Lepper, Kim and many others. Ever adaptable, Marc legged over his ‘day-bike’ and rode off, now with Kim, his partner. Once again together but solo. Around 1030a on Sunday Marc simply stopped riding…in a scene akin to Forest Gump. He just stopped. They stopped together. He second, She first. And that’s the way it ended.

Regrettably I missed the awards presentations to the two solo riders of steel…I do not regret, however, missing THAT ride home “You’re awesome my little pet” “No, YOU are awesome my pet” “My little champion wampion” “My little runner upper wupper”…You can’t really blame them, the two were without a doubt Delirious from exertion, fatigue and euphoria…not to mention lacking clothing…see below

The meaning of ‘FU Chico racing’ (overhead by camp Hillbilly):
Somewhere in the vast expanses of the Mansfield Outdoor Center was a marshal station, lovingly named Camp Hillbilly or Camp Redneck or some such thing by the organizers…either way the point lays not in the name of the camp. Riders would pass directly in front of this station twice, more if they were lost or kinda stupid.

When the sun went down the ghetto blaster came out…Hendrix, Sabbath and various other high school necessities were churned out with ample volume. The residents of Camp Whatever were a raucous and enthusiastic bunch…in a good way. Approaching the camp for pass #1 is where I heard it first “F-U Chico Racing”. Upon passing the camp I heard it again “F-U Chico Racing“…this time I inquired…the rider responded with a great deal of thought.

“The music, the atmosphere…for years people have been asking for this kind of thing and nothing, every single Chico 24hr…crickets. F’ing crickets…” We debated briefly about ‘family friendly events’ ‘Albion’s close proximity’ ‘Camping restrictions’ and the like, hell, I understand why Chico doesn’t offer this…but still the rider was right, this rider without a name who will remain nameless for fear of reprisal from the iron fist of Chico Racing…he was totally right. That was exactly the atmosphere presented back in the day with that OTHER 24hr organizer, the organizer that made me volunteer for an hour while I competed and paid entry for the privilege…Juan Valdez and Austin Powers sightings…disco balls, drunkards on logs…he was right…totally right…sing it sister…this is what brought me into racing 24′s. All the noise and the excitement and a bit of chaos all detracted from the suffering substantially…

To-scale six foot mosquitoes:
You had to be there…some people just don’t get it.

Recovery Update.
Tired and a wee bit stiff yesterday I managed a solid 1.5hrs on the trainer. Nothing special. Nothing extreme. Just a spin. But it was a spin that I wasn’t expecting to be able to complete…I am awesome…look into my eyes, not around my eyes, look into my eyes…you’re under…