Not satisfied by the public humiliation I endured at the paws of the “three bears” of Berkeley Hills, the Hernandez/Newell combo has decided to publicly call me out yet again. I feel that this has become an abusive internet relationship.
(Apparently I use an unregistered copy of Facebook…or else Beth pirates MS Paint.)
It seems that Beth is the one wearing the internet pants this time, because I’ve been summoned to the velodrome.
Why do you people enjoy watching me fail? First, you force me to attend a hilly-ass road race so that you can watch my lard-ass get scorched by anorexic, unemployed people; now, you want to drag me to a concrete oval in San Jose in order to watch the trackie meatheads eviscerate my underpowered carcass. Why don’t you guys just throw me into a criterium with twelve unwilling-to-work Yahoo? riders and watch them gang-bang me in the finish?
Oh, wait…that happens all the time. Shit. In fact, that’s the part of bike racing I “enjoy.” I think it’s time for a new sport. Unfortunately, the one absolute truth in the universe is this: only pansy-asses back down from a public call-out.
Not willing to succumb to my inner pansy-ass just yet, I will answer the call-out like the manly midget I strive to be. With that in mind, there are several ways to respond to a call-out, so let’s go through them one by one.
- Simply show up at the track and fail miserably (a la Berkeley Hills Road Race 2010). This satisfies the call-outer’s demands, but embarrasses the call-outee, so it’s not the best option.
- Start taking testosterone and HGH now, so that I can bulk up enough to at least look like a track rider. Looks trump results, as we all know, so this is a viable option.
- Raise the stakes and challenge the call-outer to a duel. This is the Napoleonic way to respond to a call-out.
Naturally, I choose option three. Are you ready for my challenge to the call-outer?
Beth Newell, I challenge you to a match sprint.
Having never raced the track in my life, I’m sure I’ll flail around a lot, and there’s a finite chance I’ll end up breaking the headtube off of my bike Shelley Evans-style, or at least doing something equivalently spectacular; that said, I promise I’ll give Beth more of a run for her money than that slow-twitch dweeb she’s dating.
So there it is. I’ll show up at the track, but I had better show up astride the sickest track bike possible. I need a loaner. Come on…someone must have a dwarf-sized BT lying around, right?
Until that time, I’ve got a pair of criteriums and an ITT to worry about this weekend — not to mention a big plate of pasta and a pair of IPAs this evening — so I’ll catch you folks later.