Lightning and Piss

Moveitfred was heading out to ye ol' Friday night circuit race late this afternoon when Thor himself drew forth black clouds from hell and began heaving loving bolts of thunder across the land.

Moveitfred was still miles from the start and so gave it the ol' Fahk It, turned around, and headed back to the relative safety of La Casa de Fred.

Perhaps the race happened, but likely not. Instead of another pack fill result Moveitfred dropped in Disc 1 of the Tour de Cali and knocked out a killer interval workout on the basement trainer while War of the Worlds blasted and boomed above his head in the form of a wicked summer storm.

But on to more important matters. Moveitfred always has to piss like a mutha at races. We all know our hero Al has that "other problem" (ie, restless bowel syndrome), but for Moveitfred it's an inability to curtail the golden streams.

Perhaps it's a combination of nerves and a bladder the size of a peanut, but the #1 concern for Moveitfred heading to, at, and after any race--and the thought that dominates upwards of 90% of his pre-race strategy--is the need for both frequent and immediate access to urine depository space. Moveitfred prefers private space, but semi-private or primarily public will do in a pinch.

In fact, Moveitfred believes that a rule change is in order at USA Cycling. Moveitfred believes that after all those hoo-haa announcements by race officials about pits and free laps and primes that there be a regular call of "OK, racers piss" thereby giving everyone a fair and equal opportunity to straddle, squat, or sling a bladder's worth of urine onto the earth before the business of the race begins.

Rather than poorly-timed dashes to the port-a-growlers or asking girlfriends to hold up blankets, wouldn't we all appreciate this opportunity to purge before rolling off the start and sitting in like frightened deer for the rest of the race?

Moveitfred feels that after a "break-in period" both racers and spectators alike will come to accept this group extrusion and treat it as simply ordinary or as a chance to partake in a kind of community water sport.

Moveitfred Explains

As Al has so graciously pointed out, both Heywood and Moveitfred have been conspicuously absent from the world of blog for quite some time. Herein Moveitfred shall partially explain the absence.

Coupla weeks ago Moveitfred and Heywood met up in the Midwest for a little down-home fun. Sort of East meets West in the Heartland. The bicoastals gathered together with others of their kind at a good ol' fashioned reunion, replete with BBQ, jello salads, matching t-shirts, pails of beer, and, of course, picnic games.

First up, horseshoes.

With a low seed (fucking hometown crowd screwed the "outsiders") the two bicoastals found themselves pitted against the two defending champs in the first round. Things got ugly quickly in this game to 21 as the two boys went down 13-2 in a matter of minutes.

But the bicoastal boys were not about to lay down and take it in the ass (so to speak).

Led by Heywood Jablome, the bicoastals came roaring back to tie the score at 13. Heywood was, as they say, In The Zone. In fact, he was Bicoastal Possessed. As his eyes glazed over he began yelling things like, "Here comes Daddy!," and "I'm gonna ring that stiff rod, Freddy!" All Moveitfred had to do was sit back and watch as Heywood began tossing ringers like he was Michael Jordan of the clay pits.

But, as they say in sports, they don't call 'em The Champs for nothin'. Those Midwestern boys on the opposing side eventually took down the bicoastals in an emotional, gut wrenching match, 21-18. After drowning their sorrows in a pail of Bud, the bicoastals looked for another challenge. Next up for the bicoastals: Egg Toss.

Seemed as if everyone in the Midwest was competing in this fabled event. Just how many people live in the Midwest, anyway? Well, whatever, the boys were once again matched up against some stiff competition. Up and down the line of competitors were opponents of high caliber: there were the drunken farm boys, mayonnaise-thighed housewives, the stogie-smokin' leather necks, and the half-breed children. Cue banjos.

But the bicoastals went in with game faces blazing. As round after round played out, hundreds of egg-coated competitors were relegated to the sidelines as Heywood and Freddy played on. Soon it was down to final round, and the boys were left standing against a pair of highly qualified tossers with a distinct advantage: they were both kitchen help. These two boys spent their days boiling, scrambling, flipping, and fricasseeing eggs.

Yep, these two wiry boys had stripped off the aprons, brushed aside all the egg-tossing posers, and were now staring down the business end of a couple of pissed off bicoastals. It was down to the final toss.

By now the tossers had quite a distance to negotiate. This was, after all, the championship round. All of the "this isn't so hard" dross had been sent back to the pavilion to eat runny, warm potato salad long ago. Heywood--a strapping specimen--looked like a tiny speck on the horizon far across an expanse of grass from Moveitfred. For the final round, appropriately enough, Moveitfred was the "giver" and Heywood the "receiver."

The bicoastals had been working a pre-approved game plan to perfection up until this point. The "giver" would send the egg in a gentle arc to the "receiver's" right side, wheretothough the "receiver" would gently initiate contact with said egg high and to the right before sweeping the fragile package downward and backward before coming to rest just beyond the hips. The bicoastals were working this system to perfection and putting their egg to sleep each round like a distant, infant, half-breed cousin.

With Heywood at the ready Moveitfred thought for a moment he would need to call an audible and employ a Peyton Manning Hail Mary toss to span the great distance needed in this round, but instead freddy took an extra large step and delivered a beautiful, underhand, soft, dying quail to Woodrow's right side. However, Heywood (aka Stone Hands) somehow managed to fuck up fred's delivery and blasted virgin egg yolk all over the deep green Midwestern landscape. Kitchen Help handled the exchange to perfection, and once again the bicoastals were relegated to leaving an event without the glittering hardware of victory.

Now, fans, if you're still with Moveitfred this is where the story gets interesting. See, as the bicoastals were heading back to the civilization of Chicago from the backwoods of Indiana they got lost down a deserted country road. Soon the gravel turned to sand, and next thing you know the boys were spinnin' tires and stuck dead in their tracks.

As the boys were inspecting the mess and deciding how to extract the rental mobile, two scraggly specimens ambled out from a shack in the woods and asked the boys if, while we waited for Denny's Tow and Bail Bonds to arrive, we wanted to play a little "cornhole" out back.

Well, just so happens that the bicoastals found out all about this great game just two days prior while visiting some kin. For the uneducated, please visit the site below before reading on:

All About Cornhole

So, being the polite boys we are and feeling the need to represent our respective coasts, Heywood said, "Why yes sir, my bro and I here would love to cornhole with you boys!" So the four of us ambled on back yonder behind the shack for a little cornholeing. (For the unaware, it is indeed polite to "amble" along with others when on foreign ground).

What happened next is still not altogether clear in Moveitfred's mind. The scraggly boys did indeed have a fine cornhole set with official bags and distances out back beyond the port-o-growlers. But at that point there was a sharp CRACK and the lights went out in Moveitfred's melon, and when he came to he was covered in Indiana mud and pricklevines and heard very clearly through the brush two voices rising to an agitated fever pitch:

"What's your name, boy?"

"Heywood Jablome, sir!"

"No, I said WHAT'S YOUR NAME, BOY?"

"HEYWOOD JABLOME, SIR!"

Moveitfred blacked out again, and when he came to this time he was sitting in the driver's seat of the rental car parked on the shoulder of the highway under a "To Chicago" sign with Heywood sitting shotgun. Inexplicably, Heywood's fireman underpants were knotted and wrapped disturbingly around his ankles.

So, friends, although Moveitfred will not speak for Heywood, this is why Moveitfred has not posted anything on the blog. Moveitfred is still trying to make sense of this event. It may take him awhile.

In fact, it may take him forever.

irrefutab-AL

In which AL discusses how the other two jackasses who should be carrying their weight have decided to go on Summer Break



Well folks, I have no words to explain the complete "fuck you" Fred and Woodrow have given you and me both. I suggest scathing commentary, but you do what you will.

For my part, I'm going to rest on my laurels for a while. (Well, I'll probably sit near my laurels. Those things tend to be rather prickly.)