* a.k.a. “bum cyclone.” Everybody sing! (To the tune of “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!” from “Mary Poppins.)
Bombcyclonesnowpacalypticarmageddonado
Winter’s piling record-breaking drifts on Colorad-o
If you have some snowshoes to the pub you all may wade-o
Bombcyclonesnowpacalypticarmageddonado!
These crazy kids today. Riding the goddamn bicycle used to be good enough for us — it was painful, and unrewarding, and we liked it! — but in these days of modern times it has to come wrapped up in organic, free-trade hemp paper and PBA-free ribbons with a non-GMO cherry on top.
You got your sportives, your 24-hour mountain-bike events, and your gravel races. And now you got your Roll Massif, which sounds like Bob Roll in the off-season but isn’t.
What it is, is a Colorado combo platter with all three main items, but without beans, rice and tortilla.
I gotta admit, it kinda sounds like … sounds like … like … OK, all right, fun! It sounds like fun! There! I said it! Happy?
More fun than sitting indoors in Albuquerque, watching the wind blow the rain to Kansas, anyway. That shit is boring.
When we got bored on the copy desk we’d start making stuff up. Not for publication, unless the slot man was drunk, asleep or both, but just for giggles. Bogus horoscopes. Fake AP stories. That sort of thing. It was the journalistical equivalent of a cup check. Occasionally someone’s cup runneth’d over and that shit made the paper, but it wasn’t our fault. We may have been drunk, but we weren’t asleep.
So, since the slot man took the buyout, bought a van, and relocated down to the river, here are some Roll Massif riffs for anyone who thinks wax is for chains, not moustaches.
I mean, Jesus, what’s next, hipsters? A 24-hour gravel sportive for e-bikes? Get the hell off my lawn, sonny.
• Roll Massif. What’s hidden, and not very well, either, under a master racer’s Assos bibs.
• Jelly Roll Massif. The Fat Guy on a fat bike.
• Raul Massif. The Fat Guy’s Mexican alias, used when he sneaks over the border for some pan dulce auténtico. Incidentally, he thinks a “Roll Massif” comes from Cinnabon.
• Rule Massif. “Bring your own food on the ride,” sayeth the Fat Guy. “I’m serious. I need all six of those Clif Bars just to get out of the garage.”
• Bull Massif. A bunch of Mad Dogs bragging about how they could crush the Roll Massif if only some generous forklift operator would pry them off the couch.
• Bowl Massif. A “Lebowski” sequel featuring The Fat Guy, who would consider playing Walter Sobchak a Role Massif.
• Troll Massif. Ridiculing someone’s Roll Massif performance on Twitter before the ride has even started.
• Droll Massif. Not taking the Roll Massif seriously enough to placate a Troll Massif.
• Hole Massif. A puncture in your 650b x 2.1s that the sealant won’t resolve.
• Stroll Massif. A double Hole Massif with no spare tubes.
• Toll Massif. Ask not for whom the Massif tolls. It tolls for thee.
If you’re seeing a little more sun all of a sudden, it’s not just because it’s Daylight Saving Time. It’s because the Fat Guy is throwing a little less shade.
The Old Guy Who Gets Fat in Winter turned 30 today, and he’s been on one of those weight-loss programs for celebrity has-beens, the kind where you don’t look quite so porky because hardly anyone ever sees you anymore.
When I turned 30, back in 1984, I was on a weight-loss program of my own. It had occurred to me that I had problems, which included but were not limited to drugs, booze, food, voices in my head, and newspapers, and I found that vigorous bicycling helped me sweat out the cocaine, alcohol and gravy.
Didn’t do shit for the voices in my head, or the newspapers. But what the hell, a guy needs friends. And a job’s nice, too.
Five years later I finally put those friends in my head to work, when I signed on to draw cartoons for VeloNews, which was just settling into its new digs in the People’s Republic of Boulder. I was two more newspapers further on down the road, in Santa Fe, and the voices were telling me that once again my days were numbered, probably because the publisher kept saying things like “Are you still here?”
I’d been racing for a couple of years, and out of an abundance of caution and a desire for some sort of change that involved more than my ZIP code I applied for the managing editor’s job at VeloNews. Didn’t get it. But the honchos liked the cartoons, and the first one they published featured the Old Guy Who Gets Fat in Winter, who debuted in Volume 18, No. 3, cover date March 10, 1989.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Back then the Fat Guy didn’t look at all like he does today. In fact, he looked a lot like me. Long hair and a full beard, both of which gradually went away, and a variety of undistinguished and too-tight jerseys that by the mid-Nineties had stabilized into the familiar yellow-and-red kit with the “Spare Tire Ale” logo on both sleeves, the one we still sell today over at Voler.
The shorts sponsors tended to change whenever I had a notion. Lardasche Jeans. Juan Ton’s Asian Tacos. That sort of thing.
And the dude just kept getting larger.
At one point Fais Dodo couldn’t find his bike (turns out he was sitting on it). At another he had sucked a few smaller riders into orbit around him. Almost everybody was smaller. Entire teams were.
He even tried to sue the bicycle industry for making him a great fat bastard, when it had done the exact opposite for me.
“Yep, cycling did this to me,” he tells the lawyer, hot dog in one hand, sack of pork rinds in the other. “Couple hours in the ol’ saddle and I gotta eat a 7-Eleven.”
“You don’t say,” replies the lawyer. “Sounds like a no-class-action lawsuit to me!”
Every time I revisit that particular cartoon I see and hear John Goodman, playing Walter Sobchak from “The Big Lebowski,” and not just because Goodman’s first TV appearance was in a Burger King commercial. I just like John Goodman.
I like the Fat Guy, too, and he went with me when I left VeloNews in 2012, not long after the original honchos sold it to the publishing equivalent of a chop shop run by meth-heads. We didn’t go bowling, though. We teamed up with Charles Pelkey at Live Update Guy, where Il Fattini was cast as a gender-bending Fat Lady Singing.
“It’s over!” he’d croon whenever a break got caught.
And El Grande started appearing more regularly in the “Shop Talk” strip I still draw for Bicycle Retailer and Industry News, though he’s basically down to walk-ons and cameos behind that strip’s stars, the Mud Stud and Dude. He’s the kind of customer who dollars up on the wrong side of the ledger, drinking all the beer in the shop fridge and grazing the energy-bar display right down to the bedrock.
A customer once asked the Mud Stud if he had any fat bikes.
“Nah,” said the Stud. “We got a Fat Guy, though. Sell ‘im to you cheap.”
Behind him The Large One is mumbling through a cloud of hoagie crumbs. “This shop needs a deli. Maybe a brewpub. A bakery? Funny, I don’t climb so good lately. Bro’-deal me on a lighter bike?”
We’ve all ridden a few kilometers in those Sidis, eh? Any cyclist worth his kit knows that to find the shortest distance between two points you have to cut a few corners, or at least round them off a little.
And lighter is always better, amirite? Fatso is not the Road Runner, so bloody fast that his sheer velocity straightens out the curves and flattens all the hills. He’s Wile E. Coyote with an eating disorder, shopping for solutions at Acme. Or Walgreens. At least he’s out there, putting in the kilometers.
He was the guy the legendary Dong Ngo had in mind when we were discussing the 1987 Trek 2500 on display at the Denver Spoke.
“Who buys this bike?” I asked, stunned by the price.
“You wouldn’t believe who buys this bike,” he replied.
The Fat Guy, that’s who. The last guy who needs one. His eyes were never bigger than his stomach. Nothing was. Or is.
Maybe that’s why the Fat Guy struck such a chord. He wants what we want, which at rock bottom, basically, is more. Or maybe it’s because he seems so obliviously comfortable in his oversized skin.
Oddly, the jersey he covers it with seems especially popular with little skinny climber dudes, probably because people go “Oh, yeah, right,” when they see them wearing it.
But you know what’s really odd? Nearly 30 years to the day after Fatso and I pranced onto the VeloNews stage together, we’re both working for Felix Magowan again. A full circle, that is.
Yep. Felix was one of the honchos back then, and he’s one of the honchos now, ever since Pocket Outdoor Media bought Bicycle Retailer in January. I got my first check from the new owners in March. It didn’t smell like meth, and it didn’t bounce, so I guess we’re all one big happy family again.
We’ve been downsized, of course. Before this latest acquisition BRAIN published 18 issues per year, and now we’re down to 12, which accounts for Fatso’s sleeker shadow, and my slimmer paycheck.
Still, 30 years is a nice long first lap. We may be off the back, but we haven’t been pulled yet. Good thing the Old Guy Who Gets Fat in Winter has been taking his turns on the front. It’s been like drafting the Budweiser beer wagon with a full hitch of Clydesdales.
It was so bloody windy here yesterday that when I shifted gears, in that split-second when the chain was between cogs, I could feel myself shedding forward momentum.
Happily, I was riding mostly to shoot video for another Adventure Cyclist “Quick Spin,” which meant I spent as much time off the bike, playing director and cameraman, as I did on the bike as the “talent.” The wind’s not so much of an issue when you’re jogging between takes from camera to bike and back again.
The Air Quality Division’s health alerts over airborne dust are another matter entirely. But I’ve decided to think of those as a spa treatment. A free skin peel.
These trails are just south and east of El Rancho Pendejo, and if traffic’s light on Tramway it’s easy to forget there’s a minor metropolitan area right next door — so much so that I often don’t notice the constant low-level background hum of infernal combustion until I get home and start editing the video.
I’d yell “Quiet on the set!” but it’s pointless. Everyone’s wearing earbuds and/or has the windows rolled up.
Oh, Lord, it’s been a long ol’ time since Your Humble Narrator rode the Santa Fe Century.
That’s him, third from the left, in case you’re having trouble reconciling these youthful images with the stove-up wrinklepuss we’ve all grown to know and love.
Well, Señor Wrinklepuss is going to have another go at it this year. Not the full century, mind you, but the half. I last did the full rooster back in 1991, the year I got married and we traded Fanta Se for Bibleburg, so, yeah, it’s been a while.
Pat O’B is interested, and so is Khal, so I’m throwing it out there. Anyone else up for a 50-miler in May? Early registration ends April 30, so if you want to save a couple bucks now’s the time to make your mark.
Give us a shout-out in comments.
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