Race Report by an On the Spot Nancy Boy Race Reporter (its just that the spot wasn’t anywhere near the race).
Judging by the amount of hairy chested competitiveness going on at the moment, it seems there must be some sort of testosterone source leaking into our local water supply.
Could it be that the Baron has leaked, polluting Bollington’s water? What a bizarre and, frankly, deeply unpleasant thought that is… still, it’s possible; and with bollocks like that there’s enough to go around…
And on the subject of bollocks, on to our recent race activity report; Unsullied by any such fanciful notions as “facts” or even an “eye witness testimony”, you can be sure that it’s as accurate an account of what went on as anything you might read in a newspaper – just as long as the paper in question is The Sun… And just like the Sun, there’re plenty of tits.
As most of us are aware, some time ago Kev, The Baron, Dobby and Rolf competed (in the loosest possible sense) in the Cheshire triathlon. Three out of four of the Brave Hypothermic Nancy Boy survivors of that experience decided it was A Bad Thing never to be repeated, so didn’t, but one fool has kept alive the dream of triathlon success…
Like a cross between the scene from Rocky where he runs up the steps and the scene from Jurassic Park where the T-Rex chases the Jeep, Kev has been out pounding, not his meat on this occasion, but the streets of Cheshire – or more accurately the back entry route to the gym… and there’s plenty of back entries that have taken a pounding at that gym, eh Baron?
With Eye of the Tiger as his personal sound track, Big Ring’s been pursuing the Dream of triathlon success; running to the gym 18 times a day and training hard in front of the leisure centre mirrors ogling the firm taut lycra clad flesh (obviously not his own). He’s even been pushing his limits in the pool and this year ceremoniously tossed aside his Victorian wool swimming costume, arm bands and float to swim a full length without aids. As we all know, this strict Spartan training regime has been paying off on the bike and on most rides he’s been but a distant spec. Indeed, he’s always been a distant spec it’s just that, rather annoyingly; now the spec is in front.
Buoyed up by his recent victory over a thoroughly vanquished and puzzled Dobby in the biathlon thingy, he bravely re-entered last weekend’s Cheshire triathlon, certain of a vast improvement over his previous time of 1hr 30ish.
Surely all that pounding, letching and doggy paddle must have made difference?
Err, no.
An insider informs us that Big Ring was bitterly disappointed with his improvement of 3 minutes and has been blaming the cycling course, leaves on the track and or anything else from the great British Rail book of excuses for being late. However, an inside source has possibly shed some light on the cause of his failure; apparently he borrowed a “racing bike” for the event from Black Dave… could it be pure coincidence that the plastic bike that’s been outside Dave’s shop since before Noah met Nelly finally disappeared last weekend...?
Obviously this is a sensitive point so be sure to mention it when you next see him.
And so to that other great sporting event of last weekend, the Merida 100k.
There’s something a tad puzzling about a race called the Merida 100k when it actually isn’t 100k at all but a rather paltry 93k, or if you’re Dreas 82k.
How can they get away with that? Sure, to ride 100k is impressive, (specially in 5 and a half hours eh Axel?) but only 93? Light weights.
Anyone up for going to the Le Mans nearly 24 hour race? Or maybe the London Not Quite A Marathon?
To me, part of the appeal of our sport is its ability to get you away from it all into the wild places… (like Lyme Park, for instance) so why then would you want to do that with six or seven hundred sweaty nutters you don’t know or want to know (specially if you’re a girly)? And if instead of hard pack and dry conditions it pissed it down…. Well it just doesn’t bear thinking about. Surely if you’re that much of a type A Alpha male competitive dickhead you should be in sales like Nobby?
The word is that Axel was most impressive and had disappeared from view by the top of the first hill, never to be seen again until the finish… though admittedly it was Axel that the word came from. Apparently he’d have been a lot quicker but it took nearly 30minutes to fight his way through the start, what with the crowds of supporters and hoards of admiring women throwing themselves at his muscular lycra clad thighs. (OK, I invented that bit; there were no supporters).
Well done to all, but I tend to agree with Roger; being a marshall sounds like fun, the “race”