Gumby Hunting

I didn't want to write this, as I'm not a sucky meanie (like so many bloggers...) but then I read not one, but two blogs making Celine Dionne references casting her in a positive light, thus it was this or poking out my eyes and eardrums with a dull letter opener, so here you go. I've got maybe eight minutes until my frozen pizza is ready to consume, and I've got to split that between writing and enjoying a Kirin Ichiban Special Reserve, which, btw, tastes just like the old school Schaefer Dad used to drink. Very appropriate, with this being father's day and all.

True Gumby Hunting, in case you're wondering, was taught to me by the legendary Buzz Tarlow, a rower , cyclist, and wannabee coach from the olden days of the BRC. The idea is for a seasoned and trained bike racer to patrol the roadways on a sunny summer Saturday. What's so special about that? He/she goes in disguise: old bike, preferably a 3-speed Raleigh with a bell, baggy shorts, and an old Bell Biker helmet. You troll the popular routes, waiting for Tommy Tube Socks to come flying by in his Discovery jersey (ok, in those days it would have been 7-11). On his no doubt new bike, he'll give you a look of disdain as he flies past. You get on his wheel. If he looks back, ring the bell, and maybe give a spastic, short bus wave. He'll up the pace...



If you're any good, Tommy should be no match for you, even though your equipment is severely outclassed. After all, you're on his wheel, and you're a racer, and he's still reading Bicycling. The game should play out pretty quickly - within a mile or two, Tommy should be sprinting and ready to blow. When the moment comes, you cruise by, jing-a-ling! Buzz claimed he used to do this for hours out on the Charles. More fun than real racing!

Today I did not set out to go gumby hunting. In fact, since my form has suddenly vanished, I just headed out for a very easy ride, wearing my normal team kit, head to toe. I wasn't riding an old 3-speed, just my fourteen year old pseudo-Slim Chance (it's an employee bike, so the frame was somewhat mongrelized), which I recently rebuilt from the frame up with every piece brand new except the front hub, seat, and seatpost (and I have new stuff for those too, just haven't put them on). I felt pretty crappy at first, but after ten miles or so my legs came around a bit and I upped my pace down a flat stretch of road that I ride often. At the end, turning right, I shut it down and was sipping my water when I heard a bit of a grunt, not really a hello, more of an "out of the way, chump" as two guys on aerobars raced past. Triathletes... And they say roadies have no manners... At first I just let them go, as my general rule is never, ever race anyone you run into out on the road, unless of course you know them. But then a third guy comes by, clearly struggling to get up to the other two, and he's a big guy, grinding a huge gear, basically humping his bike like a bag of Baltimore garbage. A sight to behold.

I'm now about ten bike lengths back, taking it all in. The road starts to rise and the first two bog down (obviously gassed from showing me who's boss...) enough for Humpy to grind his way past. The second guy, who we'll call Jaja (he's wearing a circa 1999 Tiscali jersey) hangs back a bit himself, at least creating the illusion that he's training for no-drafting triathlon. The first guy, in a plain kit, harbors no such qualms and would probably have hitched up the tow hook if he had one. For lack of a better name, we'll call him Jeff Gordon (I'd call him David Pearson, but most of you probably aren't old enough to know who he is/was). On another aside, don't ever where a pro team kit unless you're on that team, or it's at least ten years out of date. So Jaja was almost within the rules. KAS, Molteni, or La Vie Claire? No problem. But put that Discovery jersey away until at least 2017, ok Greg?.

Over the crest, Humpy is showing us what he's got. Jeff Gordon is on his bumper. Jaja is keeping pace from the legal minimum three bike length distance, and I'm still rolling along about forty meters back, fighting the temptation to drop the hammer. Patience, patience... I let them go, maybe a hundred meters, then up my tempo just to see if I can close the gap. Not a problem, but it's work. Not something I could do on a 3-speed anyway. Gumby hunting ain't what it used to be, and neither am I. We take a turn and I give them back their hundred meters...

Now these are roads I ride all the time, so I know every rise and dip, and there are two little rises coming up. On queue, Humpy detonates on the first one, and the other two just leave him for dead. Jeff Gordon wants no part of the front though, so he let's Jaja come through, and jumps on his wheel. The pace rises, so I start to close it back up before the second rise. Going past Humpy, I try to get him to get on my wheel and bring him back, but his efforts have left him in the twilight zone. Buh-bye.

Now, drafting off the first two and then dropping them on the rise would be too easy, so I hang back about ten bike lengths, and stay there for a mile or two. Jeff Gordon looks over his shoulder to check for Humpy, and of course does a double take before urging Jaja to pick it up and get rid of me. Perfect. Why am I even enjoying this? Have I sunk this low? Yes I have, and I roll past on the rise, making sure I'm riding on the tops for effect. I know Jaja has been on the front for five minutes and doesn't have a chance, but I take it up a gear just in case Jeff Gordon gets any ideas. Then another, then another, and by now I'm in the 14 and going over 40 kph, and I never see them again.



This story has no moral. And my pizza is done. And it's time for another beer. Happy Father's Day, and thanks for reading.