(A first hand race report contributed by Pirate cXc Series attendee and sponsor Thaddius Maximus, Mr. Taddihogg himself)
Official UCI Race Report: The Deep 3.10.12
For some reason, starting from the beginning seems trite and far too easy, but if a reverse analysis of this eponymous event – a la Momento or the superior French film Irreversible – were attempted, the brownie affect, better known as the ‘cocoa oh no edibles’, would inevitably cause irreparable injury to my frontal lobe. And, now that we have pretentious indie films and brain damage out of the way early, the rest of this testimony will be a veritable cakewalk, or maybe a powdered donut strut.
Having never been lucky enough to be uninvited to the Pirates' Lair, my race actually started when I looked at the attached directions: Go straight (so hard for me these days) and then go left more times than Ricky Bobby. After missing the 154th left turn, I decided, unwisely, to just drive through some providential schmuck’s back yard instead of turning around like Mitt Romney. I figured, correctly, that this act would prep me for the likely violation of private property that would ensue once the race got underway after the late arriving hipsters got squared away. Love ya fer sure peeps. But in reality this allowed me to rest my flaccid loins in my not-unlike-a-solo-Cialis-tub-scene easy chair; for who could have foreseen the intense groinal abuse that my top-tube would induce only minutes later.
The turn out for The Deep was impressively stellar: since I had a sandy giner – as did many- for the Artic Howling, the attendance for the final soirée was surlier than Ragbrai on steroids. And speaking of Iowa, where were you Zeke? I can only surmise that a PBR was lonely at Buzzard Beach and you were kind enough to stroke it lovingly into the bliss it so rightly deserved.
And, now that I have burned more bridges than Madison County, I will consult with race commentator Bob Roll for his expert commentatoring expertiseness. So Bob, what the fluke was that crazy ass skills course all about? “ Well Maxithad, that shit was off the charts, those crazy fucktards didn’t even have their Road I.D.’s….for the love of Lance, I can’t imagine why they won’t go for a ride with me.”
Well Bobke, the whistle that the gap between your teeth creates on the Col de Azure is deafening that’s why… So yeah, as Bob elucidated so well, the pre-race endo-fest was not to be missed, especially if you did not participate, which is the very definition of “to be missed”. The highlight of this exercise in death wishy tendencies was undoubtedly G-wiz’s high-speed yard sail which sent him into an X-rated tree-humping scene that even I shielded my eyes from. Due to his near-nudity, he suffered many life-threatening injuries, and was then life-flighted to the nearest Hooters for therapy. I chose wisely to avoid this blatant sword fight of a pre-race work out in order to save my energy for the lengthy and circuitous “neutral roll-in” during which my aero overalls decided to suck themselves into my front chain ring.
The starting gate was replete with tables of goodies and Liquigas girls, and the air was filled with the sweet smell of regret; which was actually my own stench – eff you Tom’s of Maine. The UCI official then began his legal rant: “If you are injured we will carry you to the nearby railroad tracks and call it a suicide.” ‘Nuff said’ as they say. And off we went….the peloton voting against a warm-up lap – who needs a cerebral map in pitch dark conditions, anyway. I had the fastest ten feet and then…well, let’s just say for the record that a single speed ‘cross bike with many carbon bits does not bode well on a 3 foot drop in a bog. Other than that I was indistinguishable from Fabian Cancellara in my pink skin-suit, time-trialing for at least four seconds behind The Manimal as he lapped me, his junk flailing in the breeze. The course was flat, if you take out the muddy buddy sections that resembled – at least for me – a logging truck taking out a Yugo on an Arkansas forest road. And then it was a Dark and Stormy night….or was that just the dessert table; I am unsure still. So yes, for the record, the hand-up buffet was well stocked, and this time I opted for the time bonuses instead of actually riding fast, which is euphemistic language for the deadly sin of Sloth. Kristin Bell, eat your heart out, baby. (Google that shit up homies )
And, speaking of getting rewarded for being pretty….I was able to complete the final, penultimate, last, closing, conclusive lap in Depeche Mode – come on that’s “fast fashion” you rednecks – and then chuck my steed into the tall grass prairie that framed the start/finish so magnificently. I then jumped into my Slimen Und Grossen team car and was graciously given a massage – happy ending of course – as we sped back to the après competition festivities at the hilltop mansion of Captain Jack Sparrow. Can enough polite words be said about the Pirate himself? Me thinks not. As Yoda would say: “There is no try, there is only do your worst and still gets ye a prize.” Pyrotechnics aside, the soaring point of the post-race debauchery was the Manimal and his secret stash of chips and guacamole; munchies I see your four of a kind and raise you $100.
In summary, although I did not win, I absolutely did my best to not exceed, and I easily qualified for the ‘no hairy fat guy left behind’ grant from the plethora of sponsors. I stumbled away with a new carbon Niner and plenty of Tallgrass tallboys in my pants; the only true testament for success.
-The Maximus ( a.k.a. Maxithad the Absorbent. )
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