Coincidences and impossible things

Last Thursday Lance Armstrong was so flabbergasted by the accusations leveled at him from the Floydgate blackmail/drug scandal that he purposely landed on his face in order to abandon the Tour of California allowing him to get away and avoid all the conflict.

Friday I got an email from Peter titled Declaration of War. It started like this:

Please be advised that actions have been taken on this the Twenty First Day of May that will undoubtedly cause you great pain and inconvenience.

and followed with some of this:

Fact. I influence more people through fear, physical destruction and black paint then you EVER could with your svelte sexy man-frame and inked electronic pencil device.

These are pretty serious words from a man who thinks Serious is just the name of his favorite actor.

A few days later I find out that this attempt at high level cycling extortion has turned out to be a mirror image of the much more media friendly Lance VS Floyd debacle. Peter, wanting to avoid the backlash and media circus at The Trans Sylvania Epic that was sure to happen, took a page outta Lance's book and decided to crash on his face as well.

Peter should take his self portraits with his pants on since his glowing penis wreaks havoc with the exposure.

Will Peter make it to the race? Will Cyclingnews.com cover this story as in depth as they did Floydgate, or are they part of the cover-up machine that's trying to keep the dirty underbelly of the professional mountain bike stage race world under wraps? Will Greg Lemond testify that Peter has been prank calling him for last six months and asking him if he has Prince Albert in a can? Only time will tell... since cyclingnews.com is spending more time finding out which hair care products Jeremiah Bisquick uses as opposed to doing any actual reporting we may never know.

Nobody wants to read about all that drama and skullduggery. Let's get back to pre-race coverage.

The Pie, Fajita, and I went to see Alice in Wonderland Saturday. Yes. it's still playing in theaters... the ones that charge $2.50 per person. Anyways, the whole movie was pretty boring, but the dark images stuck with me. That night I dreamed a most wicked dream, another pre-race jitters entwined nightmare. Mark Weir was a white rabbit in a tiny waistcoat, Selene Yeager was the Queen of Hearts, Harlan Price was Absalom, but the weirdest one of all was the Mad Cushionhatter.

He asked me if I've ever believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. I'm not sure why I would bother, but since the Mad Cushionhatter stressed how important it is to stretch my imagination I thought I'd give it a whirl.

I'm going to weigh less than 130lbs before Saturday. This would mean I would need to consume around 5 calories a day between now and then while burning somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,255 calories a day during the same time. I think that equates to eating one peanut M&M and riding ten hours a day. I'll get on that tomorrow.

I will abstain from drinking beer for the duration of the race. Given the company I'll be in I don't think this is possible. This is like hanging out with a friendly skunk all day and not smelling a little funny when you get home. It just can't be done, and if you tried it you'd just have a boring day with a skunk.

I will not challenge Fit Chick to a wrestling match. Given that impossible thing #2 will probably not happen I have to concede this one as well. Sorry Selene "The Machine" Yeager... you're going down.

I will keep Peter under control during and after the post race party. Unlike our experience at Breck Epic last year I will keep Peter from walking around screaming at the local townspeople to "Fuck off!" Since everybody in Pennsylvania owns at least seven hunting rifles I might just have to bring a pocket full of horse tranquilizers to make this impossibility possible.

I will win the whole race on the first day. Perhaps if I go all out on the first day Greg "Grig" Martin will have no choice but to lay down and quit. His acting career has kept him quite busy, so perhaps his training has been slack enough to allow this to happen.

"Hey Grig, does Rebecca have any sisters?"

I will get Rebecca Rusch to like me. Perhaps she'll be endeared to me when I tell her about The Pie and I adopting Fajita, or maybe her cold, hard shell will melt when I mention all the animals we've fostered in our house, or I guess I could memorize a bunch of "What's grosser than gross" jokes to tell her and quote Monty Python's Holy Grail in her presence as much as possible. Chicks dig that kinda stuff... almost as much as they like being called "chicks". Maybe I will win her positive affections with gifts of Awesome Straps and Twin Six schwag... Ahhhh, it's hopeless. She'll never like me.