“Ha, ha. Nice, ‘Ski.”
The sun wasn’t even up, and I hadn’t yet sank a whole coffee. It’s not ever my best time of day, but then I was a prisoner: stuck in my shit car, headed to a shit business park in some shit town, riding another shit crit, with my shit teammate, Tim Andrzejewski. Already, he’s trying to bury his insecurity with fat girl jokes. This last was a real stunner.
Q: How do you pick up chicks at the State Fair?
A: With a forklift.
I know. He’s a comedic millionaire. So it goes in this sport – past time – PASSION of ours: you get stuck with fuckers. Jocks, cheaters, dopers, illiterates, failures. The racing is the blindfold, masking the painfully pathetic identities of us all.
Ski can lead out like a motherfucker. I needed a win. Some points are always nice, but I’ve been clawing at CAT 2 desperately for 3 seasons, and the door just won’t open. Maybe the right mix: steroid creme and Ski. It’s worth a shot.
I gave him primes. We worked well together. He’s got a new floor pump, and a case of Lance-branded Honey Stingers, thanks to me. He looked back, like some kind of jock gorilla baseball guy about to drop a shitty pickup line. I hopped on. Halfway through the last lap we started chopping. Fodder was dropped, and we apologized to the losers who were about to sprint for spots 6 through 28. Not so much a verbal apology, but a visual one. Nothing says sorry like Ski and me looking like total badasses while you whine, I figure. We took it.
I helped him get his shit out of my trunk in front of his house. I appreciated the day’s favor, but couldn’t get away from this neanderthal fast enough.
He asked if I wanted to grab a beer later.
“Nah. Sorry, man. I’m gonna swing by your mom’s place with a forklift.”