Loose Nuts Cycles

Ahh. It's been too long since we've met, faithful reader. I hope you have missed me. My creative juices have been flowing so freely and mightily that I couldn't even step under the waterfall of brilliance for long enough to capture a bucketful without being crushed. But this morning is different. Like a good solid turd after suffering a week of diarrhea, my creative floodwaters have been receded to pre-Katrina levels and are now able to be harnessed, dammed and leveed into a new installment of "As The Wrench Turns", brought to you by hydro-electric power. A project to harness the awesome power of my flatulence to generate wind power is also in the works, and I will be sure to update you if there are any developments in the quest for this exciting new technology.  

All formality aside, the real reason that you have the high honor of reading a new post from yours truly is that I found myself quite happily hung over this fine fall morning, and nothing goes better with a nice home-brewed hangover than a hot cup of coffee and some headache-induced ranting to an internet full of people where nobody is listening.  

Goodness, so much has happened here at Loose Nuts HQ. We have elected a new president, built some cool wheels, watched the leaves turn colors across the great state of Georgia, seen a new wave of electric-assisted "hybrid" bikes hit the streets, won a cyclocross race, felt the first chills of the coming winter nipping at our noses, bought the cat a new collar that she promptly ditched in a bush somewhere...

HOLD UP!  Wait a minute!  Did you just say something about winning a race?  Winning?  Really?  That's terrible news.  

Yes, I know.  But I cannot tell a lie, and I must confess that there was winning last Sunday in Rome. I myself, the Grinch, took home the golden medallion, stood on the top floor of the three-tiered tower of might, and quite literally and awkwardly sat on the wheels of the competition this last weekend. There is no photographic evidence of this wheel-sitting, but anyone who saw the race unfold at its crucial stage can attest to the forcefulness of my wheel-sitting. However, in the interest of transparency and full disclosure, I will present the unavoidable, highly public, unspinnable, truth-telling photograph taken by some paparazzo with a long lens and a short fuse. I leapt from the podium as soon as I heard the shutter snap and tried to snatch the film from the camera, but by the time I discovered that there was no film at all (damn this digital age!) he had gone off the deep end and was assaulting me with a tripod. I managed to escape he three-legged attack by running into the ladies' restroom, a no-mans-land that I knew he would never dare enter, but the photo remains.  Ladies and gentlemen, exhibit A:

This photo was taken immediately after some wise guy said, "Everybody in favor of Ryan shaving his legs raise your hands!" Unfortunately, it looks like I'll be investing in a big bag of disposable razors. it's just my way of helping this troubled economy out of the toilet. I know what you're thinking though, I can see it in your beady little eyes. I know what I said a few posts back and the words echo in my dreadfully empty brain case. "Winning is for dopers and sandbaggers"

"WINNING IS FOR DOPERS AND SANDBAGGERS"

Which one am I?......  

I'm lost in a moral conundrum and I don't know quite what to do with myself. I'm becoming exactly what I said I'd never be: a leg shaving, trainer riding, diet watching, teetotaling, bibshort wearing, goo eating, cycle sharting, chamois buttering, carbon fibering, gram counting, gear clustering, race winning DOPER. Or sandbagger. Or maybe both. I can only pray that this doesn't continue.