Twas The Night Before Roubaix

Twas The Night Before Roubaix

By: Mongoose Smith (2009)

Twas the day of roubaix, when all through the trailerhouse not a creature was pedaling, not even a mouse. The fresh gravel was poured on the road with care, in hopes that the cyclists soon would be there. The race director Mitch was truly insane, he hadn't taken his meds, he tried to sleep as visions of bike crashes danced in his head. And mama in her camo gown, and me in my precision bikes cap, had just settled in for my morning crap! When at the base of the hill there arose such a clatter, I turned from the outhouse window to see what was the matter. A way down the hill I saw a flash, I looked just in time to see Will Jones crash. The blood on the breast of the new fallen cyclist, gave the lustre of mid day objects below. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a white glistening Colnago, and some trigeeks in the rear. With the hairy young man, I watched them hammer, I knew in a moment it must be Antonio Banderas. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name! Now, Will! Now, Smitty! Now, Scott and Eryn! On Eli! On, Glenn! On, David and Brian! To the top of Irondale road! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all! As dry leaves that before Katrina did fly, when they meet with an obstacle, they mount to the sky. So up to the hill top the coursers they flew, with their bikes full of gatorade and packets of gu. And then in a twinkling, I heard as they grew near, the grinding and knashing of each little gear. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the hill to my hose spigot, Miller (Antonio) came with a bound. He was dressed in a Precision Bikes kit, from head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with gravel and soot. A bundle of e-gel he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled, his curly hair how merry! His ass cheeks were all chaffed, the color of cherry! All signs of the bonk, that hit him at mile 90, with no carbs in his body, he rode like a little old lady.The stump of my hosepipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke from the gravel road circled his head like a wreath. He had long flowing hair and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly 50 year old elf, and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself! A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all his water bottles, and turned with a jerk. And laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the hill he rose! He sprang to his Colnago, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, as he rode away blowing a kiss,
"I hope the half ironman in New Orleans ain't nothing like this"

Mongoose Smith (2009) All rights reserved for the insane!