SOMEBODY WON!
WHERE WAS GAZELLE GIRL?
BROKEN TOE? OH, NO!
Belo News
GALESBURG, MI.
July 3, 2010
Galesburg, Mi. – Is this the greatest time of year or what? Warm days, cool nights, and the Tour on TV every single evening! Well, actually, ALL DAY LONG! It doesn’t get any better, does it?
As the sun broke over the Shark Cove, our intrepid hero noticed that the garage door at the Nikeboy abode two doors down was up and Nikeboy’s faithful Seven steed was glistening in the early dawn light. Sharkman knew he would have company as he began the ride to the start for the holiday edition of the KK-TdG.
Sooner was also out early and met Sharkman at Skyline Drive explaining that he had ridden from home but couldn’t stay for the actual ride. Further down the road, Qman, visiting for the weekend, came riding up to meet his leader and fellow Minions.
Is there anything better than the sun on your back, great riders around you and the promise of a great ride ahead? Well welcome to the Mighty Minion Nation, Bunkie!
As the riders approached the start, the parking lot was already filling up. But even Sharkman was surprised at the turn out that began to develop. Of course, there were a few late arrivals like Wolf King, Kid Doster and Rainman…..what part of 8:00 a.m. SHARP are you guys not understanding?
Other riders who had not been in attendance in while like Airman, Stingray, Toast, Peugeot Guy and others were piling out of cars!
Stryker Guy even awarded our hero with a “Tour of Ireland” Jersey before the ride kicked off!
Faith and begora, could this morning get any better?
Skipper was getting impatient as 8:00 a.m. SHARP came and went, but all tolled, there were 33 Minions ready to rumble! As the Skipper rallied the ranks and the clock hit 8:08 a.m. the sound of pedals clicking echoed around Galesburg. As the Might Minion Nation passed through town, Jamie came out of the Klutch to wave hello with a look of fear in her eyes, concerned that all 33 Minions would be returning for Koffee at the same time in about an hour and half. The Minions rode by as if to say, “start grinding those beans Jamie, we’ll be back soon!”
In addition to the 33 riders, 7 more riders latched on during the course of the morning, even a crew from Team Active in Battle Creek, bringing the final total to a Minion record of 40 total riders!
The Skipper lead the Nation north and after a while, the Pirate and Squeaky went to the front. Yes, Squeaky was back again! When asked if he had moved back to Kalamazoo he simply stated, “not yet….”
Many Minions asked, “Where was Gazelle Girl?” to which the Sharkman replied, “You won’t believe it!” (see next story)
As the Minions approached the honorary Sharkman sprint a rider came up to lead out our intrepid hero, apparently interested in getting his name in the Belo News, as is tradition. The Sharkman gratefully latched on to his wheel and then went by as the lead out rider gave way to our hero for the final sprint.
However, the rider apparently did not understand tradition or honor in the peloton and decided to re-pass our hero to take the sprint. The Sharkman did not dignify the affront with a counter attack and simply rode on.
Obviously, the rider did not understand what a major infraction of Minion etiquette this is. Due to the infraction, the rider has thus been relegated to “persona non grata” status for a yet to be determined amount of time by the Commissioner of Cycling.
The pace picked up big time as the Mighty Minion Train headed north and more Minions continued to join the ride.
The riders split into groups in the Country Club section but came back together at the summit of the col de Norte. There were so many riders it was difficult to determine who was winning the sprints.
As the speedy band of riders crossed the Digital Divide, Sharkman went to the front to form up the pace line. As the train started to get into motion, a pop was heard from the back of the peloton and it was yet another flat tire! Belo News believes this is the 3rd or 4th flat tire in this section over the past two seasons!
Wilier Boy had punctured and the peloton stopped for the fix. Some riders had to go on, as they had family obligations, but the majority of Minions hung in until the tire was repaired. We leave no Minion behind! Besides, who wants to miss the finishing sprint!
As the Minions crossed the 3G zone, Chico, Sharkman and the Tow Truck went up front to stretch out the peloton. Chico did a humongous pull at the front and was relieved by the ever strong Tow Truck and occasionally by the Sharkman.
As the Mighty Minion Nation bore down after the final hill, the real sprints kicked up in a mass finish. Rainman took second and no one seemed to know who took third. It was a great finish!
The fans were wild along the Champs le Galesburg as our hero’s zipped up their jersey’s for the sponsors and waved to the adoring fans.
As the Minions pulled into the Klutch, Jamie the Barista was ready for the hordes of thirsty riders. Bullet Bob and his lovely wife Sharon were also there to great the Minions and had cycled down to the Klutch to take in the ambiance. Some of the Minions sat outside while some decided to stay in. Even Tardette, who we've not seen in a while arrived to sign autographs and talk at the press conference.
Another perfect KK-TdG!
So you won't want to miss the next one, Bunkie!
This Saturday, July 10, 2010 – 8:00 A.M. – Launch Time – SHARP!
Be there!
Gazelle Girl MIA
by Gazelle Girl herself!
Galesburg, Mi. - I missed y’all this past Saturday and it wasn’t due to too much Independence Day revelry the night before. (I’m leaving that up to the neighbors who, I thought by now, would have been out of fireworks what with the racket since Valentine’s Day. Do they buy this stuff in bulk?)
I’m on the injured list. See the picture? That’s my toe. I brushed it up against Shaft the Dog’s (STD’s) wheelchair ramp whilst changing the bed. (It’s even got a name, my toe. Bedpost Toe.) Most bizarre thing… I stubbed it but didn’t get that second wave of pain that most harmless stubs produce. Thus, I’m like… Cool. That seemed like a pretty bad stub, but didn’t hurt much at all. I continued on around the bed and just happened to look down. Oh. Oh. Hey. Wow. Oh. I feel sick. Oh, dang. Wow. I feel pretty sick. That’s my foot. That’s MY foot!
I was home alone with no one to panic in front of. I hobbled to the phone and rang up Zickman thinking he could talk me through this. “You kids and your silly toes. Push it westward and wrap a hunk of tape around it and its buddy. Good as new.” The phone rang and rang and rang. Do you know that Zickman doesn’t have an answering machine???? Okay, so I don’t have a cell phone, but at least I have an answering machine (and a microwave oven). All right then. Zickman’s no good to me. Time to track down significant sweetie, Eric. He’s gone downtown with a pal to check out an ancient VW bus that needs the attention that the buddy is capable of providing. I call the VW bus’s house. I’m told that the boys have headed to Bell’s nearly 45 minutes ago. Hot tip.
Ring up Bell’s. “Hello. My name is Joan. I’m looking for a couple of guys. One’s tall, bespectacled and has a really looooooong beard. The other has a shaved head and looks like a rugby thug.”
Keep in mind, it’s 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon, not 9:30 on a Saturday night. I’m not asking too much here. Pause. Pause. Pause.
“What’s his last name?” “Bekker.” “Is your last name Bekker?” she says into the phone. I’m about to say, “Noooooo,” when I hear Eric say, “Why yes!” “Yep. He’s here,” she says and sounds as if she’s wrapping up the conversation. Time to hang up. She’s done her job. She’s busted the noon-time barfly. Let’s get to washin’ some glasses. “Can I talk to him? It’s kind of an emergency,” I plead. Eric and his pal have just ordered a freshie. They’ll be home soon.
They arrive an hour later. I’ve managed to take a shower during this time. Careful not to snag my outrigger on a door jam or toilet stool. I’ve got a graduation party to attend. Let’s get the show on the road.
Tim, Eric’s friend, takes one look and says. “I play rugby.” (See, I told ya.) “That’s dislocated. We can fix it.” I’m excited. They’re a bit tipsy. Is this a good thing?
Boy Scout Eric affixes a nifty handle to my toe that he fashions out of athletic tape. He and Tim try to trick me into thinking they are going to do the dreaded relocation on “five” when they’re really going to surprise me on “three.” I tell them to knock it off and just keep chattering to take my mind off this mess. “How was the beer?” Click. “Was Bell’s very busy?” Click. “Who was there?” Click. Oh my golly. There’s my foot. It looks normal again. Not much pain. Yippee! Problem solved. I’m off to eat dusty potato rolls, warm macaroni salad and melted cake.
So… just a little dislocation. I do a little ice. Some ibuprofen. Riding my bike hurts less then walking. However, two weeks later, and the angry little guy is still the same size and hurts when I wear anything but my Sidi road shoes which, lets face it, I don’t typically walk too far in.
I make an appointment with a guy that I will never understand. Feet. Nothing but feet. All day long. Feet. Yuck. His lovely assistant takes a few pix. No dislocation. Busted. The damn thing is broken. I’ve not treated it like broken bone stuff. I’ve treated it like twisted joint stuff. (There is a difference, isn’t there?)
“No bike riding for two weeks,” Dr. Scholl snaps. I plead with him. “A little easy pedaling just to get out a bit?” He clacks his boot heels together and snaps his riding crop against his thigh. “Nein!”
Four sloth-like days later, Friday night, I’m AT Gull Lake instead of riding AROUND it when my dear old dog miscalculates a rear leg placement as she gets up off the dock and cascades into the drink. I get down on all fours and lean over the dock’s edge to coax STD toward shore. She’s under the dock just treading water. Making no move toward shore. I panic a bit ‘cause she’s an old lady and I’m not sure how long she can just paddle, paddle, paddle. Upward I spring to find an appropriately dressed assistant to rescue her. This action is accompanied by a distinct “SNAP!” coming from my right pinkie toe as I flex skyward. Damn dog… again.
I’ll see you guys in the fall.
Galesburg, Mi. - I missed y’all this past Saturday and it wasn’t due to too much Independence Day revelry the night before. (I’m leaving that up to the neighbors who, I thought by now, would have been out of fireworks what with the racket since Valentine’s Day. Do they buy this stuff in bulk?)
I’m on the injured list. See the picture? That’s my toe. I brushed it up against Shaft the Dog’s (STD’s) wheelchair ramp whilst changing the bed. (It’s even got a name, my toe. Bedpost Toe.) Most bizarre thing… I stubbed it but didn’t get that second wave of pain that most harmless stubs produce. Thus, I’m like… Cool. That seemed like a pretty bad stub, but didn’t hurt much at all. I continued on around the bed and just happened to look down. Oh. Oh. Hey. Wow. Oh. I feel sick. Oh, dang. Wow. I feel pretty sick. That’s my foot. That’s MY foot!
I was home alone with no one to panic in front of. I hobbled to the phone and rang up Zickman thinking he could talk me through this. “You kids and your silly toes. Push it westward and wrap a hunk of tape around it and its buddy. Good as new.” The phone rang and rang and rang. Do you know that Zickman doesn’t have an answering machine???? Okay, so I don’t have a cell phone, but at least I have an answering machine (and a microwave oven). All right then. Zickman’s no good to me. Time to track down significant sweetie, Eric. He’s gone downtown with a pal to check out an ancient VW bus that needs the attention that the buddy is capable of providing. I call the VW bus’s house. I’m told that the boys have headed to Bell’s nearly 45 minutes ago. Hot tip.
Ring up Bell’s. “Hello. My name is Joan. I’m looking for a couple of guys. One’s tall, bespectacled and has a really looooooong beard. The other has a shaved head and looks like a rugby thug.”
Keep in mind, it’s 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon, not 9:30 on a Saturday night. I’m not asking too much here. Pause. Pause. Pause.
“What’s his last name?” “Bekker.” “Is your last name Bekker?” she says into the phone. I’m about to say, “Noooooo,” when I hear Eric say, “Why yes!” “Yep. He’s here,” she says and sounds as if she’s wrapping up the conversation. Time to hang up. She’s done her job. She’s busted the noon-time barfly. Let’s get to washin’ some glasses. “Can I talk to him? It’s kind of an emergency,” I plead. Eric and his pal have just ordered a freshie. They’ll be home soon.
They arrive an hour later. I’ve managed to take a shower during this time. Careful not to snag my outrigger on a door jam or toilet stool. I’ve got a graduation party to attend. Let’s get the show on the road.
Tim, Eric’s friend, takes one look and says. “I play rugby.” (See, I told ya.) “That’s dislocated. We can fix it.” I’m excited. They’re a bit tipsy. Is this a good thing?
Boy Scout Eric affixes a nifty handle to my toe that he fashions out of athletic tape. He and Tim try to trick me into thinking they are going to do the dreaded relocation on “five” when they’re really going to surprise me on “three.” I tell them to knock it off and just keep chattering to take my mind off this mess. “How was the beer?” Click. “Was Bell’s very busy?” Click. “Who was there?” Click. Oh my golly. There’s my foot. It looks normal again. Not much pain. Yippee! Problem solved. I’m off to eat dusty potato rolls, warm macaroni salad and melted cake.
So… just a little dislocation. I do a little ice. Some ibuprofen. Riding my bike hurts less then walking. However, two weeks later, and the angry little guy is still the same size and hurts when I wear anything but my Sidi road shoes which, lets face it, I don’t typically walk too far in.
I make an appointment with a guy that I will never understand. Feet. Nothing but feet. All day long. Feet. Yuck. His lovely assistant takes a few pix. No dislocation. Busted. The damn thing is broken. I’ve not treated it like broken bone stuff. I’ve treated it like twisted joint stuff. (There is a difference, isn’t there?)
“No bike riding for two weeks,” Dr. Scholl snaps. I plead with him. “A little easy pedaling just to get out a bit?” He clacks his boot heels together and snaps his riding crop against his thigh. “Nein!”
Four sloth-like days later, Friday night, I’m AT Gull Lake instead of riding AROUND it when my dear old dog miscalculates a rear leg placement as she gets up off the dock and cascades into the drink. I get down on all fours and lean over the dock’s edge to coax STD toward shore. She’s under the dock just treading water. Making no move toward shore. I panic a bit ‘cause she’s an old lady and I’m not sure how long she can just paddle, paddle, paddle. Upward I spring to find an appropriately dressed assistant to rescue her. This action is accompanied by a distinct “SNAP!” coming from my right pinkie toe as I flex skyward. Damn dog… again.
I’ll see you guys in the fall.
STD hisself!
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