2005 National Tandem Championships TT by Rob Schott

report filed July 05

National Tandem Time Trial Championship 27 June 05
Antelope Island, UT
Citizens Richard Pepper and Robert Schott, Republic of Anaerobia

The announcer man at the start line on Antelope Island could not stifle his mystification as he recognized for the masses "Schott and Pepper" traveling many miles as we had from the Republic of Anaerobia. Our Republic is yes perhaps obscure, be we stood proud as we inched toward the start, one of many in a line of decadent western tandem bicycles, with lightweight this and that. We rolled forth a solid Anaerobia machine, forged with great care from Ministry of Ironworks and built for the rocky paths of Mt. Anhedonia where we would train, if in truth we were to train, for such a race. The announcer man gave the crowd our names- he spoke as if were hot dog condiment rather than a true Anaerobia racing team! And his ignorance of our homeland! It gave me deep spasms of inspiration as I clutched my luck charm, the coveted "Order of Stolichnaya" awarded to us by the Central Committee after our dominating recent victory at the Decadent Northern California District Championships. We were still intoxicated by that great effort, dedicated to the peoples of our barren and sparsely populated homeland. We are of course not used to the intoxication that comes from winning! (Yes, the preferred intoxicant in our capitol, Catatonia, is brake fluid and goat's blood, both freshly bled from their respective sources! Ah, we remember fondly rich brake juice drawn from the abandoned U.N. Relief trucks that no longer come.)

The beneficent and mighty Anaerobian Central Committee sold few badger furs to effete westerners for our adventure, and released me from daily toil at Dirt Nap Mining Collective #23 and Comrade Pepper from Animation Commune #11. Thus began the long journey to starting line on windswept and mountainous Antelope Island in the Great Salty Lake (ah, so much as like our beloved homeland!), otherwise inhabited only by buffalo. The class and species-repressing organizers had prohibited the buffalo from watching the race or otherwise mingling with riders on the course. From this we drew strength, knowing that in our homeland the wild-eyed grazers would be free to share cart paths. But of course this is how 4 comrade Time Trial Team from Lactonia District met with great tragedy in 1986, trampled by wild boar in our national championships. We are here to honor them.

We stood on head of start line and drew in our last slow breaths of brown air. South Utah was on fire and there was a gauze of smoke blown straight to our eyes by moderate south wind. It was an advantage to Comrade Pepper and I, as from Anaerobia this was good airs; air we could see and taste and touch is air we can put trust! But unfortunate enough, the smoke chased off invigorator briney smells of the Great Salty Lake, itself barren and in support of lifelessness, except brine shrimp and brine flies and other salt-loving mutations which love salt which is more than 4 times that of ocean! We thought, this is for our water bottle! To make strong for bicycle test! Bbut instead took Gator juice, a sweet western mixture from the urine of gators and Florida footballmen, said to be rich in substance to make hard inspiration.

Comrade Pepper and I had ample time for warm-up, although because we hail from separate districts, we had no practice and could not stand up on our tandem bicycle together very confident. We had time to tighten up our forward projecting aero protrusions, which had fallen off our bicycle in Decadent Blue State California Championship on our one early race together, in which we had great merit despite obvious plots to loosen our screws.

We now moved to the head and a man flipped down his fingers to count us up and off we blast like a Soyuz-3! Comrade Pepper and I had solemnly sworn an oath on the little Red Manual to ride not-too-too-hard for the first hill. We had not seen this devious national time trial path before, but could see big hill from start line. Alas, I confess, that I, Citizen Schott, am incontinent of moderation. My heart blinker showed almost all of my beats for a minute just after we start! There were only 5 possible beats more in a minute for my party organ! This is why riding a socialist collective bicycle is good, Comrade Pepper could confer and offer knowledge, "Downshift!" and "Slow the *!* down!" I saw wisdoms here and we found some rhythms, but this evil American national course offers little opportunity for rhythms, going up and down all the way.

We ride hard, the banana dangling frontward being our 1 minute team, Comrades Broz and Barretto from a district nearby to us. "Hail comrades!" as we roll past them before 10K. Their look says that they too find that this is not easy path to honor and bliss.

With them behind us there is just emptiness up front as we make pedals go fast to 17 kilometer around-you-go point at top of yet another upward reaching salty crusted alluvion, which many years before our little time sat at bottom of big Lake Bonneville.

After around, we go back down fast and find a pair of comrades coming up turnaround hill behind us. We are now big fruits dangling in front for them. They have come from very far back, and we are little ants to fast anteaters coming to make us noon treat. Despite my heart has never ever pumped so quick for such long ( I think my party organ might explode), I commit more violence to pedals. The gritty wind now blows at our backs and we make much haste, hunched over our aero protrusions. I try to glance back once for predators but Comrade Pepper makes firm encouragement to keep eyes forward.

The last descent makes sweeper turn onto last climb before blessed finish. I decide to remain with my arms extended in the aero protrusions as we fly through corner at 47 MPH. Better to give blood with desperate valor than allow the capitalist leeches behind us to suck us dry!

On last hard climb, Comrade Pepper is making sound like goats when they couple to make new goats. I too suffer. I can see top, but time is warped by cosmic death radiation shimmering off the hot black path. The seconds come as like days (years maybe) and we round corner top. But it is not top, more climb! It is not forseen and bring great measure of sadness. A small cruel vision this more climb; it is still burned onto my eyes.

We cross finish line with anteaters still behind us (from different category we later informed upon). We agree that it is not possible to go harder. Maybe faster yes, but not possible to make harder. There is nothing left in legs and I have blood spilling under the white parts of my eyes from broken little vessels. I look like peasant with too much brake fluid in veins. We cough, dry like angry dog bark, and drive slow to decadent ski town Park City to take lowest step on podium and bronze prize. We gaze longingly at higher steps. The pain it begins fade and we already think of next year, maybe with help from Industry of Carbon Works to make for decadent western bicycle for two that weigh less than 40 rocks.

Yours in everlong big struggle,

Comrade Schott

(American nationals cabalists have back at Park City next year on same evil course! From the People of Anaeboria Space Station, you can see Antelope Island is big lump- not actually island at lower right:

eol.jsc.nasa.gov/sseop/images/EO/highres/ISS007/ISS007-E-13002.JPG)

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