Sure thing, son! It goes something like this...
Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh. Or a bike race.
Hear those cassettes jingle jangling? Hear those hundred hoarse raspy voices singing death carols as they hit the climbs and breath in deeply of a vortex of fine particulates and various ill-causing specks--right down the pie hole and into the lungs, to be stored hacked up at night or in sickbeds, or maybe just kept there as a tickle until premature respiratory-failure-caused early death.
Ho ho ho and a merry, merry ride!
Oh giddyup, giddyup, let's go. Just look at the peleton explode. There's a wheel rent in two and maybe speared through a thigh. Maybe a pool of blood in the shape of an oh-so-red-and-cheery ribbon and bow.
Our cheeks are nice and rosy and comfy cozy as we as we lie in the ditch in the searing mid-day heat. The red is a sign of dehydration and sunburn, which can lead to death and/or skin cancer. Lovely weather for a bike race, indeed. They're carting off the weak and improperly hydrating in paddy wagons from dehydration and heat stroke, and the dizzy spells of a few will last all night into the morn.
Packages with bright bows line the podium steps, won by good boys and girls in primes and finish line mayhem. But for those oh-so-naughty children there are lumps of coal-colored bruises and missing skin, broken bones and renal failure.
Pop pop pop! That's three riders falling out the back of the race and reeling to the side of the road to vomit or shit themselves or to kneel and ask sweet Jesus to take them home immediately so they can stop feeling so crappy.
Heigh ho! There goes the heart rate to 200 beats per minute and, sorry, you've just left scar tissue there and will need a heart transplant because you've permanently damaged it. You'll have to wait for years as Dick Cheney has lined up all the available hearts at this point in time. And a merry ho ho ho to you!
Hear that sizzling, smell that bacon and eggs! That's your fat ass melting as you regret everything you ate for the past two years. Your jolly, rolly polly self and your huge white beard mean horrible Watts/Kg and CdA.
Hooray! What glorious packages tied with bright bows and ribbons, full of cheer! That's your new aero helmet which would be helpful if you ever got up to +20mph, but now it just cooks your brain, because it lacks any kind of ventilation, and you've just got heatstroke and your head looks like a kickball.
Just see those rear derailleurs humming those loose bottle cages are calling to you. Poor bike maintenance leads to the scoring of carbon steerer tubes and that's another broken clavicle or two. And maybe tighten that skewer a bit or death will also come calling for you.
A hey diddle diddle let's get that Strava downhill segment, traffic and danger be damned! It's off to Dante's seventh circle of hell, for profligates, who destroyed their lives by destroying the means by which life is sustained – i.e., money and property.
|Dante's Seventh Circle of Hell|