The seedy (but sensual) Pomegranate, Doug Pomeranz, held off a fast-charging, domineering dominatrix named Tina Mayola-Pic to score his first ever WBL victory on the New Year’s Day Talmo Classic event. The January 1st event left the previously locked and chained sprinters’ gate crumpled in the dirt in a twisted heap after the Zealots stampeded through like a lusty herd of drunk elephants in the first Attack Zone of the year.

The WBL Board of Directors selected the despised Pink Church as the first finishing line of the season, and once again, this implacable, unfeeling finish didn’t fail to please. At the end of the 75 mile, 3 hour and forty-five minute day, the lead Zealots thundered up the final uphill slant to the line, wheezing and gasping for oxygen like chain smokers, with slobber gushing down their chins like oozing diarrhea. Zealots jumped and attacked and then snapped and crumbled on the cruel 1-mile climb to paydirt while Pomegranate, like the Prince of Darkness himself, waited behind and bided his time. When the rotating legs of those in the lead slowed and began to look like they were trying to push over 1000 pound wheels, Pomegranate sprang from his protected position like he’d sat atop burning coals butt naked. He nipped a perpendicularly pedaling Mayola-Pic, who was forced by the Board to sprint with her left leg outstretched to her side and held parallel to the ground, while simultaneously singing The Star Spangled Banner. When Mayola-Pic complained about her handicap, the despicable Pomegranate only laughed and said, “Maybe if you could halfway carry a tune…I mean honey, you call that singing, cheezzzz. And besides, yo leg weren’t even straight.” Pomegranate slapped his comrade, the Blade, on the back and guffawed like the insolent and uncaring (but sensual) bastard he truly is (and now will surely be).

Fifty or more New Year’s Day revelers signed in for the first event of 2005, thus guaranteeing themselves good luck as well as an exceptional year in 2005, both on the bike and off as well. Once again, the beneficent weather gods smiled on the Saturday morning denizens of East Washington Street. (Was this a trick? Is Johnny Payback slated to visit? Brother Time will let us know.) Temperatures soared to a sweltering 75 degrees as many of the forward thinkers in the group rode in short sleeves and without leggings. However, a horrible thing happened: chalky-white skin and shoe polish black leg hair. Thousands of gawking fans that lined the sidewalks on Prince Avenue were left with a mild speech impediment after seeing the terrible sight of white flight. They reported that the Zealot’s milky-white skin was quite a horrifible and traumaticus sight. Some of the worst offenders of white under these bleached-blue skies were the Clorox-skinned Doc Moye, the bloodless Roberto Rivers, the sugar white Mike Mitchko, the pasty Brent Swanson, the talcum powdered Dave McCoy, the Swedish skinned Chris Purvis, the pale Ned Gardiner and the just plain white Wojtek Wysocki. The multitudes lining the sides of the roads grimaced and held handkerchiefs to their faces as the white knights cut a clean path out of town and headed for the highlands to the north, grinning like Cheshire cats all the way. Poor, ignorant fans; they should have covered their eyes.

The group headed due north, toward its ultimate apogee on the day’s orbit, Talmo. The pack sped out Tallassee Road, blazed a fiery trail around the western edges of Jefferson, pierced the city limits of Pendergrass, and headed like a boomerang for the heart off downtown Talmo. In Talmo, over 100,000 screaming fanatics cheered as the vainglorious Zealots, who had reddened slightly, including the Yellow jersey holder Turbo Gentry, waved like conquering heroes. Unfortunately, Canadian Don Newman took a spill while waving with both arms over his head. Canadians, rarely seen on the podium, are simply inexperienced with the two-armed-over-the-head-victory-wave. (As a result, the Board passed a rule that Canadians must keep one hand on the handlebars at all times. Others must continue to give the two-armed salute.) Newman picked himself up, brushed himself off, and stayed behind to sign autographs and fend off the unruly mob. “What’s one Canadian worth anyway?” said Steve Sperry of Greenville. “ ‘Bout a buck and a quarter,” Jason Leslie, another Greenvillain, responded. His lip curled into a private smile, like he was sure of the answer.

After cruising down Main Street in Talmo, the Zealots crossed Highway129 and turned back towards home and the first Attack Zone of the year. The group was anxious to reach the frontlines, and the average speed hovered around 20 miles per hour. Just prior to the store stop at the 2.5-hour mark, IcePic decided to give the legs a little taste-tester and pressed his accelerator to the floorboard on Much Hated Hill. The Zealots, fearing the worst, panicked; they thought Ice was launching an attack 30 miles from home. The pack behind—click-click-click—shifted into proper gears, and then scrambled and scrabbled huffed and puffed—whuuu-whuuu-whuuaghhh—up the difficult mur in a cross-eyed frenzy. Legs snapped, backs broke and kneecaps buckled. Ice cackled like a wife beating wino as he pulled into the pit stop and gazed back at the mangled destruction left in his wake: the path of a tornado. At that point in the ride, the group behind realized Ice had sounded the alarm out of pure spite and with nothing but a seething hatred for all mankind. But Ice had shown his hand and no one was falling for his “no training” song and dance any longer: Ice was labeled as “one rotten liar.”

After bathing in the warm rays of the sun for just a spell, the Zealots saddled-up, unsheathed their swords, and rode like 50 Don Quixotes to the waiting battlefield. But today, there would be no jousting with windmills. Today’s Attack Zone would begin on the Jefferson Riviera Road, one mile from the base of the surgically altered Jefferson Riviera Hump (formerly “Wall”). It was the first test for the new Hump. After clearing the Hump, the Attack Zone ran straight another 5 miles to Alligator Pond. At Alligator Pond, the Zone turned right and began the final 1-mile assault to the finish, the Pink Church. The entire length of this well-known Attack Zone is 7 miles. And the Zealots, just like beaten dogs, keep coming back for more punishment.

As the remnants of the salty group turned from the Brockton Road onto the Jefferson Riviera, the scream of the attack whistle split the air above: it was showdown and throwdown time in the WBL. Straight away, Jittery Joe’s new wonderboy Tim Johnson split the seams of time and shot off the front. Todd White Hands Herickson quickly followed and joined. But the two were ineligible for victory; was this only a ruse? The question raced through the peloton like a rolling fireball. As the pack hit the bottom of the J.R. Hump, Super Dave McCoy smelled a rat amongst the ranks. Super Dave spied super Canadian Lynn Bessette charging up the right hand side of the road. Super Dave immediately intuited the plan: Bessette would bridge; Johnson and Henrickson would wait; the three together would sail away to victory; end of story. He knew he had to act quickly. McCoy swung right and forced Bessette of the road and into the grass. McCoy saved the day for all citizens of the United States of America. At the post ride press conference later, McCoy, while sucking the marrow out of a long straw of hay, would say with the stone cold seriousness of a premeditated killer: “Perhaps she don’t know how we feel about Canadians round these parts. She’ll learn.” He spit a bit of chewed straw onto the ground, then looked dead straight into the camera eye.

After Bessette was body-checked, a group of twenty crested the Hump as one. Over the top of the huge Hump, Rhino Barnett, Boy Brian Bibens, the Blade, Johnson and Henrickson continued to apply the pressure from the front. The pack stretched into a long sinewy snake, slithering and weaving behind the force applied at the front side of the equation. Doc Moye, the great Drewdini, Roberto, Swanson, Gregor Samsa Somerville, Mayole-Pic and others jostled for position behind, waiting for the wheel of fortune to stop spinning during their instant in the sun. Any and all bids for glory were foiled on the long downhill run on J. Riviera Road as the pack sped towards the final right hand turn at speeds of 35 miles-per-hour. Reaching the pond in which a large 50-foot alligator still lives in the mud and the muck on the bottom, the group of 20 contenders was still together:1 mile to go, make or break time in the WBL.

As the group took the final right, Drewdini attacked first. This has been a successful move for the experienced Drewdini in the past; he has 5 total WBL wins to his credit over the last 10 years. Drewdini opened a tenuous 20-meter gap. The Dominatrix ordered her underlings to the front. “Get to the front underlings!” she roared. First Ice, then the Spaniard went to the front and opened the throttle to “full tilt.” Half way up the hill, Drewdini was caught; but he had left a smidgen of gasoline in his reserve tank. The speed needle stayed to the far right, bobbing in the red zone after Drewdini was caught. Holes in the tearing line of riders opened as the pack continued its furious bid towards the pink line, and ultimate glory. As the pack sailed by the 500 meter to go kite, then the 400 meter to go sign, and finally sped under the 200 meter to go banner, only 7 contenders remained in contact with the first group. Here, Sperry kicked into hyper drive and turned the torque-o-meter to warp nine. Sperry appeared to be headed for his greatest victory ever, a WBL win. (A homemade video clip shows tears may have already been forming in Sperry’s eyes at this time, thus clouding his vision. Sperry denies all allegations, claiming he was thinking of his mama’s sweet poundcake recipe at the time.) But 10 meters from the line, the Pomegranate clawed his way up to Sperry, and inched his way past for “the most amazing win in my illustrious career.” Behind Pomegrante, Mayola-Pic, with her left leg sticking out straight to one side, passed Sperry  to claim second overall, and first female finisher. With her double points on the day (7), Mayola-Pic moved into a tie with Turbo Gentry for Yellow. Sperry held on for third, Drewdini fourth, Somerville fifth, with Moye sixth. Bessette and Iona Wynter rounded out the top three for the women.

Mayola-Pic now looks ready to once again don the Yellow jersey all by her lonesome: next week’s ride is a women’s only sprint, with only ride points (2) for the fellas. And the vitriol that has been spewed between the women has reached an all time low-high: Iona Wynter has accused Erin Winter of ogling her man; Cathy Connell has charged Bessette with listening to Rush, an admitted bunch of Canadians, a serious charge if proven true; Maggie Shirley has shouted from on high that Ice is no more than a boy-toy for the Dahlonaga Dominatrix, an allegation that may actually earn the boy a point. And with a first place prize of $200 on the line (winner take all), there doesn’t appear to be any relief in sight. But never fear, for I, the Honest Journalist, will be there to report all the sad, sorry and sordid details. And my guarantee to you is that you will never hear anything but The Truth from me, for The Truth will set you free. Send your donation today!

Amen Brother!

  1. Pomerantz 5pts.
  2. Mayola-Pic 4 pts.
  3. Sperry 3 pts.
  4. Drewdini 2 pts.
  5. Somerville 1 pt.
  1. Mayola-Pic 3 pts.
  2. Bessette 2 pts.
  3. I. Wynter 1 pt.

Everyone also receives additional 2 pts. for signing in and riding.