The Title Of This Post Contains A Code That Will Unlock The Secrets of The Universe.

Paris-Roubaix!  So how exciting was that?

No, really, how exciting was it?  I didn't watch it.  Was it a lot exciting, a little exciting, or no exciting?  Did the riders go bouncy-bouncy on the cobbledy-stones?  Did people in shants take tedious close-up photos of their Belgian beer labels?  (Pro Tip: once you're over 21 there's absolutely nothing noteworthy about purchasing and consuming beer.)  Did they then share those same photos on Instagraham even though nobody gives a shit?  (Instagrahams are my very most favoritest breakfast cereal--after Froot Loops, of course.)  How did the Spartacus do?

(That nickname gives me the douche chills, as does Cancellara himself.)

What about Spocktopus?

(They call him Spocktopus because of his pointy ears and prehensile tentacles.)

Also, here's a fun fact: Raymond Impanis, who finished 10th place in the 1959 edition of Paris-Roubaix, used to play a "stunt nun" in the movies:



His last stunt role was in the 2007 Belgian blockbuster "The Nun Who Won Paris-Roubaix," which won sixteen "Pots Belge" (a "Pot Belge" is a Belgian Academy Award) that year, including "Best Graphic Sex" for what has since come to be known as the second-most infamous shower scene after the one in "Psycho:"

("I can't believe I just had sex with a nun.")

For a scene in which a nun has spirited sexual intercourse with the 120-odd fellow finishers of the "Hell of the North," it's surprisingly poignant and profoundly introspective, and also somehow a metaphor for the human condition, because all "foreign" films are a metaphor for the human condition.

Of course, spring doesn't just mean pretending to get excited about the Classics so your fellow cyclists think you're cool.  It's also about renewed interest in "cycle chic" or whatever it's called, and here's a strange video on the subject narrated by a pod person who ate the brain of a newsreel narrator from the 1940s:


I like to think I know a thing or two about on-the-bike fashion.  For example, here's me wearing a Smurf hat and resting my foot on my top tube for no discernible reason:

Here's me clenching my jaw so passers-by can simultaneously admire my sculpted beard and feel bad about how schlubby they look:

And here's me moments after my papa took my training wheels off and I pedaled a two-wheeler all by myself for the very first time:

(The excessive reach and width of the bars makes him look like a puppy trying to stay upright on an over-waxed linoleum floor.)

I can assure you I never looked back, and indeed I kept going all the way to the salon for my bikini-waxing appointment, where I crashed right through the window.

Anyway, given my sartorial bona-fides, I had one problem with the video, which was the helments:

It makes me sad when people think they can look good in helments by wearing colorful plastic hats instead.  To date, nobody has succeeded in designing an urban cycling helment that looks less dorky than a racing helment, and that includes this thing:

What is that?  He looks like like he should be playing (American) football for Yale in 1916.

Of course, one tactic is to distract people from your goofy helment hat by donning another garment that is even more comical, such as this bright red rain cape:

He looks like the Magnificent Frigatebird attempting to attract a mate.

I did get one good idea from this video though, which was to install a rolltop desk on my own bicycle:

That way I can finally make the shift from digital blogger to analogue bloggeur.  Starting in two weeks my blogging posts will be written entirely in pen and ink, and I will send them to subscribers via post, at least until such time as I can implement a Kickstarter campaign for a fleet of carrier pigeons with which to disseminate my missives.

Most of all though, this video made me miss those intense London Cat 6 scrums:

Having ridden my bicycle all over the world, I can tell you that nobody Cat 6es more intensely than Londoners:

By the way, I'm still trying to figure out how I actually took a photograph in London without catching at least 16 Bromptoneers.

Meanwhile, here in Canada's infected black market butt implant, the new thing is glow-in-the-dark fixie bikes:

“They don’t plan ahead for the capital needs of the business, and consequently they’re racing to make up lost ground,” Mr. Grousbeck says. “They start the fire drill, saying, ‘Let’s get it from my uncle and your cousin and the person down the street and the dentist.’ ”

The founders stopped short of asking their dentists for money, but they did seek loan guarantees and advice from their parents, some of whom are entrepreneurs themselves.

Wow.  Pretty dumb not to hit up the dentist.  They're pretty flush now that Serotta has gone out of business.