Hacking Away: Epic Schemes and Epic Rides

(Killer Kangaroo with Newfound Bottle-Opening Capabilities forwarded by a reader)

As many people are no doubt aware by now, this past weekend defrocked Tour de France winner Floyd Landis became the "bizarro" Roman Polanski when a French judge issued a warrant for his arrest due to allegations that he "hacked" into the French anti-doping laboratory's computers:

Like Christophe Moreau or the music of MC Solaar, the warrant on Landis is only valid in France, and once it travels beyond their borders it becomes weak and ineffectual. However, the French authorities have been known to try to exercise warrants in places of French influence beyond their borders, so Landis's legal team has advised him to avoid crêperies, French Connection retail clothing stores, and all Au Bon Pain franchises until this whole thing blows over. According to French anti-doping head Pierre Bordry, someone using a computer registered to Landis's coach, Arnie Baker, hacked into the lab's system back in 2006 around the time Landis was defending himself and orchestrating psychosexual prank calls to Greg LeMond, though for his part Landis is claiming that not only did he not do anything wrong but also that this is even more evidence that the French lab sucks:

Surely this is one of the strangest controversies in cycling history, and you can expect overrated French director Michel Gondry to make one of his trademark whimsically pretentious surrealistic films about the whole affair in the coming years. (It will be called "Eternal Darkness of the Hairless Taint," and I look forward to the dreamlike sequence in which Landis, played by Rowan Atkinson, applies a testosterone patch to his perineum with a pair of giant hands.) In the meantime, we may never know for sure what happened back in 2006. Did Landis really cheat? Do the French have a vendetta against American cyclists? Did someone in Landis's employ hack into the lab's computer system? Was the lab incompetent? The answer to all of these questions is, of course, "Almost certainly."

Still, even if Landis did hack into the lab's computers, he could have done so for any number of reasons. If he is indeed innocent, he may have been searching for incriminating emails or manipulated data. Or if he was guilty, he may have been attempting to manipulate the data himself in a scheme lifted wholesale from the film "Ferris Bueller's Day Off:"

As you may recall, Bueller had accrued a whopping nine absences, which is the scholastic equivalent of having a hematocrit way over 50%. However, Bueller was able to gain access to his school's computer and reduce that number before Ed Rooney's very eyes:

One can easily imagine similar outrage on the face of Pierre Bordry. It's enough to drive even the most diminutive Frenchman to lay waste to an entire laboratory full of beakers and test tubes with a stale baguette.

Alas, with professional cycling in such a state, it is tempting to seek solace in the relatively naive and guileless world of trendy cycling. Last Friday, I watched and enjoyed Part I of a video called "Junkun," which is the "Lord of the Rings" of "epic" Nü-Fred cycling sagas, and over the long weekend I tackled Part II, which opened right up with the Fixie Tree of Knowledge:

Sure, you could just leave your bikes on the ground while you camp out overnight, but hanging them in a tree keeps them safe from the tiny mystical forest-dwelling imps who molest unwitting pilgrims' bicycles by pushing their chain pins halfway out and deflating their tires. These are the sorts of things you learn when you go to Japan and "soak up as much of their culture as you can." You also wind up riding around in a goofy keirin helmet cover, which is sort of like coming to the United States and painting black lines under your eyes because you watched a football game:

Incidentally, one of the riders foolishly failed to hang his bicycle from the Fixie Tree of Knowledge and it fell victim to the forest imps, who took the opportunity to place a curse on it by installing front and rear derailleurs:

He'll have ample time to wallow in regret as he downshifts on the climbs and coasts on the descents. But it would seem that not all forest creatures in Japan are evil; our heroes are also visited by a helpful being who in his very first appearance manages to smash every single one of the Rapha "Rules of the Road" like an enraged Frenchman smashes a room full of lab equipment:

Upon hearing the cries of his forlorn brethren (one of whom has already been turned into a roadie by evil spirits), the Wise Japanese Hipster immediately embraces his sacred mission: "I have to tell them 'This is not correct road.'"

No, riding track bikes across Japan is indeed not the right road, though the Wise Japanese Hipster also seems to be using one. Then again, he's no ordinary rider--he's "probably one of the most hardcore bicycle enthusiasts Japan has." The Nü-Freds know this because, not only have they searched far and wide for the three or four days they've been in Japan, but also because the Wise Japanese Hipster is wearing apparel from at least two different defunct professional cycling teams simultaneously:

"He helped us out so many different ways," the narrator continues. Apparently this involves performing menial tasks such as inflating their tires for them:


Not only that, but the Wise Japanese Hipster also has magical powers. "I busted my tire and he fixed it with superglue, a Band Aid, and a one dollar bill," says one of the riders. Flying halfway around the world and going on a 400 mile bike trip before learning the concept of the "tire boot" is like learning how to tie a bow tie two years into your job as a tuxedo salesman.

Anyway, either the Wise Japanese Hipster turns out to be an evil spirit in disguise, or more likely, he's just sick of playing "pump monkey" to a bunch of Nü-Freds, because he soon ends up leading them astray and they get lost in the mountains of Nara where the dreaded "Keirin Dork Curse" begins to take hold:

Eventually, though, the Nü-Freds manage to find civilization, though they're considerably bedraggled and at least $900 poorer due to all the cash they forked over to the Wise Japanese Hipster for his phony "tire boots:"

Of course, it's through this sort of tribulation that one becomes wise oneself, and while the Nü-Freds are no less dorky for their travels they're certainly a bit more worldly, so their bike messenger friend who's been living in Osaka (Japan is apparently importing its lifestyle messengers now) throws them an "alleycat," which is the fixed-gear equivalent of getting a Bar-Mitzvah:

This involves doing shots of whiskey and "hitting up" convenience stores:

This, explains the messenger, is apparently a form of "culture." Says she: "Fixed gear culture spans nations, spans continents. You go to any city and people are gonna be like, 'Hey, that's a sick bike. What are you doing? Do you need help?'" This is inspiring. Who wouldn't want to be part of a "culture" that judges its prospective members by the relative "sickness" of their bikes? I'm comforted to know that people who have paid thousands of dollars for custom bicycles are getting the food and shelter they need, and woe unto the indigent who "palp" inferior componentry. I guess that's why the Wise Japanese Hipster helped the Nü-Freds. The moral of the story is that as long as your bike is cool enough someone will come to your rescue and want to be your friend.

Oh, and on top of that, you're also saving the planet. "It's a much more satisfying way to travel," says this rider, "and you're not destroying the Earth in the process:"

Right. I'm looking forward to their next film, in which they clear 2,000 acres of Japanese forest to build their "green" cycling apparel company. Because nothing can be toxic as long as bicycles are involved somehow.