I suck at Gold Sprints
Fast twitch? None. Period. Zip. Zilch. Zip-ity do da. None. The Faster Mustache crew threw a great party last night to celebrate their 3rd anniversary of being. Much adult beverages were consumed while contestants (most with much more fixed gear riding experience and certainly much more leg speed then I) attempted to rip the cranks off some stationary Swobos to the amusement of the crowd. My first go in the qualifying heat was against Mr. Off-road-fix-gear-riding Scotty Hodge. Luckily our trial was a very short 18 seconds or so. Scott still killed me…..but I think he lost his dinner for the effort:
In between the mayhem on stage we hung out in front of Lenny’s Bar, enjoyed some damn good spicy jambalaya (which many enjoyed a second time during/after their sprints), and met a whole new crowd of bike addicts. I no closer to understanding the choice to have 8″ wide handle bars, but this was an enjoyable scene none the less.
Back on the bike in front of hundreds (OK, maybe tens) of cheering on-lookers riled up from my shirt tossing the countdown began….5….4…3…2….1…go! 
I turned the cranks at a blazingly slow speed feeding off the energy surging from the screaming and fist pumping in front of me. Kurt, the MC for the evenings events, was on the bike to left and from the reactions on the faces I could make out from the stage he was pulling away. I planned for this though. This was my strategy. I would start off a little conservative and then reel him back in with a midpoint throw down. The announcer called out the halfway time. I pumped my legs with all I had. The crowd roared my taint screamed…and then it happened. The guy that was in my face, fueling my efforts with raging encouragements, looked over the screen that displayed the time gaps, looked back at me and then just turned away in disgust. I officially sucked so bad that I was not worth cheering for. Then Kurt won. At least I looked good
