American Road Cycling: Dr. Art Doctrine of Finish Line Fickleness

Dr. Art Doctrine of Finish Line Fickleness
(Pride and Prejudice)

On receiving the joyous news that his theories postulated in Position on Finish Line Positioning had finally been instituted, Dr. Art sent in the following e-mail from his own position where he is currently institutionalized.

I love the Dr. Art Doctrine.

I especially like the fact that the prime may not even be on Ridgebury road, but anywhere in Orange County.

It affords the opportunity to some Mexican migrant, on a girls mixte frame Sears "Free Spirit" road bike from 1981 with two out of round wheels and like 20 pounds of pressure in the tires, to win the prime just because he passed some innocuous unmarked spot on Missionland Road. I'd love to see the look on his face as Bob presents him with the jersey while he exhales a 3.4 on the breathalyzer.

I'd liken it to winning the Tour de France just because you showed up with a bike and were wearing the clothing appropriate for your particular gender.

Art

As Always: The editor cannot help but comment—in this case on a few of the glaring inaccuracies in Dr. Art's e-mail.

Firstly, stating that he loves the Dr. Art Doctrine is redundant, since it was he himself who came up with it, though he probably doesn't remember doing so, possibly because he didn't bother to assign a name to it, just stated it as an observation of fact during the Iron Mike Norton Contestation Inquisition Hearing regarding the official results of the 03/26/05 Hump.

In any case...secondly, the description of the possible locations for the Ridgebury finish never limited it to locations in Orange County, but expanded to "or elsewhere." Many places elsewhere are found not in Orange County.

As for the reference to an obscure vintage bicycle, this Editor cannot comment, because the statement reflects specialty knowledge to which Dr. Art alone is privy through his daily responsibilities at the helm of the Donohue Road Cycling Museum.

Unfortunately, his reference to a "Mexican" and a "breathalyzer" reveals a specific misreading of the facts and carries a certain Jingoistic fervor more appropriate to a Fuehrer rather than a kindly country doctor. To wit, not all people speaking Spanglish while riding prized vintage bicycles are from Mexico. Most of them are from Ohio. Also, most Spanglish speaking Ohio émigrés are not known for their drinking prowess, as Dr. Art implies...no, for good God... as Dr. Art states outright to be taken as a priori fact.

Of course Dr. Art has been sequestered in his little cubicle behind the chiropractic torture couches for some time, so he probably confused this Mexican with one of the Irish Maniacs, one of whom holds a seat on the Board of Directors of American Road Cycling in the same manner as Dr. Art.

Everybody of intelligence knows standard prejudice dictates that the Irish (not Ohioans) are lushes. In keeping with statements made elsewhere on this web site (that is to say, not in Orange County), it has been made abundantly clear that, as with all other Great World Religions, American Road Cycling holds rumor, innuendo, and pure speculative fantasy as superior to observable fact when it comes to believing wild-ass shit. Therefore it should be obvious that the Irish are in fact drunkards, else there would not be such an overwhelming lack of evidence.

This Editor wishes that Dr. Art would observe the American Road Cycling tenants and characterize people accordingly in his writings. In that manner he would clear his mind in order to focus on the true essence, which in this case would be to first remark on the oddness of his Ohioan having discarded his heart rate monitor in favor of a breathalyzer. It might have something to do with bean fumes.

After that he could proceed to querying his own words in an attempt to figure out how the devil any useful distinction could ever be made regarding "clothing appropriate for your particular gender," what with pretty boys, such as Dr. Art himself, continually parading around all dressed up on their fancy pants bikes with little or no regard for the primary concern of all truly civilized citizens who must floor their Ford pick-ups in order to brush past them and avoid getting close enough to be horrified that cyclists are like sausages: Nobody wants to know what's inside those turgid little Lycra packages.

In the final analysis, extending from Dr. Art's analogy, an errant Ohioan happening onto Missionland Road and unwittingly winning a jersey in the manner depicted would be far better than he/she/it winning the Tour de France as described, because there is no possibility whatsoever that Lance will ever win seven Ridgebury Prime jerseys. We only ordered six. [As an aside see: Support American Road Cycling]

In any case, American Road Cycling only has one thing to say to Dr. Art, "Fuck you, fuck your bikes...and fuck your helmets."

In doing so, we are merely repeating word for word invectives already hurled on Dr. Art (and one of his fancy pants friends) from an appropriately floored Ford pick-up truck sometime in the past—not elsewhere, but in Orange County.

this page last updated: 04/15/2013 09:36:57 AM