Putting the Ego in Alter-Ego

Many authors use pseudonyms. George Elliot, who wrote Silas Marner, was actually Mary Anne Evans. She used a man's name so that her works would be "taken seriously." There are also a number of authors who are famous in one genre, but publish under a pseudonym outside of their regular realm. Stephen King uses Richard Bachman, Nora Roberts uses J. D. Robb, and Dr. Seuss uses Tom Clancy.

Could you, would you, with a squadron of light infantry soldiers armed with Heckler and Koch submachine guns?

I could, I would, with a squadron of light infantry soldiers armed with Heckler and Koch submachine guns!

I, too, have an alter-ego. Or maybe it's just a recent manifestation of my multiple personalities disorder. As Ian Hunter once sang, you're never alone with a schizophrenic, and once bitten by one you will be twice shy.

But, as usual, I digress.

Just as the phone book validated existence to Navin R. Johnson, so did a document that arrived in the mail yesterday force the formerly dormant racer wraith within me to blast it's hoary head through my brittle sternum, hiss caustically at a horrified world, and leap onto the nearest Big Wheel to roll hell-bent for spandex.

Meet Max Watzz. I would describe him for you, but I can feel his life force consuming me again ... too strong ... can't stop ... argh ... yadda-yadda.

Whew. Thank goodness we got rid of that loser. What kind of moron rides a bike for more than 100 kilometers anyhow? I mean, I can see it for the Spring Classics, but just to go riding out in the country for hundreds of miles ... for "fun?" With no podium at the end?! Puh-leaze!

And I want to make something clear, here. This dork RandoBoy DID NOT win the Super 80 and the Heart of the South 500 last year. I did. Me, me, me, me, me. That's my favorite word, by the way, so I'll say it some more. Me, me, me, me, me.

Okay, now I'm done. Yes, I am. Me done. Heh-heh. Me, me, me, me, me.

But back to the races that I won -- not RandoBoy. He wouldn't know how to reach into the barrel of pain, stir around in the victuals of strength, and pull out the kind of performance that it takes to be a winner. I know how to do that. Me.

I also know how to show restraint. It's part of the class that is only shown by true champions. Eddie was like that, and maybe Lance. They are like me that way ... the lucky bastards.

And I have shown lots of restraint lately ... maybe too much, if it is possible for me to make a mistake. It was actually all part of my master plan ... yeah, that's it. I had a plan from the start. Because another mark of the true champion is the ability to change history in his mind so that it continues to validate his world view.

So, my plan all along was to let this RandoBoy character get me enough good bikes that I could then strip control from him and bring myself out to bask in the limelight that is my own magnificence. Not that I need a good bike to win, of course, because it's all about the power that flows, barely controlled, through my massive loins.

Speaking of the power of my massive loins ... why, yes, I don't mind if I do. I will be using my brobdingnagian quadriceps this year to set new records in time trials throughout Tennessee. I may also bestow my skills to some road races, but will mostly limit myself this year to the Race of Truth. For that is where my Greatness shall most surely shine.

Anyway, back to power. My 42-centimeter quadriceps are capable of delivering untold wattage. Why, my threshold wattage alone is ... what? ... wait ... no, you can't take over again ... I won't go back in the box ... Nooooooo!

Geez, what an obnoxious peckerwood. You'll probably hear more from him during the course of the year, and for that I apologize. We all have our dark side, and we occasionally have to let it out in the sun in hopes that it either dries up and blows away, or at least stops raising such a stink.