Building a Better Beast: Coach MacKillimiquads

Last week, I had an opportunity to sit down with world-renowned cycling coach Angus MacKillimiquads, the mad genius beneath the huge sweaty thighs of Max Watzz ... though hopefully not in a literal sense. In today's blog, I'm going to give you part of that interview. For reasons that will become obvious as you read, Angus is best taken in small doses ...

RB: How's the training for Max coming along?

AM: He's a fookin' idiot. If he'd joost do exactly what I tell 'im to do, he could 'ave a chance. An' it doesn't help that you keep doin' these idiotic long rides.

RB: But shouldn't long rides help Max?

AM: As I told Eddie Mercxx when he was younger, "Ride hard lots." Eddie, of course, bein' the lazy stupid bastard that he was, could nae remember all three words, so he left out the one that hurt. Any loser can ride lots.

RB: Wait a minute, here. You trained the Eddie Mercxx? The Cannibal?

AM: Aye, for all that he listened to me. He could 'ave been somethin' grand. Ya' know I'm the reason they called 'im the cannibal, right? Told 'im to get up on podium and rip a leg off of the loser to 'is left, an' then start eatin'. That would 'ave fookin' well showed 'em who was boss, eh?

Uncomfortable silence ...

RB: Okay. So, back to riding hard. I thought that I was riding hard. I did 230 miles in less than 15 hours weekend before last ...

AM: An' that's as fast as ye can go?! What a fookin' poosy.

RB: Well, no. I've done sub-five-hour centuries ...

AM: If it takes ye' more than four hours to ride 100 miles, yer a loser. Nobody ever won a Tour stage like that.

RB: Well, sure, but that's the Tour. And those stages are rarely more than 200K long ...

AM: Aye, now they are. Back in my day, we joost did the 'ole damned thing in one fell swoop. Men would fall to th' side o' th' road bleedin' out of every orifice. Th' ones that were real men would die an' still keep racin'.

I remember one tour when one o' me teammates, Scottie O'Lairdithurts, died in the Pyrenees. 'Is heart jumped out of 'is chest, wrapped th' aorta around 'is neck, and strangled 'im. We dug through 10 feet o' snow an' two feet of permafrost to give 'im a proper Christian burial -- may the Lord have mercy on his soul -- an' then I bridged all of us back to th' front of th' pack. About 100 miles later, there was Scottie, back on me wheel, pennies on his eyes and tha' bloody aorta still wrapped about his fookin' neck. Gave me a case of the willies, I tell ya'. Scottie should 'ave won the fookin' stage, too, but Desgrange found some loophole in th' rules. French poof. Called Scottie a zombie, th' bastard.

RB: He ... what?

AM: He what what, lad. 'Ave ye got a question there or no?

RB: Um, no. I don't know what to say about that.

AM: Course not, ye' twit. None of ye' nancy boys today 'as any fookin' idea what it took to race bicycles in those days. Nae a testicle between the lot 'o ye. I'd be racin' today if I still 'ad me legs ... an' as it is, I'm pretty sure that I could still beat th' likes of a poosie loser like you, legs or no.

RB: Yes, I wanted to ask how you lost your legs.

AM: Then why don't ye?

RB: Because I'm afraid that you'd tell me.

AM: Well, then. You're a smarter boy then ye' look like, eh?

Uncomfortable silence ...

RB: So, tell us about your degrees.

AM: Degrees?

RB: Yes. Don't you have, like, a PhD in exercise physiology or something?

AM: What, like from attendin' university?! Are ye' daft, man?! What fookin' school ever taught anybody anythin' worth a damn?!

RB: Well, I went to college ...

AM: An' there you go, man! What did ye bloody well learn there, eh?

RB: They taught me how to write ...

AM: An' ye bloody well sook at it, too! Yer allegories are weak, yer punctuation confusing, and you use alliteration like a eighth-grade girl who fancies herself one of the Bronte sisters! Now drop and give me 10 prepositional phrases, ya' poosy!

RB: Under the elm ...
Under the elm ...
Under the elm ...

AM: One-handed, ya' lazy cretin!

RB: ... in my joy,
... in my joy,
... in my joy,
... in my joy,
... in my joy,
... in my joy,
... in my joy,
... in my joy,
... in my joy,
... in my joy,

AM: Oh, sure. Right-handed, o' course. What a woos ...