Give a Max a Day, and He'll Take a Week

Who would be so stupid as to drive a car over 400 miles, round trip, to ride a bicycle 13 miles? Who would give up what will be a very full day, just to be on a bike for just over half an hour?

Well, of course, there's only one fool who would do that. Max Watzz.

MW: You called?

RB: No, I was just explaining how you've about trashed my week and now you're going to ruin Saturday for me.

MW: I beg to differ, RandoBoob. I will make your weekend glorious, since you will have a front row seat in my beautiful subconscious when I win everything at this weekend's Smith & Nephew Grand Prix in Memphis, TN.

RB: Sure, but to do this we have to drive 200 miles to Memphis on Saturday morning, race four times around a 2.3-mile circuit, hang around for a couple of hours, and then do a four-mile time trial before we begin driving another 200 miles back home. And the courses probably won't even be pretty!

MW: I think you must be injured, since I hear a Waaambulance.

RB: What?

MW: Never mind -- my humor is obviously too refined for your plebian tastes.

RB: Refined?! Waambulance is refined?! You sound like a Frenchman extolling the work of Jerry Lewis ...

MW: The man was a genius!

RB: Whatever. Anyway, because of your stupid race I'm not going to get to ride much this weekend. Plus, to keep your legs "fresh," I've barely been on a bike all week. I had to miss the Tuesday and Thursday night club rides.

MW: I am like a Ferrari -- only probably faster and better tuned ... and maybe more expensive. Either way, I should not be driven to and from work, or forced to carry groceries or Little Leaguers. I should only be used on pristine roads, where my speed and glory can be truly put to the test. A test which, I barely need mention, I will always pass with flying colors.

RB: You're like a Ferrari in that you don't work much. You're more like a Hummer in that you're full of gas ... which you also pass with flying colors.

MW: I've told you before that Recoverite is best when mixed with milk. It's not my fault that I'm lactose-intolerant.

RB: Whatever.