My Man-Crushes, episode 4

Yesterday at the Hall of Fame race, I DNF'ed, which means I "Did Not Finish". You know who didn't DNF? Jay #1.

Jay F'ed, alright. Jay really is an F'er.

Over the past few months, Jay has proven himself to be a tough sonofabitch. When he flatted at Danville and his CO2 cartridge screwed the pooch, he walked to his car to inflate the tire... when his wheel slipped out of the dropout and he had no tools on him, he walked back to his car to fix it... when his front tire flatted, he walked back to his car to change the flat.

The above story is all from the same race. The poor bastard almost doubled the winner's time, finishing dehydrated and hallucinating. If that's not tough, I don't know what is.

Jay chases back after yet another flat
When I finished the Neshaminy race, rolled back to the car, and saw a tube on the ground, I knew immediately what had happened.

"Quit" is just not in this guy's vocabulary... which is not surprising, because he mostly communicates in grunts.

Jay races singlespeed. On a Kona Unit. With a Rigid Fork.

Jay is capable of the Jew-Fro... and has proven it.

Jay has a high-quality sock collection.

Jay's taste in beer in unmatched.

Jay's taste in Jenks' mom is matched only by me.

For these, and other unbloggable reasons, Jay and I have realized that we're pretty much the same person. It's a little unnerving sometimes. So basically, this post boils down to my man-crush on myself.
We coordinate outfits before going out in public
Of course, there are some key differences between us...

One of us is man enough to shave his legs.

One of us has a bike with 3" larger wheels and 300% hotter paint.

One of us had the cojones to liberate the team's beloved mascot MacChouff from a local eatery

One of us went to grad school, and one of us co-owns a lucrative construction company.

Now here's the real story of why Jay has earned my undying man-crush. After the HPCX race in November, we were both pretty knackered. I went to my car and grabbed a bottle of Endurox. Jay rolled over and offered me a swig from a bottle of Pepsi.

"No thanks," I declined, "I've got Endurox." Soda is a good fall-back if there's no Endurox, but I was good to go.

"Well, unless your bottle has Guiness in it, you might want some of this". I could've cried, I was so happy.

...

Oh Jay. I hate your guts, because you keep beating me in races. I hate you because your pickup line is "Hi, I'm Don's friend". I hate you because you know the Beastie Boys' "Paul Revere" by heart.

Observe Jay's accessories: Brown-bagged microbrew in one hand, MacChouff the elf in the other. Nice.

But mostly I hate you because no blog post could possibly capture the depth of my man-crush. Jay Number One indeed.