My Cousin Lenny got Thrown out of a Motley Crue Concert: An Open Letter to Motley Crue

Dear Vince, Tommy, Nikki, and Mick,

My cousin Lenny, whose heart is a lot bigger than his brain, recently got thrown out of a Motley Crue concert for carelessly tossing an empty plastic beer cup on the floor. His buddy Marty got thrown out with him, apparently for being an accomplice to an empty beer cup thrower. In case I forgot to mention, they were at a Motley Crue concert, not a James Taylor, or Yo Yo Ma concert. And he threw an empty plastic beer cup. On the floor. Not an empty 40 oz glass bottle, which coincidentally was hurled into the air the first time Lenny saw you guys, and it struck him in the head, almost knocking him out. Fortunately, aside from a headache, he suffered no noticeable brain damage.

So there they were, a half hour after they arrived, before you had even played the opening lick of "Kick Start My Heart," standing outside the Verizon Wireless Arena, heartbroken and completely aghast. Lenny and Marty had seen you guys twenty years earlier in Old Orchard Beach, on the 'Dr. Feelgood Tour,' and this was their chance to relive the glory of the good old days while rocking out to "Girls, Girls, Girls." It was also Lenny's chance to rock out without a throbbing headache caused from being smacked with a airborn bottle of Colt 45.

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After a futile attempt to plead their way back in, two cops came and told them to beat it, which they did. But after standing around on the sidewalk, wondering what to do for the rest of the night, Lenny decided he would give it one more shot, so he went back to talk to the door guy again. Clearly, he felt, they didn't deserve to get thrown out, and surely this nice door guy would empathize with their situation and say, "Sure you can go back in. And hey, just for the trouble, here are two backstage passes."

As soon as Lenny opened the front door, he was immediately grabbed by the same two officers, handcuffed, and tossed in the back of a large white van. Two hours later, he was released from the police station with a citation to appear in Manchester District Court to face charges of a violation of criminal trespassing.

Alone and lost on the cold streets of Manchester, NH, Lenny wandered around looking for Marty, who immediately after his good friend was carted away in the paddywagon, had gone to the bar. Eventually, Lenny found the bar where Marty had taken residence, took him back to the hotel, watched him pass out on the floor, lifted his drunk carcass onto his bed, and took his shoes off.

Not to be defeated, he then went online and purchased two tickets for the show in Portland, Maine the following night. The tickets to the second show totalled almost $200. For my cousin Lenny, that is a lot of money, but as Lenny says, "You can't put a price on redemption." If you heard one voice that rose above the roar of the crowd in Portland, it was him. And if you recall the most exuberant cheering while you boarded the tourbus, that was him too.

I just wanted you to know that you've got die hard fans out there, who just like my cousin Lenny, will do whatever it takes to throw the devil horns in the air along with you. After all you've been through, this should make you feel pretty good. Next time however, after finishing his beer, my cousin Lenny will gently place his cup on the floor.

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Sincerely,

RJB

Spring Training Refraining

If you work at a bike shop then you’re probably like me: a seriously die hard, hard-core cyclist to the core. And there’s no time of year where this is more apparent than in the late winter/early spring, weeks before your first ride. You’re bursting with optimism, impetus, and enthusiasm, and in preparation for the riding season ahead, while the snow is still on the ground, without missing a single day, not a single day, rain or shine, hell or high water, dusk or dawn, you elaborate in great detail on how much, unlike last year, you are going to ride.

You resolutely declare that this year is going to be different, and you mean it. You’re not going to miss a single group mountain bike ride or group road bike ride. You’re going to ride a century—no, two centuries—every month. You’re going to compete in the race of truth every week in the Stowe Bike Club’s time trial. You’re going to race your mountain bike each week at Catamount. You’re going to race your mountain bike each week at Morse Farm. You’re going to commute, rain or shine, hell or high water, five days a week. And to really show ‘em, you’re only going to drink beer on special occasions. And on weekends, of course. And on Wednesdays. But that is it, because this is the year when you come back.

And before you know it, and before you are even remotely ready, you’re all geared up for the first group ride, and everyone is there. You’ve got the leg warmers on, the bottom edge adjusted ever so carefully above your three-quarter length socks so as to reveal your freshly shaved legs. You’ve got the arm warmers on, logos facing outward. You’ve stretched a balaclava underneath a ridiculously expensive helmet that you got on pro deal. You’re rocking the Peter Heater and you’re sporting a fresh pair of booties. A meticulously rolled up shell, a spare tube and a CO2 inflator, three Gu shots and a Powerbar bulge out of your rear jersey pocket, and you’ve tastefully finished off the ensemble with a pair of lobster mitt gloves. You cast a smug glance at the new guy, whose leg hair and toe clips stand in great contrast to your contemporary roadie style like an ’80s hair band at a yacht club. When the pack rolls out of the parking lot, you’re already thinking about that first town line sprint. During those first few miles, while you’re spinning your legs and boasting about how many hours you’ve spent on a trainer, you feel great, and at that very moment, you know that this is going to be the year when you come back.

A few miles out of town, the pace picks up. Social time is over. A pace line forms. Your heart rate starts to climb, but you’ll soon get into a rhythm and surely, any minute now, your pounding chest will settle down, so you’re not concerned. You’ve just got some rust to shake off, that’s all. You may be, perhaps, a tad overdressed—the lobster mitts might have been overkill—but otherwise, you’re all there. Toe-clip-leg-hair guy is taking rather hard pulls, driving the pace a bit out of your comfort zone, but that’s okay, because you know that any minute now, he’ll be off the back. He doesn’t know how to ride in a group. You do. He’s not a hard-core cyclist. You are. A few miles later, as expected, he gets blown off. As he fades away, sucking pond water, you cast a glance over your shoulder and give him your own version of “The Look,” and even though you missed your chance to win the town line sprint, it was worth it. You’ve reached the high point of the ride. Now it is time to come crashing down to earth.

Halfway into the ride, you’re close to the red zone, but you’re still there, and you fight to not get dropped on the climb before the turnaround, and you succeed. You recover on the descent, but at the bottom the pace line reforms and becomes a lot more spirited, and within three rotations you’re pedaling squares and hanging by a thread. After your next pull, you peel away and fall off the train and are left for dead. You gave it everything you’ve got, and there’s nothing left, and you’re way out on Route 12.

Disheartened, dispirited, you press on, alone. The first ride of the season has resulted in a resounding bonk. Twelve miles from town, your optimism, impetus, and enthusiasm have been replaced with anguish, desolation, and disgrace. And it is at that moment, when you’ve hit your lowest point, when aside from a flat, things couldn’t get any worse, when you notice a lonely figure in the distance: Toe clip-leg hair guy. And at that moment, to really show ’em, you resolutely declare that as far as drinking beer is concerned, Wednesdays are now out.