"Eh... Honestly, I aint really diggin' that question. How about a different one?"

What? No. That's not how this works.

"Right... Dude, put down your recorder and look at the top of this web page. Can you see whose chronicles these are?

..Next question, please."

We're done.

"What? Dude, that's not even a question."
David "F*cking" Atik

WE ALL HAVE THAT FRIEND. The dude who's gotta streak the wedding, short-sheet the bed or present a plate of chocolate-dipped cotton balls as a tasty April Fools treat (which was, without a doubt, brilliant).

Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce MY friend, David eFuckingf Atik.

A few years ago Dave left our hometown and moved down South. He got married, got a job and theoretically, got a few steps closer to being mundane. Fortunately, his wife's a bit vicious herself, and does a proper job of keeping Mr. Atik's weapons sharp.

However. I recently learned that Mr. and Mrs. Atik have successfully honed their baby-making abilities (practice makes perfect) and are preparing to pull off the ultimate practical joke, reproduction.

So, as Dave prepares to get lost within Lamaze classes, dirty diapers, and sleepless nights, I'd like to share a few of my Atik Classics.

* * * * *

A handful of years ago, I woke early for a weekend ride. I slid into my cycling clothes, wolfed down a muffin, threw a leg over my bike, and pushed off to meet up with Dave and the rest of our cycling club. Like many NW cycling clubs, ours was primarily comprised of engineers, Microsoft employees and other straight-laced folk.

As a rule, club rides tend to be acts of consistency. Week in and week out, they're almost always the same (which I'm sure is a big part of why they call it "training").

On this particular day, riders rolled up to our meeting spot one at a time. As departure time approached, I became aware that Dave had yet to arrive. As it was a particularly cold morning, deep in the throws of a Northwest winter, his absence was perhaps less laziness and more an act of good judgment, a rare muscle for Dave to flex.

Moments later, the ride leader gave a yelp, clipped into his pedals, and officially began the ride. Pairing up, the riders formed a long snake of bicycles. Following our regular route, the lead rider turned onto a popular bike trail, the snake following like a well-organized flock of birds. As we approached one of the busiest sections of the trail, I noticed some jostling in the bushes ahead. Suddenly, a man leapt from the bushes, landing in the center of the bike trail. With the exception of orange running shoes and what appeared to be thong underwear, he was naked.

Every conversation ceased and every rider craned their necks, trying to see around the cyclist in front of them. The naked runner began to hoot and holler, steam billowing from his mouth. Within seconds, he was in the middle of our group, his pale skin quickly pinking in the near-freezing temperatures. The chain of riders continued to gap around him as he jumped around, dodging bewildered riders and smacking every butt he could reach. After the last rider drifted past, he quickly thumped his chest, hooted one last time, and dove back into the bushes.

"What in the hell was that?" Asked one of the lead riders. "Wait, wasnft that Atik?!?"

Indeed it was.

* * * *
Few skills are more important to a racing cyclist than that of on-the- bike urination. Races are lost by well- hydrated riders who stop to pee. That said, peeing while riding is neither simple nor comfort- able. Whether you're rolling through downtown traffic or a field full of cows, the necessary parts don't easily relax while being tugged from spandex shorts at 20 mph. Fortunately, I didn't have to lose an important race to be properly motivated to learn these necessary skills. All I had to do was venture out on a leisurely ride with David eFuckingf Atik.

Again, it was deep winter. Despite being over halfway through a short ride, Dave and I were still an hour away from home. As we peddled along, I turned towards Dave.

"Dude, I gotta pee."

"What?" He yelled back.

"I said, I gotta pee!"

"Well, good for you. Drop back and take care of your business." 

I swallowed. I'd never tried to pee from my bike before, so I had no idea how hard (or easy) it'd be. I quit pedaling, fell back behind Dave, and tugged on my spandex shorts. Immediately, I skidded into the road's shoulder, gravel crunching under my bike tires. Panicked, I put both hands back onto my handlebars and attempted to steady my front wheel, mud splattering my legs. Finally, I popped back out onto the road.

"What's going on back there? Doesn't sound like you're making it any easier to piss."

"Yeah. This is harder than I thought. There's a public restroom in a few miles. Let's just stop."

"What?! C'mon, dude. Be a bike racer and piss from your bike."

Determined, I tried again. Reaching down, I managed to clear the necessary pathway. With nothing but the proper relaxation between me and comfort, I breathed deeply. As the seconds passed, I lost speed, slowly drifting further and further behind Dave. As the winter wind whipped through my shorts, I became very aware of the awkwardness of my situation.

"I'm just another dude... coasting on my bicycle... in the cold... with my dick in my hand."

I tried to relax further, swiveling my hips and rotating my knees as I hovered over my saddle. I inhaled deeply and thought liquid thoughts. Suddenly, the torque of my twisting  became too much for my clip-in pedals, and my foot shot out, free from its pedal. I landed on the seat, my hand still stuck in my shorts. I swerved from side to side, trying to balance my bike while I repositioned my body.

Dave dropped back, looking over his shoulder. "You suck at this, bro."

"I know." I replied, rubbing my bruised butt. "I REALLY gotta pee. This lesson's gonna have to wait for another day. I'm stopping at the bathroom."

Like an oasis, a porta-potty appeared just up the road. Despite my bruises, I sprang from my bike, slid into the plastic paradise and began to easily release what had been so illusive just moments prior.

As it was a urinal-free potty, I sat there, thoroughly relaxed and satisfied, thinking to myself, "It's funny how these things always seem to smell like poo-scented bubblegum..."

Seconds later, I was hit by what felt like a truck. With a crashing bang, the porta-potty smashed onto its side, causing the wall to cave in and bubblegum-scented poop to splash up into my spandex shorts. Without even thinking, I leapt through the door, the porta-potty still rocking and splashing behind me. With my soaked shorts twisted around my ankles, I tumbled onto the concrete. I lay there stunned. Dave was also on the ground, laughing his ass off.

"What the hell happened!?" I screamed as I began scooping poop from my shorts. "Did you do that! What is wrong with you? I got poop all over my shorts! This is horrible!"

Dave just lay there, laughing uncontrollably. After a few moments, between wails, he finally managed, "Oh...my...god! Dude, you GOTTA learn to pee from your bike!"