They always arrive expressing a mixture of confusion and desire at the secret controle located at la Maison qui Pue du Désir muses ACP official RBA Bob Eagle. This year Bob has volunteered to work a secret controle located in one of the more popular bordels of Mortain au Perche. La Maison qui Pue du Désir is always busy, but running 6000 randonneurs through this place is a big production and the volunteer staff is quickly wearing out. Already several volunteers have failed to show up for their workshifts, claiming RTD infections.
Finding Volunteers for the controles is getting harder and harder each year Bob realizes. He thought the perks of working the whorehouse contrôle would attract plenty of volunteers ready to serve, but strangely the turnout is dismal. Despite the setbacks Bob enjoys his volunteer work, especially the side benefits. His favorite perk is his uniform, which he can’t seem to stop checking in the mirror and sending selfies off to his riding buddies. The uniform is a little more confining than his usual RBA outfit of a doo rag and a chamois, but he finds it workable.
Sir ! Exclaims volunteer Royston, Sir ! We are running dangerously low on proflactiques and there is some SFR rider who won’t stop banging the volunteers ! We are worried that the ACP will be giving out a record number of Hors Délais this year and that might mess with our RUSA stats ! Bob ignored Royston while admiring himself in the mirror doing a few jumping jacks when he realized the word ‘stats’ was mentioned.
Fuck! Stats! Who is fucking with my stats!
‘No sir, this rider is banging the volunteers not the stats. I fear someone has laced his ensure with some sort of aphrodisiac.’ Explained Royston, who in good taste was wearing a simple black dress.
A rider wearing varying shades of high vis over the glorious blue, white and green of the SFR club stumbled into the room just then and started to hump Bob. Bob secretly wished he were RBA of that club, a club with some real stats, but sadly that RBA is not likely to be stepping down for a long long time. Bob knew if he did not get this rider back on the road he would be getting a nasty and lengthy email with damning snippets of previous emails soon.
‘Sir! I say sir! Bob challenged the preoccupied rider. Good sir. If you make a go of ceasing congress with me I may not dock you three hours for humping an ACP official. What say you good sir?’
The rider briefly continued his rhythmic movements but suddenly he gave up, mumbling something about paying his money and pressing the button but getting no satisfaction.
Bob shook his head in disgust and demanded the brevet card. Bob signed it and admonished the rider ‘Don’t you know humping ACP officials qualifies as stupid stuff? What about your oath!’
Sheepishly the rider agreed, but still mumbled something about where were his pancakes and that he pressed a button too. Bob gave up and went back to the mirror, thinking of simpler times in the Myacamas, seemingly a world away from the secret control of la Maison qui Pue du Parfum du Désir.