Greetings, Fellow Members of Jerks Anonymous. Mondays call for something special, such as a good chubb lap. It may not be some epic Leadville Training Ride, such as those embarked upon by Jay Wright or our very own Dr. Roland "I Would Like To Renovate the Handicapped Stall At Work" Sallinger, but it is a good ride that will make you a better rider no matter what. Especially if you're singlespeeding it.
Orin Boyd and myself headed out early in the day with a full complement of trail weapons, with plans on assaulting the weeds and shrubbery that have started to encroach on certain sections of the river flats. For the last 3 fucking weeks, rain around this area has been as seldomly seen as a condom in Criss Angel's dungeon. So when we had a Steven Seagal-sized storm roll through the area last night, we figured it would be just about perfect dirt.
Instead, there were a bunch of mud puddles separated by solid, good dirt. Boyd and I parked off of Lewis Road next to the train tracks, where he loaded up his sheers, gas, and weed-eater, while I loaded up my water, pruners, and zombie-hacking machete. A couple of hours later, and our feets were covered in mud, and there was a lot of overgrowth along the trail that was no longer standing.
After honing my machete-wielding skills, I feel much more confident in my ability to defend myself against certain types of zombies - maybe not the Dawn of the Dead 'roid-rage zombies that can run 100 miles an hour, but definitely The Walking Dead zombies, which are more at a walking pace. Previously, a machete in my hand during the apocalypse would be about as useless as a shower in the house/trailer of a juggalo.
Anyway, so we headed home, grabbed our bikes, recruited a Jerkward, and headed back to the Chubb Trail. The last few weeks, that at the last couple of dirt crits, it was so hot that I had to do my cool-down lap BEFORE the race, just to keep from overheating. Today was much better - and by much better, I mean around 95 degrees instead of like 110.
We descended down the initial bullshit gravel "singletrack," we fell into proper man-train formation, and proceeded to choo-choo down the trail:
I know T-tocs loves man-training moar than anything, so I won't go too much further into detail so as not to make him jealous.
The trail zigged and zagged, and before we knew it, we were encountering the 2nd half of the trail, which instead of being muddy, was just slightly slippery. We would have preferred the trail conditions to require this sign:
Most of the rocks resembled Homer's head in this clip:
The rest of the rocks were sharp and loose, which amazed me when Jerkward and I managed to claw our way up the loose switchbacks leading up to the picnic table:
Note that this is like a 45 degree incline.
We pressed on down the West Tyson side, making sure to NOT TAKE THE FUCKING CHEATER LINES. FUCK. Definitely rode all the switchbacks, shaking our collective heads as we took in the evidence from all the weak sauce riding that takes place here.
Coming to the Chubb Shelter at the West Tyson side, we circled around on the connector trail, filled up on water in the 95 degree heat, then proceeded to climb up the scree wall that is otherwise known as the Flint Quarry Trail. This is section of trail really is kind of like a quarry, or a mine: due to it's poor trail design, where the trail basically goes straight up the hill, any time there is a rainfall, the water rushes down the trail so fast that you essentially get the effects of a mini hydraulic mine. No tire pressure is low enough to give you confident traction from bottom to top, as it has become so loose and so eroded now, that it is just a gamble.
The return trip to the car was simply fantastisch, and the rock garden provided ample time to get awesome.
Don't forget to come to the dirt crits. And while you're at it, go to... nevermind.
Greetings, dickheads. So this summer's Dirt Crit Series is well underway, and deep into the thick of it, you'll find a number of our soldiers. One thing that seems to separate this year from the recent years, though, is the incredible heat, which has been 105+ degrees these last two weeks - as miserable as humanity itself. Gino "Get Fucked" Felino, Sam "Jew Crew" Axel, "A Beautiful Mind" Torrez, "Every Weekened is a 5 Day Weekend" Lawman, and myself, Casey "The Unflushable Turd" Ryback all lining up to put the "penis" into "punishment."
Teammates that weren't at the race:
-Jack "I've Installed More Steer-tube Extenders Than You Could Imagine" Taggort couldn't make it, as he has been getting back to his true Southern roots.
-Roland "I Can't Wait To Take a Dump in Leadville" Sallinger was christening a new low-flow toilet in his office's upstairs bathroom. I am confident that he'll have it clogged by the end of next week.
-John Farinella and Christopher, even though they aren't technically on the team, are reported to have gotten stuck while "docking."
-Orin "Titty" Boyd was too busy building the perfect drool-worthy bike.
-Forrest "Bearded Wonder" Taft was too busy trying to construct an mini-indoor velodrome in the basement of his new house.
-Jason "I Need A Proper Nickname" Pryor was busy coming to terms with his new levels of jerkitude.
-Jerkward "Vegetarian Option E" Toscani was busy cutting lines of espresso-grounds and snorting them like Scarface.
-Harlan "Gun Slinger" Snurb was busy at working facing some nasty hospital scenario that I can't even fathom, like finding 6-month old dollar bill stuck inside a stripper's "mingus."
-Mason "I Was Forced To Buy Stock in 'Life Is Good' Clothing When I Moved To Seattle" Storm was busy being overwhelmed with perfect weather
-Cock "Sucker" Puncher was busy being a dirty old man.
-Stoveward P. (the P stands for "pee-hole") Stovington was busy reading this post on his phone.
-C. "Boner-Tron 9000" Dubs was busy scaring his new co-workers with his formidable "constitution"
Another thing that has separated this year from the recent years has been the new management of the races, which saw fit to move the course to the other side of the tracks, which is definitely faster, more open, and with the recent drought, is as dry as most of my customer's chains. The dust coats your body, gets in your mouth, in your nose, your b-hole, nothing is safe.
The dust storm is especially bad when you're at the tail end of the man-train - a place with which I am quite familiar.
Potentially biting off more than I can chew by signing up in the A Race, I am lining up next to a bunch of guys who look like this:
Whereas the whole time I felt more like the floor in this clip:
Our new kits felt super nice, however, which is a plus when you are at your limit in St. Louis as it tries to do it's best imitation of Sub-Saharan Africa. Every lap it was nice to come out of the woods to get a little "cooling mist" delivered by Susan K., a girl who definitely likes a good squirt.
The course going counter-clockwise actually feels a bit faster than the other direction, mainly because of the open stretch between the field and the boat-ramp seems slightly downhill. And that means your going a little bit faster when your pedal clips one of the many ankle-high stumps that are ready to reach out and grab your pedal if you get to close, sending you into the nettle, which may be one of the worst feelings in the known universe - full-body-nettle.
From my perspective, Samuel Axel, Gino, and Torrez were going so fast that they might as wIn trying to come up with a secret speed solution, I decided that I could ditch some weight from my bike. My front tire was in close reach, so after the race I had to get rid of a few more knobs:
Fortunately the race ended, and my embarrassment waned. I recalled a recent sighting on the Grant's Trail, and thought for a little while about employing it's design principles to my bike, in hopes of reducing the back pain which has been holding me back:
Lawman had much success holding his own in the B Race, finding pay-off in this year's training regimen of rigorously making everyone jealous of their weekly camping/hiking/biking/canoeing/bath-house trip photos on the facebooks.
Who won? Whatever, who cares. Post race was tons of fun, don't worry, we all made sure to get seriously fucked. There were some tents, a trailer or two, and a bunch of people standing around doing shit.
The CX'ers need to expand their horizons and get mountain bikes. I'm talking to you, Jay, Rick, and that other guy who was dismounting for the road crossing. What a jerk.
Either way, it was more enjoyable than riding an indoor trainer. But then, so is getting a blow job from a klondike bear.
-Casey F. U. Ryback
P.S. Here are some sweet photos courtesy of Dan Singer - definitely not a jerk.
He's such a badass, that he gets interviewed after major races. Not only that, but he is so awesome, that he says awesome shit like this:
"We're all gonna die"
Greetings, Team Seagal Tifosi! At Team Seagal HQ, we've been busy deploying soldiers to both the Dirty Kanza and the State Singlespeed Championships, recently. In addition to that, we have been scouting out our next business venture.
The way we see it, the St. Louis region doesn't have enough places to drink. This is the reason why we're considering opening a bar. And, being pretty well involved already with cycling, it would have to be bike-themed. However, there are already a few of those around. So instead, why not something more specific - a triathlon-themed bar?
Yes, at The Aero Bar you'll be right at home. It would have everything to appeal to everyone from the first time "sprint-distance" finisher to the die-hard Ironman.
Located near the center of New Town St. Charles, it would be perfectly situated as a meeting point for miles and miles of flat-as-a-board group rides on your tri-bike. Step inside to find a welcoming, familiar-to-a-triathlete interior:
-Bar stools with most padding at the front
-All beverages will be served in tear-drop shaped glasses, and with a straw or drinking tube inserted.
-The top of the bar will never be wiped down of spilled drinks, allowing our patrons to reminisce about their sticky downtubes
-The edge of the bar will be lined with round, convex pads for resting our patrons arms
-The bathrooms will have first-ever Quintana Roo-shaped urinals, and the stalls will just be a towel on a wall hook that you have to wrap around your as you sit down to drop a duece. Or, if you choose, you can elect to pee or shit while partially submersed in a small kiddie pool.
-We will lobby to eliminate public urination as a crime, as long as it is done while riding a bike, or if you are urinating onto a bike.
-Turn in a pair of used nipple-band-aids for a free drink on Wednesdays
-Mark Weinholtz will play every Friday and Saturday night
-Long-sleeve shirts will be banned
-All drink glasses will have margarita salt around the rim, much like all the bolts on our patrons' bikes.
-All wall surfaces will be dimpled, so as to allow wind from the ceiling fans to more easily flow through the room
-There will be an underpants vending machine for when our patrons forget to not shit themselves
-Hooks to hang your cool-max visors will be located by the front door
-All bar stools will have a urine tube extending up in case you are about to bag some chick and you can't interrupt your game
-The doorways, or "transition areas between rooms" will be lined with little towels and have a stool next to them.
-True to tri-rules, "drafts" will be illegal
-All the servers and bartenders will be Criss Angel Impersonators
Please stay tuned for the Grand Opening announcement!
Greetings, loyal Team Seagal subjects! It is amazing how something can start out with humble, modest beginnings, and simply explode into something much greator. Such was the case with the first ever Cedar Cross ride/race. I remember speaking with Cedar Cross Overlord Bob Jenkins last summer at Tall Oak about cyclocross races and courses, and how he had this great idea for a CX course that could rain blood down on all other CX courses. A course unlike what our state has evar seen. Sounded awesome to me, and I told him to count me in. A few months later, he "announced" that he had formulated a coherent vision and put together a loose description of what he had in mind. A long fucking ride, for sure. What I didn't understand really is that his expectations were basically to have just a few couple dozen friends show up for a ride at his house, and he'd have BBBQ. Awesome. I'm/we're down.
What ended up happening: Word of mouth, spreading faster than the clap on a college campus. Bob had made a simple blog where people could sign up. Instantly the list of people signed up was like 50. not long before it reached 70, and then 100. No fucking way. I watched as the list passed 130 names. Who were all these people? From all the surrounding states - Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Illinois, Texas, and even a rider or two from Missouri. Then 150. As the date grew closer, I heard it had passed 170, and grew close to 200, though he was too damn busy having to organize and coordinate than update the list.
And it wasn't just participants that jumped on board - sponsors wanted to be apart of it too - every week it seemed like he would announce a new company that was giving away some seriously cool shit:
-Kuat Racks
-Backcountry Research
-Clif
-Specialized
-Monster Bicycle Company
-Jeff City Athletic Events Committee
-Foosh Mints
-Red Wheel Bike Shop - Owned by another superior badass, Nick
-Paceline Products/Chamois Butt'r
Attaching an excellent cause to the event is always a good idea - in this case it was the Callaway Hills Animal Shelter. In addition to that, this event was perfectly positioned to be a great preparation ride for the Dirty Kanzaa 200 race.
Oh yeah, and it was FREE.
In addition to throngs of participants and sponsors, the volunteers also were all over the place. Between the squad of weedeating dudes who cleared the singletrack of overgrowth, the people that helped at all the crucial turns and at the check-in were awesome. (Check-In seriously could not have gone more smoothly.)
So with all of this in place, and a date in sight, I for one had been trying to put in some long miles on the CX bike - the idea to turn my t'aint into an impenetrable fortress of callous.
Skip to race day. We sent a number of troops to this event - Sasha, Lawman, Sandwich, Schlomo Axel, Dr. Rolland Sallinger, Professor, and myself, Casey F. Ryback, not to mention our associated parties. I was up at 0430 hours, ready to meet my attack squad in the Party Wagon for the long drive over. Lukabis Cannabis, Brett, S. Axel and myself man-piled into the man-wagon for the drive over. After an unsuccessful attempt to divert Scooter's arrival at the correct parking lot, we were all checked-in, slathered in sun-block, and ready to roll-out - already noticing that it was hot as fuck outside.
Rarely seen sight in the parking lot prior to the roll-out: Pete Goode getting prepped next to a vehicle that he drove to the start line.
Bob, clearly a little overwhelmed by what he had created, told everyone what to expect:
The only thing higher than his blood pressure today and the days leading up to today was the incredibly level of badassery about to go down.
A few well-thought-out expletives, and the roll-out was underway, book-ended by a lead and chase vehicle (Again, an example of the awesome volunteer support.)
A few miles of roll-out allowed a lead-group to develop, populated by some seriously fast dudes. As they stretched out of sight, I settled into a comfortable pace, chatting it up with the Rolla Giant himself. I started to notice a group of other riders filing in behind me, to form the first of many man-trains on the day. The dreaded first climb of the day wasn't a cake-walk, but it wasn't enough to stop the party. It was there that I made my move and passed the couple from Texas on a Calfee bamboo tandem with a belt-drive timing chain/belt. Once up in the hills, the real ride began to take shape. Rolling gravel roads, punctuated with lots of short kickers, and all kinds of well-groomed gravel. Some of the gravel ended up being pretty deep, which made me happy that I had fatter tires before I even got to the singletrack.
Having the cue sheet was pretty crucial until you we arrived at the singletrack, which was very well marked. The first off-road part was as we entered into the Mark Twain National Forest, past a Forest Ranger, and out through a beautiful green field that stretched for miles. Really awesome, as we just followed the balloons. I was tempted to stop to see if they were secret jenkem balloons, but keeping the party rolling was more important. Huffing fermented poo-gas would have to wait.
Filing though a number of gates, we found ourselves shredding down the first singletrack, which made me think of mountain biking in the 1990's - steep and sloppy. I had been riding with Pete for a while, and he was regaling us with tales of having ridden here back when the 1990's style of riding was the only style. Settling into a small strike team of myself, Strove, Pete, this other guy from CoMo on a 26" and a few other dudes, we agreed to try and keep our group together at least to the 4 big, pissed-off dogs that were noted on the cue sheet. Fortunately, by the time we got there, they didn't give a fuck anymore, presumably because enough dudes had sprayed the shit out of them with dog spray.
Miles rolled past, climbing endless hills while seated lest I stand and spin my rear wheel; something you learn with a singlespeed is how to keep your legs moving at very low cadences. The heat was the word of the day, with hardly any wind to speak of, and hardly any clouds for the first half of the ride. We eventually made our way to the second piece of singletrack, which was muddy as fuck. The ground was more soft than Criss Angel at Roxy's on the East Side. As a singlespeeder, I was doing a lot of pushing.
Then, as if to say "Fuck you! Ha Ha Ha Ha!" We crossed a creek, clamored through the muddy banks, and found ourselves clawing our way up this sadistic hike-a-bike, which had been dedicated to Jeff Yielding. It reminded me of the hike-a-bike/run-up that we had originally planned on including in the 2009 CXmas course, but removed at the last minute due to potential legal issues. I pictured Bob standing at the top peering down, hands-in-fists on his hips looking like this:
The heat continued, and, I feel, was the major factor that caused people to pull out or not. I was amazed at how little water and tubes some people would carry. By the time I hit Old 54, felt like Kramer when he was tanning with butter:
"Hey buddy!"
Lesson learned: use sun block next time. My goal from there was to go the extra 6-7 miles to Ham's Prarie and hit up the gas station, which was at mile 70. It was a welcome sight to walk in and buy a bunch of ice-cold fluids. Ooooweee! The hottest part of the day was over for me, as the clouds had started to roll in. I saw some people there that were in bad shape, and felt fortunate that I was on my way to getting my second surge. As noted on the cue sheet, anyone who had made it to this gas station before me was lucky:
Lucky for everyone else, the only "logs" on course were laying on the side of the trail, having been cleared off by volunteers.
Leaving Hams Prarie, I pressed a little bit to try to latch on with Jacob Rohter and the 26" mtb guy from Columbia from earlier. Steve from Jeff City was still along for the ride, as he had done since mile 40 when I helped him fix his flat and gave him my second tube. He was looking more spry than me, but wouldn't go any faster because he didn't know where he was going and didn't know how to fix anything.
I was looking forward to passing the nuclear plant, but we had to hit this ripping descent and the hardest climb of the day first. Another two miles and this thing came into view:
Pretty cool to ride past something like that.
Before long we were gearing up for the final "badass downhill" of the day, which would drop us to the Katy. Totally awesome, and since it had cooled off, I was feeling good about it. Once onto the Katy, we started to form a bit of a man-train, to keep the pace a little higher and get our swollen asses back a little more quickly. Turning off the Katy and over into the field roads, we traded "punches" with the Dynamic Duo of Todd and Karen Holtmann, who were looking strong. Choo-choo-ing all around those flats, up onto the levee, past plenty of dudes fishing in the irrigation creeks, and more than a little uncertainty in regards to whether or not we were actually on course, the four of us were on the final stretch that would leads us to the 54 overpass and onto the end. It was me, weird Jeff City Steve, Jacob, and the Columbia 26" dude. The Holtmann's had passed us earlier while I changed my 2nd flat tire, but this is where we slowly pulled our way back up to them. They latched on for a few miles, and I ended up as the Cleveland Steam-powered locomotive at the front of our Victory Man-Train. I turned on cruise control for the last several miles. We even came across Steve Friedman who seemed a little dazed. He latched on as well for a little bit, but the next time I looked back, he and the Holtmann's had peeled off, leaving our man-train with only 4 man-cars. Once I got the Capitol Building in sight, then the airport lights, it was all over. A little jog over Hwy 54, around the corner, and then a sprint for the finish, because the crowd always loves a sprint finish.
The pavilion was full of camaraderie, Tall Grass Beer, and tubed-meats. And those tubed-meats were fucking delicious, cooked up by some good dudes. But honestly, I could have been eating a bowl full of cooked santorum with a side of smegma and it probably would have tasted good. Watching the rest of the finishers find their way to the end was a thoroughly enjoyable. Tons of great people there to greet them as they rolled in.
It doesn't get much better than that! This race/ride pretty much defined what "grass-roots" means. And Bob Jenkins, seen here:
...is pretty much one of the best dudes you could meet. Or meat. Which is odd when you think that a guy who is such a good person to know can hate people so much that he would think to put them through such a tortuous course as the one we did today. Watch him with his nieces and you'll see what I mean! I think we're all glad that we've been able to have him come to our events, and setting the bar very high early on for egg-nog consumption.
Speaking of that, I ran into Adam Hemplemann, (living in infamy here) and let him know that I have a shitload of expired nog that he is welcome to if he would like:
These are sitting on my back porch, still.
I got some cool shit courtesy of Backcountry Research, who donated nearly $1000 worth of shit to the cause):
There was a ton of cool shit up for grabs. Jim at Monster Bikes provided a custom flask to the last person to cross the line, totally awesome.
Finally, there was a donation bucket at the table before and after the ride for the Callaway hills Animal Shelter, a no-kill shelter. I didn't make it around to putting any cash in the bucket, but I have proof that I put in an online donation:
I know there were a lot of people who didn't make it for various reasons, so I don't think it quite hit the 170-200 mark, but that's alright because it doesn't cost shit! Lets hope that next year it goes down AT LEAST as well as this year, and gets even bigger. And hopefully Bob's doesn't have a heart attack because of it. There are plenty of other stories to be told, between Boyd, Mrs. Boyd, Wendy, anyone in my man-train or man-wagon. Definitely felt like I was part of something special.
Greetings, Loyalists to the Team Seagal Movement. This weekend brought about many glorious things. The least of which being the turds that I left in the pit toilet at the Council Bluff Campground. (And that's saying something, because I had to go so badly that I was playing "whack-a-mole" all the way from the campsite.) It was a glorious weekend, though we were saddened by a number of people who were unable to make it, most notably C-Dorbs and PBR Dave. It DID bring about our own Prodigal Son, Masson (pronounced Mah-SAHN) Storm back from the poo-cific north-piss where he has been busy courting a coffee sponsor. And blastin' nips wherever they need to be blasted.
Despite the lack of such prominent figures (and t-shirts) we pressed on, in spite of the horrendous weather just a few clicks north of us. I had picked up the Corpse-Grinder himself, Tylor, after work on Saturday evening, and we headed down, listening to our favorite song on loop. The storms that we drove through while on Hwy 21 were more threatening than Criss Angel with an upside-down periscope looking underneath the stalls at the YMCA. It was so bad that I didn't think there would be much of a trail left to shred the following day. However, as if Energor himself had intervened, the rain cleared up just before we reach Potosi, and we arrived to fine all of Council Bluff/Little China Town bone dry. That long-practiced Team Seagal Rain Dance seemed to work. And by "seemed" I mean "semen." From yaks.
I was actually quite pleased to be able to be the one to accompany Corpse-Grinder down on his first trip to these trails. The drive down alone is worth it, what with all the bath tub Marys, the Assphalt sign, and of course, the titty school at 21 and C.
We arrived to be presented with several delicious things. Number one, we busted out the newest, and one of the best products from Pabst in a while:
Check shelves soon.
We also found Stormy cooking up a feast in preparation to film an art-house redux of the truly classic fart scene from Blazing Saddles:
Oh man. There was no doubt that great things were afoot, like our fancy fire. And lets not forget, my first sighting of a brand fucking new Kona Raijin in it's natural habitat. Might be the first one in the state, or even the surrounding states. Looks cream-tastic:
Me at the moment of seeing it: "HHHNNNNNGGGG Got a towel?"
The night devolved into a cacophony of ridiculousness and ancient Chinese Scroll translations, some taking place around the weather station, which might explain the "foggy" readings that were reported from that station that night. Before long, we had all retreated to the hammock district for sleep:
I chose to forgo my tent and sleep out underneath the stars, laying my sleeping bag on some tyvek paper. Throughout the night, the hammock district turned into a zipper test facility. Even though we had stopped filming that redux of the Blazing Saddle fart scene, there was still plenty of ammo left, and it had to go somewhere. I awoke more than once to the sound of a triumphant "r-r-r-r-r-riiiiipppp" only to be followed by sleepy laughter from all directions.
Upon awakening, Drew practiced some slack-line for a little while:
...and then let out some more ammo:
Mini Trail Monstor came into the possession of some "cat-fish bait":
As morning continued on, moar and moar people showed up, ready for some t'aint pounding. Even the DRJ-AARP bus showed up. But MFXC isn't just a fun ride with friends. It's a place to show off the hottest fashion, such as Nick and his proper selection of socks:
...to T-tocs rocking his '09 vintage D9 bulldozer hat:
We lined all the non-racers up, everyone having made peace with Energor, next to the shitter. Which makes sense, since there is always someone who has to shit at the last minute. Let us not forget the UnaDoctor suddenly leaving the start line at the '09 Rim Wrecker to drop off a quick load. Fortunately, those promoters also lined us up next to the shitter. Also fortunately, the Council Bluff campground has a lot of shitters. We tend to see shitters like Criss Angel sees the boys: The more, the merrier.
Anyway, so we gave a head start to one lucky trio - Rock, who did the shirt design, and Caleb and Gabby who were the first to sign up in the male and female classes, respectively. The rest of the assholes were behind them, lining up in no particular order
I'm not sure any other races are led out by an Astro Van. In any case, ours was, and it wasnt' even a race. Truth bomb! Rolling through the campgrounds:
Instead of a "wash me" drawing, it was a "sperm me" drawing:
Our support crew loaded into the party sedan,and we set out to see our non-racers. Our first "aidstop" would be at the DD/32 lot. It wasn't long before they rolled through, and it wasn't long after that when I was able to dispense a bunch of aid, or aids, to poor little cutie Roland Sallinger, having made a fatal error in his race preparation - installing Crank Brothers pedals on his bike. He rolled in, and did this to his pedal:
Quick thinking led me to board a one-man bullet man-train back to the camp ground, where I would grab Jerkward's pedal and wrench, and get him rolling with a spare pedal. Bing bang boom. Crisis averted. He was riding really well, which is too bad because this mis-hap took him out of contention for the most part, but despite having everyone pass by before getting rolling again, he was about to pass over 1/3rd of the field by the finish.
Our next stop would be to the second gravel road crossing, where we would watch everyone go past, and then circle back around to us. Lawman and company would sally forth and meet up with Team Seagal's newest ally, one Monty McMontyson. Otherwise known as Monty the Cock Farmer, he's a great dude who has more immobile trucks surrounding his house than his wife has teeth. But what a great guy, and the subject of our spoke card:
We watched many a non-racer come through:
Dan "Flat bars > Drop Bars" Fuhrmann
Jason "I Need a Seagal Nickname" Pryor
Grand Master Geezor
There were a bunch of dead butterflies around there. The second one we thought was just a little tired and shagged out, so T-tocs and Nico fed it some jerky. An hour later it still hadn't eaten it, so we then deduced that no one can resist Jacks Links jerky that long, so it MUST have been dead.
At the second aids station, Scooter's pedal fix was still working, which was good to see. I had offered to write "Shimano M-959" on it, which would help ensure years of problem free use, but he had no time:
MFXC Ovorlord Norcword was all smiles as he and T-Town proceeded elsewhere:
Before we could say "pubes in the water jugs," we were again staring at the front end of the non-race, coming up the road. A 4-man man-train consisting of Chris "Hey What's For Lunch" Ploch, Rock "Van Buren" Wamsley, Caleb "Too Nice of a Guy to Curse Gratuitously" Hulsey and of course, Bob "I Commemorate Every Lunar Cycle With a New Mountain Bike" Arnold:
Not long after, the first Latino Singlespeeder rolled through, our very own Taco-Pizza:
I could hear the music in his headphones, a favorite album of his:
Chris "No Big Deal, Breh" Connolly
Corey "I Climb Simply By Leveraging Bike Against My Legs Using My Arms" Case
Our non-racers, approaching the final stretch of singletrack, were thankfully able to be inspired by Casey Ryback and the time he took down that entire boat full of terrorists:
We were fortunate this day to be able to catch a glimpse of a rarely seen species, a track-racer in the wild. It was hard to miss it though, as this particular one, known as a Tylor, was having trouble adapting to the 10mm longer crank arms on this bike. Thankfully, his Ivan Drago-esque calf muscles made up for mountain bike crank length issues:
Reminded me of that time Ivan Drago was training in that super-modern Soviet training facility:
Not long after that, T-Torcs and the Bearded Fish Slayer himself, Masson emerged from the dust, and Farinella and I were ready for them, to send 'em back to hell, where they belong:
We weren't in a very receptive mood, and I was ready to take Gabby out with the Louisville Slugger that I found in the creek:
But she was in just such a good mood, despite being in a one-woman woman-train for the race as a whole, that I couldn't bare to beat her to a bloody pulp. So instead, we let her pass, onto glory.
With that, our modestly-priced Party Sedan headed back to the finish, for moar merriment and tiny birds nests in water spigots:
We found that Mrs. Adams was patiently waiting at the top of the Alpe d' Bluff for the non-racers to finish, taking down times, for which we are quite thankful. But did you have to be so juvenile? I mean c'mon, this is not the kind of humor that we here at Team Seagal HQ like to condone, in any way. Last time we give you the notebook...
What would a Non-Race be if it weren't for unacceptable-at-a-legitamate-bike-event behavior:
The "eyes" have been censored to protect the identities of those involved.
We got to dish out some pretty slick prizes and schwag:
Peat "MFXC Is A Recovery Ride for Cohutta 100 The Day Before" Henry
Chris "Why Are You Hitting Yourself" Ploch
Full ENO Hammock, Middle Fork Roasters mug and coffee? Not bad for being the first one out and last back!
Not pictured in the schwag pile: Caleb being such a nice guy that we decided to actually give a prize to second place - a pair of PAF Velocity Blunt SL rims, in white, of course. Flaco's Cocina also threw in a nice gift certificate for first place, which we inadvertently tricked Chris "Glad You Got To See Me" Ploch into giving to Caleb. Don't forget Turbo McTurboson getting coffee, a mug and a Flaco's gift certificate for the next time he's in the big city - all for being the fastest single speeder.
And of course there was the copious amounts of delicious PBR that flowed straight down our throat-holes, and always at the most opportune times, like at the top of Mount Gravel.
Also not pictured were the free farts that were provided all weekend. More can be provided upon request.
Big Thanks to the miraculously-named Middle Fork Roasters from Masson's new homeland, Seattle. They provided the coffee, shirts, mugs, and relief from caffeine-withdrawal headaches for another day. What great support for an event 2000 miles away!
There ARE shirts, so if you signed up ahead of time, we have a shirt for you. We'll try to be contacting you soon to get you a shirt.
Closing the book on this year's event coincided with me closing my results notebook, only to find more artwork, which I'm going to one again blindly assume was courtesy of Stephanie:
I particularly like the tick.
As we've said before, here at Team Seagal HQ we are all about education, if nothing else. With that in mind, I would like to recommend a new product:
That fucking thing is almost as useless as a pedal-assist bike. Or more properly named, a fucking "moped." And they DON'T fucking belong on bike paths.
I would have had this report up sooner, but I was busy doing this all day Monday:
Now we'll see you next weekend. We're coming for you, Bob Jenkins!
-Casey F. Ryback
