MFXC 2012, You Dicks.

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