SWBT (Single White Bike Team) ISO (In Search Of) a LTR with a willing BBM (Badass Beer Manufacturer) to support regional band of misfit cyclists, all in possession of BBC, in their quest to achieve enlightenment* on and off the bike. We are recently coming off of another LTR that, while prosperous and enjoyable, was unfortunately not meant to last.
Traits for successful product representatives/candidates should ideally include things along these lines:
ability to handle random, stinky intestinal gasses for an undetermined period of time (like, really stinky)
salty mouth
immunity to being offended by jokes with topics including, but not limited to: poo, pee, fermentation of poo and pee, getting high off of the gasses resulting from the fermented poo and pee, cartoonishly large boners, gratuitous homo-eroticism, ugly people, semen from yaks, using beards as a drug for performance-enhancing purposes, worship of impressively-large toilets, vaginas filled with sand, pooping in the woods, stories of heinously disgusting saddle sores and blisters
willingness to have your product being drank by toothless Ozark hillbillies who don't know the difference between beer and mouthwash (because they don't know what mouthwash is)
possession of minimal camping gear
will have seen their fair share of nips being blastified
being ready to defend our honor at the mention of being called dirty hipsters or triathletes
willingness to be called a jerk, as a term of endearment
able to translate ancient Chinese scrolls into English
patience with laziness and/or lack of organizational skills on our part
possession of huge quantities of delicious beers, preferably in cans
general/cursory knowledge or appreciation of the great action heroes and their combined body of work (i.e. Steven Seagal, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Charles Bronson, Sylvester Stallone, Chuck Norris, Carl Weathers, Dolph Lungren, Bruce Willis, etc...)
willingness to humor us when we make extremely esoteric, dorky jokes about technical bicycle shit
willingness to assist us when being extremely judgemental and making fun of other people and their un-cool, non-trendy bike setups.
having been around bikes in some way, shape, or form in the past
generosity when it comes to giving out lots of cool product-related schwag
Potential "deal-breaker" traits may include, but are not limited to:
possession of any music by Nickelback or Insane Clown Posse
having at any point in your life been called a "juggalo/juggalette" or having professed loyalty to "the Fam"
having ever attended "The Gathering" or a Nickelback concert
concern for your aerodynamics while riding a bicycle
having at any point in your life paid for a Michelob Ultra or Bud Select 55
being super gross, teh G4yz0rz, or just really goddamned annoying to be around
Candidates that think they and their company may be a good fit should first GTF, and then stop by the nearest watering hole to buy us a drink.
*Enlightenment, in this context, may be defined as Superior Attitude and Superior State of Mind
Greetings, Loyal Team Seagal Haterz and Non-Haterz alike! Something brought you to this page. Perhaps it was your general love of hating us, or how you hate to love us - much like those salt and vinegar potato chips that give you fucked up breath. Well, this time, it was no doubt your desire to want to hear the tale of our very own D0rbs, the New East Coast Syndicate, coming to visit the midwest coast for yet another successful installment in Operation: Make Stormy, T-Tocs, Samuel Axel and B0rsk0rn Jealous (Because They are Huge Jerks).
(T-Tocs and Samuel Axel may have not be too jealous though, considering they were both balls-deep in their first Oregon Outback excursion, and Stormy is busy working to further the insidious Team Seagal Agenda deep within the Kona Bicycle Co.)
It has been in the works for a minute now, Memorial Day weekend, a weekend which would be prime for mutually assured destruction on the shores of Council Bluff Lake. We have been anticipating D0rb's arrival for some time, and have procured tasty provisions for his journey back east towards his upstate home base:
But he didn't just spend all that time driving his newly-bearded-for-this-occasion ass all the way down here just for the best beers to be found this side of Mt. Fuji. He drove down for some stupid fun Ozark riding - yet another thing we can provide lots of.
So after his arrival, and consumption of great food at the Southwest Diner, we put the finishing touches on the packing of the car, and headed down via the scenic route, i.e. "Blood Alley," the requisite visit to the Potosi BP for even more sugary and fermented beverages, and of course, for complete and total domination of the Potosi BP shitter.
The two-car train of myself (Señor Crotch) and Jerkward and C-D0rbs made landing on the shores of Group Campsite D to find a number of other jerks, notably Pry0r, Hollywood, Lawman, and St0rtz having already been there. Soon, Titty would arrive. And boy, was it exciting and excellent to be able to step out of the car and smell in the Council Bluff campground air... waft in the scents from the nearby pit-toilets... and revel in the fact that we were once again at Council Bluff. We were all excited to be able to get in a lap before the darkness fell, but we were nearly thwarted by ole' Jerky locking his keys in the Toscani-Mobile:
Some ship-in-a-bottle skills were put to work with the help of a metal coathanger from the neighbors, and crisis was averted. But not before the rest of us departed for dusk-laps around a lake surface that was smooth as glass and provided for multiple Bob Ross Painting moments:
The trail gods must have been a little upset with us though, no doubt for all the beer-soaked piss we leave trailside. As a result they decided to fuck with us a bit by giving W0rnk0rn a bent derailleur hanger, and St0rtz several flat tires and totally fucked spare inner tubes. This put a delay on our return, but nevertheless, we soldiered on and ended up riding in ever-darkening trails that were a problematic from the beach to the campground. Our dilated pupils were more wide open than a the body of a Crank Brothers pedal after it has unexpectedly come off the spindle.
...and the next morning headache. But you can't sit around milking a minor hangover all day, because the best cure for that is to shred all kinds of brown pow-pow with your friends all day. So a small strike team involving Tittay, Jerkward, your boy the Coach, C-D0rbs, Pry0r and KW all headed out for a Bluff loop and an excursion to the North Trace chimney and back.
The descents on the North Trace are second to none, and were blazin' like the Good Doctor on his way to "Indo"-nesia. We were thwarted only once thanks to Maxxis sidewalls doing what they do best, and that is getting more ripped than a bunch of cub scouts on a camp trip with Criss Angel:
Our destination reached:
big ass tree, AT the chimney
probably a rabid mountain lion turd, on the big ass tree
*Nico the photographer edited in
North Trace was in fantastic shape, save for 2 big, recently-fallen trees - all a direct result of the efforts of the OTA and all the mowing that is continuously being done. Support the OTA, and sign up for the OT100/OT50. The downhills flowed, no overgrowth. The return trip though, we did find some frosty beverages being dispensed courtesy of one Jerk wielding superior attitude:
From there, we had miles to go. Back to Hwy DD, then down to the Telleck Connect0r, and continuing on for a crush-tastic Burnin' loop around the Lake. Oooo-fucking-weee.
As an aside to this adventure, I must note - this was the first time Ole' Crotchy had ever ridden any part of the Ozark Trail with a geared bike - let alone a modern, fully active 5" of travel full-suspension bike with top-shelf parts. And, it was probably the first time in *at least* 10 years since I had ridden the Council Bluff loop on anything but a singlespeed. This RIP9, on loan from a superior jerk of the utmost degree, was the second most enjoyable 5" I've had between my legs. The first most was named Gabe.
Anyway, as we circled the lake, and as I listened to my hardened t'aint singing the praises of full-suspension bliss over miles of baby-head rock gardens, I couldn't help but revel in this sense of euphoria that comes from riding with friends on your favorite trails in sunny weather. And I'm not talking about that euphoria that comes over you when visiting the pit toilets.
We got back to the campground, D0rbs having crushed shit *way* stronger than he would have you believe ("Look at me! I'm just a retired old man with hip problems who hasn't been riding hardly at all this year!" Whatever, homeboy smashed faces that were nearly half his age.) and was quickly given a special apple-pie post-ride recovery serum from Lawman that was sure to set us off on the right path:
that green Coleman water jug is older than me
Before long, we had ourselves a campfire goin' snap-crackle-pop, and switched our recovery beverages from distilled to carbonated:
Sitting around that campfire, we discussed many things for many hours as we had shit-else to do besides reminisce about times past as we passed around D0rb's jenkem balloon containing D0rb's special NYC East River Blend that had us all speaking in tongues, and translating scrolls that were written on used TP. Through my hazy, faded eyes, I then saw a lone rider coast up on a way-too-cool-for-me contraption, twice as long as a regular bike, with tires twice as wide as a regular tire. Through the fog, I couldn't tell whom it was exactly:
...All I knew was that his arrival heralded a great conversation about driving up to the bluff for sunset instead of riding our bikes, as had been the plan previously. What a great idea. So great, that we concocted a great plan to drive our asses up there, with previous recon missions by Lawman done earlier that day reporting that the Johnson Mountain Road Gate was open.
A badass moment in time, atop a true Ozark mountain. And for a New Yorker, it can be harder to get further away from city life than drinkin' while 4-wheelin' your way through the woods, splashing through mud puddles and ending up a lookout.
The drive up:
Arriving up top with just enough time:
The Karate Kid, Staring Lawman:
Nico whizzing off of a cliff no handed:
We were getting a little crazy with all the cell phone reception up there, the dam bursting with all the emails and texts finally buzzing our phones. So everyone had to get outta there before we started making bad decisions involving being drunk, and posting shit to Facebook or Instagram. Nico and Strove, having ridden their two-person funbike all the way up that hill, saddled on up and actually beat us back down the mountain:
The problem with drinking most of the day, is that by the time night rolls around, all I want to do is smash any food that is put in front of me. And fortunately, we were like Scrooge McDuck. That is, if Scrooge McDuck had a vault of tubed meats, eggs, and bacon to cook up over the grill at midnight:
I definitely had the meat sweats the rest of that night.
Fading further and further into the night, we even found Pizza Time arrive just in time for him to experience all the bullshit we were spewing out of our cakeholes. He may have even developed a contact-translation, being in such proximity to the ancient scrolls that were being unraveled. But alas, my contacts were revolting against my eyeballs, and I had to put myself to bed, left only to dream about being able to take my morning fuji - much like a child goes to bed on Xmas Eve dreaming of opening gift the next morning.
Upon awakening on Sunday, I was so excited to visit the pit toilet, I was almost skipping with glee:
So I grabbed my TP caddy and headed "upslope" for my summit attempt. Upon planting my flag atop the peak, ready to turn last night's meat sweats into the morning meat squirts, I was suddenly distracted by what may have been a congressman in the stall next to me, giving me the ole' Minneapolis Toe Tap:
...when in Rome, right?
Stepping out of the pit toilet, I was a little sore, but felt continuing relief for some time. D0rbs likened it to the feeling that a WW2 bombardier feels - upon unleashing his payload, the dead air before the final landing on/in it's intended target. In WW2, that target was Hamburg or Tokyo. But Memorial Day 2015, that target was the bottom of the pit, which, fortunately, is far enough away to eliminate any threat of the dreaded Spelling Splash-back.
It was very good timing, because that is the same time I came across Punch0r and Ryb0r arriving for OT bike practice! So I got to see nearly everyone this past weekend. Unfortunately, I was unable to re-apply the salve that is known as "OT Dirt," as I had work-related obligations that day. But I know that with all the mileage that was shredded this weekend, we'll be set for some time.
Well, there you have it. Another tale of fun times from your favorite jerks from your least favorite team. We had everything, even the discussions of our bowel movements, which are becoming more expected these days than a picture of a bald eagle in a politician's campaign ad.
Now, enough of that bullshit. Watch this fucking video of "Race Walking" with the Bee Gees dubbed over - it is amazing:
Greetings, you Soldiers in the Team Seagal Infantry! Another harrowing weekend just passed us. And by "harrowing," I mean stormy and wet. State championship dreams were crushed, hardened t'aint skin was sanded down to the soft, supple and sinewy muscle tissue underneath, and huge amounts of junk-ass food was consumed.
Now ever since I was a lower case "g" all I wanted to was to go do badass rides all day, every day. But now that I'm a big "G" I can take on fat rides like the Hairy Hundred that starts in Rocheport. So having set my alarm for "early as fuck in the morning" I woke up to find the she cooked the breakfast with no hog - it was gonna be a good day. Packin' up, packin' up, packin' up, packin', I cruised to Drewballz house - not a jacker in sight. Hitting the highway, got the three-wheel motion all the way for the drive westward. However, the closer we got to our destination, the weather went south faster than a West County Retiree in December.
Arriving at the Rocheport exist, the Dynamic Duo of Crotch and Drewballz had a waning resolve, so we placed a call to the home boy. We posed the question to Jerkward, "is it gonna get worse before it gets better?" to which he said "It's already gotten worse!" So our jerk asses paused for a quick vein drain, at which point our boy Snurby-town (Not to be confused with the Pizza Town) attached a fine linen present to the Crotch mobile (A.K.A. the rusty Nissan.) With the proper encouragement from the Jerk and the Nad, we shook our heads, apologized to our t'aints, and pressed on down the road to the start/finish, where we found a large group of like-minded riders, ready to rock it till the wheels fall off, hold up - and sacrifice their general t'aint health for greater glory.
Still running on some overpriced breakfast donuts from Strange Donuts (my bad, they prefer them to be called "dones" there) we were ready to toe up to the line, rain drops falling, getting the saddle pre-moistened. Before I can look around to check my fender alignment, who screeches to a halt right next to me, flowing locks and all, but the fastest dude on two knobby tires in the state, G-Town St0rnm0rtz., who had planned on doing the State MTB Race at Creve Coeur Lake, but came to ride with us on dirt roads in Rocheport upon learning that the race was cancelled. Unfamiliar with the concept of "drop bars," he isn't sure what is reasonable, as exemplified by his hard-man gearing choice:
...a 1x11 setup with a 50t ring. Obviously, he is on the Silver Surfer Plan. What better way to get totally pitted. It's like I always say, big gears mean big results, brah. Before rolling out, we were reminded by Walt's Larry that all the work for this year's event was essentially undertaken by Michelle W., better known as "CX-Dance-Party" Michelle. Nice fucking work.
After some more heartfelt words, we were off in a flurry of restrained excitement, in a very neutral form, for a few miles down the Katy. Your boy, Coach, was somehow at the front of this choo-choo train, not that it is some impressive feat, as we were all at a chill talking pace. But once we made the right turn onto the first climb, all those cute hardbody racerboi's were all jockeying for position to latch onto the lead group before it was too late. It was at this point when I saw our very own Snurb for the last time, as he passed me just in time for me to look down and check myself out in his polished silver rims.
For the next few miles, there were so many rollers, that I thought I was a tasty Quicktrip Taquito:
We were all crushing along, the roads not being as wet as we had expected. That being said, I'm glad I installed the clip-on fenders today, fo' sho. It wasn't long before I came across Hunt0r H0rnry, on a nice little recovery ride from his excursion at the Vino Fondo the previous day. Fortunately, his legs weren't as fresh as they would normally be, which allowed us to cruise along for a while, discussing many things, and coordinate our piss breaks.
I mentioned this totally sweet full suspension bike that I am borrowing from a friend, and that had me thinking about all the annoying phrases that people use when referring to a full suspension bike. Kinda like calling your fixed-gear bicycle your "fixie," moutain bikers often attempt cute phrases, such as:
-full/dual "susser" or "suss"
-full/dual "boinger"
-full/dual "squish" or "squisher"
Used in context:
"Dude-bro, what kind of full-susser did you get? Your boy Richard Chinnuts told me you got a new dual boinger - is that true?
"Totally bro! In fact, I fully squished my dual boingers into ole' Dick Chinnuts' full suss-hole last night! It was a sloppy mess!"
Anyway, so HH and I had a grand ole' time crusing up and down hills, enjoying lovely Mid-Missouri scenery:
Of course, there were three little towns that we got to go through - Fayette, Glasgow, and New Franklin, all of which allowed us access to Casey's pizza. By the time we reached the 50 mile mark in Glasgow, I was ready to smash me some Casey's pizza squares, and then wash them down with Red Bull, and of course, the second course of pizza/Red Bull burps. Ooooweee. Destroyed, and fueled. Just around the Corner, I was able to borrow a bottle of chain lube at the checkpoint from Michelle, which really helped my ears. At this point in the ride, my chain was getting super loud, and more devoid of lubricant than Criss Angel's "Dungeon of Dreams." I also offered my "services" to this nice lady who couldn't get her front shifter to work. So I whipped out my tool, twisted a few nuts, and before long, her clam was happy. Or is that happy as a clam? Either way, they found out that it is always ladies night when Coach is in the club.
About 2 more paved hills, and we dropped down to the river bottoms, where we would have a headwind that was blowing harder than a juggalo at the Gathering trying to score some meth and a corn-dogs. As we rounded the long, gradual bend in the course, the headwind changed to a partial cross-wind of the type that had me leaning my bike into it. Of course though, This is one of the only times in the whole ride that I was fully solo, with no one to work with. At least once I got to the pavement stretch towards New Franklin, I had the big ring available to me, which was something I did not have at the Tour of Hermann.
I probably didn't need to stop in New Franklin for donuts, but I did anyway, just to spite them donut haterz out there. Well, actually, it was because I thought there were m0ar hills to ride, when in actuality, the course-re-route-due-to-flooding was here - we were directed down the hill to the Katy Trail for the home stretch back to town. It was here that N0rte G0ff and I formed a two-man man-train for the cruise back. We had to stop to distribute inner tubes to an unfortunate soul, at which point we saw Super-Kate crush past us on a mission to find Mr. Warren G finishing glory!
NG and I went for the finishing sprint, where I handed victory over to him, which seemed like the right thing to do. I mean, I don't want to cut anyone down too bad when they see my rippled, bulging quads blast past them in full sprint nearing 50mph. So I reigned in my horses.
It actually turned out to be a very sunny, enjoyable day - made even more enjoyable with some adult beverages and nearly instant pizza as we sat and watched the riders roll in, and got down on a little trash talking with Dano F. of Route 66 fame. Only, he wasn't there to share in it. Poor guy - maybe his ears were burning.
Around the table, we also spread the words of the Memorial Day Melee to be held next weekend at Council Bluff campgrounds, where our boy C-Dorbs will be gracing us with his presence for a few days, of shred-tastic gnar-time. It will, for a couple days, be the second coming of Little Chinatown, where our center for translations will be temporarily based. Watch for random Chinamen down there, because the campsite is booked.
This weekend I also learned about a little show called Pacific Blue - how did I not know about this before? With ridiculous bike shorts and chase scenes like this, how did I miss it? Spot the Trek Y-frame and the Spinergy Rev-X's:
And let's not forget this one:
...taken out by the bollards! Every cyclists knows to watch out for those! Anyway, I see a series of viewing parties/drinking games coming up...
Speaking of drinking, upon arriving home after a long day of riding and avoiding traffic jam-jobs of epic proportions on I-70, I felt that a delicious shower beer was in order:
Stay tuned, because next weekend is doing to rock the dick off your t'aint's nuts.
Greetings, loyal Team Seagal minions! This is just a friendly reminder from your neighborhood band of merry jerks that the arguably-greatest, most grass-roots ride in the state, Cedar Cross, is on the horizon. "But Crotchy, is there some sort of a sign-up cut-off?" I have no clue, because I can't go. But I need to make sure that in my abscess (or is that absence?) there are like 500 moar people that do show up to show our boy, the esteemeed Mr. Borb Jorkins (name protected from future internet-search-engine results) the gooey, sticky love that I would normally provide:
I mean, look at those eyes, you can totally trust those eyes:
Those are the eyes of a guy, who doesn't give the awesome gift of a free roof rack to the rider who won, but rather, to the person whose car has the shittiest looking roof rack, in most desperate need of replacement. Or who gifts the frame to the person who finishes last, so that they can have a better bike, in order to do better next time. Or the guy who would have the common courtesy to reciprocate at least a reach-around.
"But Mr. Ryback, I haven't been riding this year at all! In fact, my legs are currently about as useless and without-purpose to me as a helmet visor! What chance do I have of being victorious on such an arduous journey?" The chances are 100%. In fact, just by showing up, your will have achieved victory, because the atmosphere is one of good nature, joviality, and probably some stinky farts (but at least you'll be outside, so they can't linger for long.)
By embarking on this route, you will be even moar certain of higher glory. But you will have to undergo many challenges, such as staring up, from the base of a monstrous gravely climb, and have to deal with the same level of intimidation that a front-row female concert-goer would have had when seeing Led Zeppelin live back in the 70's; just imagine staring up at these pants on stage, and seeing every wrinkly detail of that ridiculous hog:
Nice belt buckle!
In addition to being a superior route full of challenges, it will be a new starting venue full of badassery, comradery, and 100% lacking in douchebaggery - the newly-relocated Red Wheel Bike Shop in Jeff City. And, with Nick and Bob's uniting of their awesome powers for one common goal, does this mean we'll have a 2011 Binder-Brawl Re-match? We can only hope so - but a little encouragement in the form of moonshine may help to ensure it happens. And if so, please have a camera ready, so that your pal Crotch here can enjoy too.
The day may be a day of contrasts - so much pain and suffering on course, all while enjoying huge amounts of superior attitudes and superior states of mind with the people around you. But don't let the bad outweigh the good. Take your hairy pal Crotch, for example - he knows all about contrasts, being a clydesdale singlespeeder who prefers lycra to baggy shorts. That's like being a roadie with hairy legs. Or like being a recumbent rider with carbon soled clipless shoes. Or like being an upper-middle-class bike racer who complains about the cost of their carbon mountain bike wheels. Or like being an straight-edge juggalo with a college degree (or even a high school diploma, for that matter.) So he knows a thing or two about contrasts, and knows that it isn't *always* a bad thing.
Even though I am unable to attend this year, I am still able to find satisfaction in life with the knowledge that I may have introduced C-Dubs to the concept of shower beers. (You're welcome.) But aside from that, I'll find even moar satisfaction in knowing that boatloads moar people showed up for this year's Cedar Cross after having read this bl0rg. (There isn't really a good feedback loop for that though, so I'll just imagine it.)
Speaking of imagining things, imagine my surprise at seeing the un-altered packaging material used upon unboxing a new tandem bicycle the other day:
I did not alter this in any way - it was the chainguard protector!
"Experiencing" that cardboard trouser snake would have you shitting pancakes for a week!
I'll leave you to think about that photo for a while. More to come...
Greetings, Gravelly Team Seagal comraderinos! What a weekend it was. For we had deployments in multiple sectors - The Castlewood Dirty Spokes mountain bike race, we had small strike team take the beaches at the Czech Festival, we had yet others on the Berryman blastin' out new nips AND singletrack, and still others (including myself, the Coarch) deeply entrenched within the bowels of the Tour of Hermann Gravel Challenge - a gravelly paradise that would make ole' Crazy Jim hungry.
The loops conceived by the ToH overlord, Jeff, are truly something to behold. Even if he wanted to make a relatively easy route involving very mild climbing, it would be nearly impossible to do so, given the terrain on which the Hermann region sits. That is, unless you just scooted your tender t'aint across the bridge and just did fun loops with the family up and down the Katy Trail all day long. Good luck with that though - your family probably already thinks you're a gigantic loser for riding bikes. I mean, let's be honest - we are huge dorks. To the rest of humanity, we look like this:
While Skeezy was busy getting back-handed comments and causing jam-jobs on the downhills at the surprisingly-dry Castlewood Dirty Spokes race, I woke my ass up well before the crack of dawn (inside the crack... of dawn?) to strap into the Crotch-Mobile (read: rusty Nissan) in order to be in the hamlet of Hermann with plenty of time for lift-off on Saturday morning. And after topping by the gas station for provisions and coffee, I set to planning my next summit attempt of Mt. Kohler - an attempt that wouldn't be realized until I reach the town of Hermann, or more specifically the Hermann Hardee's.
Having finished filing my morning paperwork, it was game on. Being the only one with our kit that day, I was charged with flying the stinky flag of doom alone. And having just freshly applied a liberal dollop of tingly t'aint balm to my undercarriage, I was ready to carry the flag all day.
The Paris Roubaix starting pits are a sea of 30mm FMB tubulars glued to carbon box-section rims and inflated to 63 psi, intermixed with more cushy layers of bar tape than there are beer snobs at your local mountain bike race. Well, gravel events aren't so different, but the tires are more like 40mm, the pressure dipping into the 30's, and there are a lot more hairy legs.
After a few kind words from JY, and we were off through town center. I was surprised at the speed at which our initial roll-out towards the Katy was moving - 22/23 mph, and I later learned that our boy Peat was choo-choo-ing at the tip of the spear with Butthead in the 28 mph range. Yowza! They were moving faster than technology in the eyes of that flat-pedal using, friction-shifting, boner of a retro-grouch that you don't want to talk to. So I was taking full advantage of the free speed afforded to me by the draft of other big hairy dudes, and by my still-working big ring. But it wasn't long before the pace-lining would come to an end, and we would be in the hills. So as we passed the big stuffed carnival bear in the rock-face, I knew the hills were upon us:
this is real, I swear. shut up.
The roads on the north side of the Missouri River seem to be more hard-packed, with a finer grit of gravel. Most of the time, they are so groomed to the point it could probably be suitable for one of those Rapha Vanity Races Gentleman's Races. So the first loop, while stacked with some gnarly climbs, flew by. For a brief period, I had a near-shitting-myself moment where I found my front Ultegra 6800 shifter stuck in the big ring. The thought of attempting this full day of climbing steep bullshit with a 50t ring had me thinking about committing seppuku by turning my bike over and impaling myself onto my grimy chainring. Fortunately, a swift kick from my carbon shoe sole put my chain where it belonged, and where it would stay for the next 130 miles, the small ring.
Arriving back at the car, we topped off bottles, ate some shit, got freshly-doped blood, and then proceeded to make like a fetus and head out. Loop two starts with one of the longest climbs of the day, it's only saving grace being that it is paved, which allows for some much-appreciated out-of-the-saddle-climbing time. Loop two and loop three are quite similar in fact, in that after the initial climb, they mellow out for a little while before repeatedly punching you directly in the nut-sack/v-hole. That isn't to say that there wasn't plenty of beautiful scenery. After the long cold months, it was a pleasure to see some great color out there - MANY big fields that were blanketed with a sea of these purple flowery plants:
I carried just enough food with me on the second loop to keep my from bonking before finishing back at the car, where I smashed a surprisingly delicious Gigi's turkey sammich on a pretzel bun. It was so satisfying, that I didn't need to eat much at all for the next several hours. Ooooo-fucking-weeee. That is good, because after pulling out for the third lap, I had plenty of time to think, rather than talk to the no one around me, and the last thing I wanted to think about was being hungry. Loop 3 I was Mario Van Peeble style, although I did briefly encounter some other people on their own solo mission, not to mention leaving olde man winter in my dust on one particularly long descent. The entire time though, I was counting down the miles until the most notorious climb from day 1 showed up: Bickmeyer Road. If you did loop 3, you remember it well - it was the only climb anyone talked about from that route. It was probably ten minutes of being in my easiest gear at about 3mph. After 80 miles. It was harder to ride up that hill than it is to listen to some douche-nozzle brag about their fucking downhill strava segments at Castlewood Park.
Camping in Hermann City Park is most excellent. Sitting around a campfire, we discussed many things, the least of which not being why anyone *cough cough Adam C. cough* would want to ride their singlespeed mountain bike (with trail gearing) down the Katy from StL all the way to Columbia. It is my belief that I would rather use the shitter immediately after post-Dos-Primos Borb Jorkins blows it up than do that ride on the SS mtb. Amirite?
Day two, reinforcements arrived from Team Seagal HQ in the form of Mr. and Mrs. Orin Boyd. It was certain to be a glorious day, though one loop was about all I had time for. The first loop was a rolling start of about 17 miles of training down the Katy in my granny ring:
It immediately got nice and climby once we exited the Katy, and never stopped until we got back onto the Katy, near the cliff-bear. Each climb was slow and steady, always keeping the cramps at bay. But the views and scenery were never ending, such as smoke from the Callaway Nuclear Reactor over the horizon:
...not to mention beautiful roads like this:
Over the course of loop 4, I was mostly a part of a loosely-congealed group involving a handful of Momentum d00dz, Snurb's inked co-worker Justin W and his buddy (both of whom are admirably training for the Louisville Ironman), Titty and his better half, not to mention a cool cat from Quincy, Jacob S, on his sweet, vintage TCX disc. There were several hills out this way that were simply brain-scrambling. It certainly helped to have some company of similar ability to stick with, especially once we returned to the Katy for time on the Wo-Man Train express:
Our grouplet coasted into Hermann City Park, oozing glory out of our pores, and most of the orifices. And what do I find upon arriving back at the park, but our good friend, Nico Toscani! He has been solo-missioning his way westward via the Katy Trail since early that morning. He truly is a massive jerk, and one who knows his frozen pizza.
What a great ride this was - near perfect, I would say. And what a fantastic deal! Two days of nearly 200 miles of supported riding available for $40? How can you beat that? There is even the chance of getting wine. Just in case, I brought plenty of Stag, that I will drink the fucking shit out of. What's next on the agenda? Only a little thing called the Cedar Cross! The most crunkenest time you'll evar have on a gravel road. Mr. Jorkins is a true honorary jerk, of the highest order. This much has nevar been in dispute, especially since his initial throwing down of the egg nog gauntlet, many moons ago. And as only a true jerk would do, his fantastic event, Cedar Cross will be one of the greatest things that you could ever imagine doing in your entire life. Bearing children included. Word is that Superkate, crusher of shit, is bring homemade cookies. Trust me when I say you want Kate's soft, moist cookies, bruh.
Unfortunately for me, my hairy wanna-be ass will be unable to attend the Ced0r Cr0ss, as a result of legitimately important family memorial on the same day. However, fear n0t. There are moar events this year to attend, and more things to crap all over. Rest assured, this year is becoming more and more full of victory as we speak. Additionally, both I and C-Dubs are becoming more and more full of turds as we speak, which will inevitably result in multiple summit attempts before the day is over. Now, I had better finish this fucking post before I start making grammar and spelling errors that autocorrect isn't able to account for, on account of a few too many of deez:
You still out there, Doctor?
Don't forget, as Sully in Commando sez, "Get fucked!"
-Casey F. Ryback
