CXMAS 2012 - The Jerk Store Called US For An Emergency Re-stocking Shipment

Greetings, Team Seagal Bandoleros! The winds of change are knocking at our door, much like the intestinal winds regularly knock at the inside of my backdoor. Whether that be in the form of a dramatic, planet-wide climate shift (witnessed by an increase in temperatures with each successive CXmas) or with a changing of the guard in position of the malevolent CXmas Overlord. This year marked a shift in power from PizzaTime McGee to the Great Puncher of Cocks, who has had his fist-sights set squarely on your cock/vag-n-balls.

Betwixt Punch0r and Lawman, a course was determined with many a challenge for our participants, who saw fit to loop around Bangert, The Eco-Trail farther north, then back for another Bangert loop before receiving their carefully wrapped CXmas gift:

Of course, all manner of beverages would be served along the way.

People arrived in the lot, where I had more than a few mind explosions. The first being The Good Doctor, whom I hadn't seen since 2009 in Durango. Still reeling from his 2008 appearance on the CXmas podium:

Just like in the Old West, the Doctor was also sometimes the Sheriff.

The next mind explosion was two-fold, in the form of the can-coozie and the spoke card:

One last mind explosion was in the form of a rare 2012 Mash0r sighting - previously only seen this year by chance on a trail in Colorado, and a couple of trail work days. Thankfully, he hasn't slipped off the edge of the Earth just yet.

Team Red Wheel arrived, sober, and came bearing a gift for us:

A bottle of Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout - the embodiment of "not fucking around."

There were more than a few ugly sweaters:

Jeff has had this sweater so long that he used to wear it non-ironically.

Also seen before the start:

Nico at the beginning of a 4+ hour nip blast-a-thon

64oz of pain-reliever.

It's not a costume of the clothing is in your regular rotation.

Here Anthony prepares to be shot from a cannon, but not before showing us proper use of a bento box:

Fuhrmann's tradition of using the tire casing as a psuedo-file tread.

Ms. Kitten Bottoms would go on to use the aero-advantages of her Xmas-helmet to great effect with her head down.

Many of us, myself included, were holding back a tear or two when The Great Gino stood atop that tailgate and gave a few emotion-filled words, making me wonder if this were the '95 Espy Awards.

But no, we were to get this endeavor started post-haste. A quick recognition of a veritable legend, central to TC Man, Big Friggin Loop, Coffee Stout and Chinese Scroll Translation lore within our team, the Good Doctor/Sheriff, once again:

He was actually directing his middle fingers, in this photo, to Avid hydraulic disc brakes - not the crowd.

And they were off.

Shirtless-Jerk-Jackson and I quickly zipped down to Bangert to greet them as they rolled into the trail:

"My name is Gino!"

Nog would be slogged, and shorelines would be ran-up, all in an effort to gain a better poker hand:

Our CXmas'ers were then to continue northward where our partner-team, the South City Cycling Club, would be waiting with delicious confectioneries provided by their Donut Shop Sponsor, Eddie's Southtown Donuts. Last year, you may remember (or may not, depending on how hazy that day is in your mind) the very creative employment of long johns and donut holes. This year, they went in a slightly different-yet-still-related direction, instead of delicious schlongs, they went for delicious "kittens." The "kitten" donuts were in all forms, sandy "kittens," bleeding "kittens," and even the less-desirable cheesy "kittens." Feats of strength would garner moar cards.

They were sent then, southward, back to Bangert for a slop-tastic lap, and then back to where myself, Shirtless Jerk-Jackson, PBR Dave would be lying in wait for gift-dispersement. It would be there that we would witness the CXmas miracle unfold before our eyes.

Once we had our "receiving line" of gifts ready to go, we waited for a short while as they first of our CXmas'ers would pass through.

Even though Masson Storm and company weren't able to be in attendance, we made sure to have a special gift ready anyway:

One good drawing deserves another:

While waiting for gifts to be received, we had one of the oddest appearances evar. Now, we in the cycling world are used to man-trains and (wo)man-trains, but this was the first dog-train we'd evar seen in person:

"Woof woof! Here comes the dog-train!"

Nico, ever the Team Seagal Goodwill Ambassador, provided them with proper hydration for their return trip:

Both Nico and I were hoping against hope that our laid-back friends friends from last year, the only cool recumbent riders we've ever met, would make an appearance, where we could send them on a journey once more, but this time they would be looking for a Punch0r. I was so excited and ready for this to happen, that I had Elton John's "The Circle of Life" already on loop in my head for several hours. Alas, they were never seen.

But what was seen was much ridiculousness, in the form of a helmet that was older than the Don Emilio tequila that I was offering to everyone. It won "Helmet of the Day":

Baby J was emulating Robert-Plant-On-Stage, showing the ladies what he was packin':

That was not before receiving his gift, which he promptly unwrapped, thinking there was actually something in it.

Here is Rock, receiving the best (in my opinion) gift, a 30lb block of plaster:

As I said, we also had tequila available for people to imbibe. This bottle had been passed on from a friend's Grandpa, is that tells your anything about it:

All of this CXmas cheer had me more excited and giddy than Criss Angel reading his new training manual:

It was in this manual that Mr. Angel learned that the "upside-down sword-swallower" is essentially the same maneuver as the "pile-driver."

The CXmas spirit really was in the air tonight.There was much to be done - greet the splattered CXmas'ers as they arrived at the finale:

Coochie coochie coo!

Once all had returned we gave our winners prizes, and consulted everyone's poker hands:

Dr. Roland Sallinger, Co-winner with Devin received an ENO Doublenest!

Devin, co-winner with Skeezer, won a badass pair of Polk Audio headphones!

Badass Junior Podium, cleaning up with Polk Audio schwag!

Matt Stacey, receiving some Polk Schwag after winning the swordfight. No surprise there...

Rounding out the Podium is former Champ BJ also scoring big!

I apologize to Cat, as my photo of her winning her prize turned out shitty, due only to my incompetence at operating a simple god-damned point-and-shoot. Nice fucking work though, especially after having drawn first blood!

A huge thanks goes out to those that supported this year's event: Irwin Tools, Polk Audio, ENO Hammocks, The Hub and of course PBR!

Afterwards it was just moar general confusion, which is no surprise. Lawman produced potentially the best beverage of the day, simply called "apple pie" - here being enjoyed by the esteemed Donjo:

We coudn't end the day though, without serenading Mary Piper with a traditional happy birthday song. You see, we here at Team Seagal HQ are very devoted to tradition.

In keeping with this spirit of tradition, I'd like to continue with our tradition of poking fun at triathletes. This is in a new form, which I call a "tri-ku." This is where you take the traditional and time-honored Japanese Haiku poem, and give it a triathlon theme:

Sweat encrusted pads
Urine soaked Profile saddle
I've set a PR


The Triathlon Song
It is my inspiration
Just a finisher

All bolts corroded
Powdered sports drink everywhere
Hate-filled mechanic

Rear-mounted bottle
Ejected at first pot-hole
Now dropped by group ride

It's all about speed
One velcro strap's all I need
Doubt I'll ever breed


Stay tuned for more in the future. Thanks for coming, jerks.

-Casey F. Ryback

Missouri State CX Championships, Brodeci

Greetings Team Seagal Schwanzlutchers! Chances are, you are reading this, and thinking to yourself about just how horrible your own life is. Sorry about that. Perhaps you should have come to Jefferson City this weekend where you could have had a respite from the misery that is your life, and enjoyed some misery in the CX course while drinking free beer.

There were two races, in fact - one, Capital City CX was on Saturday and poorly attended. Weak. The second, the actual State Championships, was better attended by both racer and spectator. I was unable to attend the Saturday festivities on account of having bills (i.e. snuff films, a ravenous jenkem habit, and the study that I am funding to find a urine-resistant coating for triathlon bicycle applications) to pay, however I quickly made my way over for the Pub Crawl which was well underway by the time I got there. Bob Jenkins, The Mitch, Nick, Peat, Stoney, our own Lawman, and many others were already about 10 inches deep into a game of Jamaican Curling, as I procured delicious beers. The camaraderie (read: homo-eroticism) ensued, and continued as we brought our party wagon over to a local Irish pub, though Furhmann thought it was a Euro discotheque:

All good things must come to an end, and thus, my seal had to be broken. I ventured to the restroom to find the wall completely covered in about 2.5 million words of wisdom, this being the one that I snapped a photo of:

good to know.

With that weight off my mind, I hoped to make the best of my new found interpretation of the genetic code, and maybe end up at home with one of my good buddies. Fortunately for me, that buddy's home was that of Matt Stacey's, but unfortunately, he provided a spare bed for me. I was to remain celibate one more night.

Waking up the next day, I felt the way your average Juggalo wakes up every day - a little dazed, and with a headache. Fortunately for me though, unlike most Juggalos, I'm not addicted to meth, nor do I drive a '95 Neon with one working headlight and the spare donut in permanent use.

Where was I? Oh yeah - the morning of the Big Race. Matt and I arrived in the Party Wagon to a bleak sky, and rain. I was optimistic, as my worn-out Fangos were still holding air. However, with the wet ground, my brakes honked louder than the red clown-nose that Criss Angel uses when sneaking into little boys' birthday parties dressed as a clown. Surveying the course, I could tell that it was going to be a painful ride. But then, when has anyone, other than Sven Nys, ever looked at any cyclocross course and thought to themselves "No problem?" Never, that's fucking when. In fact, due to the grease factor, while pre-scouting, I was noticing a number of racers switching to their "pit" bike, which happened to be mountain bikes. hmmm.

Lining up, we learned that the Juniors would be started 15 minutes into our race. Off the gun, I watched the rest of the field (Peat, Doug, Justin, Samuel Axel, Seav0r, Jacob and some other dude )take off like Criss Angel upon seeing Chris Hansen. It wasn't long before I realized I was running from Stoney. In fact, he was pretty much my only motivation. It had me wondering what it would be like to compete in the SS class up in Wisconsin or Oregon, where they have about 83,000 people sign up. Either way, I was mostly in no-man's land until the Juniors started, at which point I passed those juniors LIKE A BOSS. Peat and Joe Fox duked it out with Joe nabbing it from Peat at the last second. Seav0r was just off the podium in 4th and Samuel in 6th.

Of course, there was only one thing left to do, once crossing the line:

Reprising my role as 2nd chair trumpet in high school concert band, I put my DSL's to good use by blowing that horn right in the ears and faces of those who were unlucky enough to have their race scheduled after mine. But that doesn't compare to the devastating heckles unleashed by none other than the Euro-techno-pop master from the night before, Dan Fuhrmann. One after another, we watched as racer after racer passed by with tears flowing from their eyes, thus making the mud pit deeper and more slimy. And with dudes showing skin like this without a tramp stamp ready, what would they expect:

No one was safe - pie plates on carbon bikes, mis-matched wheels, sunglasses that matched the shoes... the tears were surely flowing - flowing like the 'shine that seems to show up at every Jeff City event I go to:

Smoove.

Speaking of tears, I was in tears the moment I turned around and saw Bob Jenkins for the first time that day - hand already down his pants, with the "fake finger-wiener," trying to get the riders to look at it. This was a cheer that we later employed to great effect as a group in a far back corner of the course - far away from any impressionable children. The Tall Grass Halcyon was delicious and plentiful, and the hand-ups were certainly available to those who wanted.


Another competition arose within the race, to beat the little kid with dalmatian galoshes up the stair run-up:

All who tried failed.

Congratulations to Professor, who, in glorious wheelie-fashion, convincingly won the State Jersey! Proving, once again, that he is fast as fuck. Travis Donn, though no wear near Professor, was well ahead of everyone else for 2nd, proving that he is also supremely fast. However he was only one of 3 or 4 dudes from the KC side to bother showing up. The real excitement came in the fight for 3rd place between pavement-slayer Devin and Brett Heuring, where they were never more than 5 seconds apart, culminating in a sprint for the line. Unfortunately for Brett, Devin will most likely win in that situation each time, despite Brett showing some of his best form ever, while Devin was showing the worst brake-shudder EVER. Dr. Roland "Scooter" Sallinger rode in a most "engorged" manner to a painful 7th place finish, looking pro as fuck the whole time.

You probably wish I had more photos, I know. I wish I had more motivation to train for races like this. We can't always get what we want. What we CAN get, however, is another super hard-core recumbent video:

You're welcome.

-Casey Fryback

p.s. dont forget about cxmas.

Fifth Anal, I mean Annual, Seagal CXMas

http://teamseagal-cxmas.blogspot.com/

Holy shit!

St. Vincent

Greetings und salutations. The last time I, The Crotch, had the chance to participate in a CX race at St. Vincent, it was one of those inspiring moments where the course was unlike anything anyone had seen in our microcosm of amateur bike racing. It offered features and an environment that had everyone super excited and re-invigorated to race, especially those of us who come from a mountain bike background who hate gravel-crit style courses. Not to mention the t'aint-destroying mud bog that offered a like-minded, fun-filled group of us to lay down the heckles.

This time however, was different. It was very much in line with how this whole season has been - uninspiring. Despite a very technical course that used more features of the park than last time, I was about as excited as Criss Angel at Ram's Cheerleader Tryouts. (I don't blame him though - NFL cheerleaders are about as useless as an grammar testing at an ICP Gathering of the Juggalos.) That being said, it isn't like I crushed the course - in fact, I got my wrists snapped handily. My purpose in this race was to provide another oversized-rung on the bloated ladder of sadness for the C racers as they climbed their way past me, despite having started like a minute behind.

This sign was not needed, as there was no one cheering.

As I cried my way along the course, the only two guys behind me flatted on the first lap, which immediately had me riding by myself - this focused all the attention from the handful of people at the start/finish on me as I tripped and fell over the barriers.  All of my tears flowing down my skin made the sand from the volleyball pit stick to me, and make its way deep into my cavernous va-guy-na, effectively creating pristine beach-front property - a veritable tropical island paradise in between my legs. Fortunately, the fun ended for me when I flatted my worn-out tubie on the last lap, leaving me to unbuckle my helmet strap and finish my laps on foot. Don't worry though, I re-buckled it as I passed the start-finish so Buddy wouldn't DQ me for not wearing a helmet. (That's actually not a joke.) To sum up my race, it was like a hit of jenkem before the fermentation has started - just tasting like plain shit without any euphoria.

After cleaning up and eating a PBJ, I went back down and blew the horn in the face of a few people alongside Justin White, eliciting varied responses from people:

You're welcome, Torrez!

We then headed to the woods to watch the man-train chugalug its way up the staircase:

It wasn't long before this train became unhitched from the Professor/Butthead engine, which quickly separated themselved from sight of everyone else. Justin and I were fortunate to be at the top of those stairs as Professor really was trying to drive home the point of his lecture, and just put several seconds of hurt on Butthead and climbed to the top like a Sprint missle. This move stuck, and he went on to take home another convincing win. Notable was that Brett Heuring came in 3rd, just a few seconds behind Butthea. Nice work.

By the end of the race so many people had left that I thought it was bedtime - but since I forgot my new pillow, I couldn't get any sleep:

How could I not buy a pillow from this guy?

Since I couldn't sleep, I helped break down. In the process, I dropped one of my leather work gloves without knowing it. For about an hour, my only hope that it would be found was that Nico, who manages to zero in on every single glove left on the side of the road, would find it and bring it to me. However, I beat him to it by finding it by chance before leaving. That was close - a single glove is as pointless as a D.A.R.E Officer at a Gathering of the Juggalos.

I'm not sure what it is, but the local races this year seem to be populated by a different crowd than there was 2 years ago. For example, most of the people in the photos from our previous account from St. Vincent no longer come out. Perhaps this is because, as Mr. Farinella pointed out to me, CX is, according to Alive Magazine, "... the latest two-wheeled fitness trend to hit St. Louis." Kind of funny that it is a trend, yet there seems to be fewer people - despite very organized races and course lay-outs that have been as good, if not better, than ever.

There is hope. Next weekend, the State race in Jeff City, brought to us by our Brothers in Booze - Team Red Wheel, should provide ample opportunity to get a little crazy. JUST REMEMBER NOT TO OFFEND ANYONE - PURELY ENCOURAGING HECKLES ONLY. I mean, cross should be a strictly positive experience.

Heckling and Cross go together like off-road recumbents and speed metal:




-Casey Fryback



One good turn deserves another - watch this stupid fucker eat shit: