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Council Bluff 2012 - Dorbs Busts His Cherry

Hello loyalistas, connoisseurs and rabid fans of the Team Seagal movement. With your esteemed author and blog Svengali, Crotch, away in the land of coconuts, grass skirts and Maui waui  enjoying the first sips of marital bliss, the task of capturing and relaying to one and all, the vivid ugly truths of this year’s Burnin’ at the Bluff has been passed on to a relative neophyte in the Seagal movement – Mr. C-Dubbs.  I will do my best to convey all that happened and leave it to you, the readers, to determine just where that blurry line of reality ended.

Following standard operating procedures, the wheels at Team Seagal HQ were put into motion long before the race with the plan to deploy an army of warriors who had been starved of meat and women for the better part of a month to ensure maximum carnage on the field. Among those signed up for the operation were defending SS team Nicwad, Leg Titty & Nadly with Sasha she-manning up once again for the full 12 hours of self inflicted pain, the Lawman shamuing once around the clock in the Clydesdale class, while Punchor of Cocks, Scooter and Gino Fellino smartly opted for the opportunity to ride all day and party all night in the 6 hour class. Winging in from the Eastern front I was in a bit of a scramble as Taggort and Schlomo Axel bailed and elected to race in the Sand in My Mangina Classic leaving me hanging like a big booger. Rather then wipe I did the only thing that made any sense (to me that is) and immediately signed up for 12 hours of self-abuse. It sure made a lot of sense – no riding for the past 6 weeks and little in the way of single track riding – maximum suffering. Thank Energor my moment of stupidity was saved by Mrs Titty and Stove who were going through a similar crisis as Josh “Mr Waffles” couldn’t decide if he should shit or get off the pot. A few calls of encouragement from Arm Baby and Toscani and the deal was sealed, Messy Marla and the Missouri Mountain Men would be racing for the rock star award.

Thursday - Arriving in St. Louis I was warmly greeted by Senor Arm Baby who immediately set about having me translate my supply requirements before setting out to the largest Target I have ever seen where after wandering around in a daze we procured these politically correct taint wipes.

From there it was off to visit one of our esteemed sponsors, The Hub, for the usual supplies the airlines won’t let you carry on and of course one of those lovable little packages of Degree pit stick. Rolling in the Arm ‘Stro, stops were made at Casa de Titty to procure the necessary supplies to keep us going for the weekend, pickup the ex-Toscani/C-Dubbs St Louis based Kona Big Unit then heading to Nico’s digs for consultation on the impending weather and route to our destination – Mark Twain National Forest. Excited at the prospect of traversing the most dangerous highway in Missouri and witnessing the onslaught of Bathtub Mary’s that line the road providing safe passage I hid my disappointment at the safer Highway 55 passage but was rewarded with the sight of that beautiful blonde pedaling cars for Sparks. If it hadn’t been for Jayson’s focus on getting to Council Bluff I might very well have had a new used car to go with my new used Big Unit.

Finally rolling into Council Bluff young Edward greeted us with the hammock city having been established (unlike previous years, Campground C had been hijacked and we were stuck in the leper colony know as Campground D). Making the best of it the all important bike stand was centrally located and quickly put into action by our top mechanic while C-Dubbs and Nico went in search of wood in to fuel the eternal flame of Camp Seagal and serve up the infamous braquito.

 A quick visit to drop off my own brats at Mt Kohler and it was off for the assault on Council Bluff summit, thankfully Nico had made sure I was properly set up with the right hydration system to get me there.

Arriving in the dark Eddie showed his potential to become the next Ansel Adams with this beautiful shot of the summit view and an equally compelling portrait of C-Dubbs and Mr Titty. Soon after arriving back at base there was a scramble for shelter as thunderstorms swept the campground.

Having survived the night the house of Mt Kohler was pushed to it’s limit Friday morning after a round of braquitos before we headed out to mark the course. The fall offered up some spectacular views, and an excellent social log at the top of the second climb as well as an offering from Energor in honor of Coach.

 Having been so overwhelmed with view from last night we made the trip up the elevator to the bluff where Nico served up Coach summit style.

 A four hour social course marking/ride later we rolled into Camp to find most of the troops, PBR Dave and most importantly Mrs Titty. Unfortunately for Stove, arriving late has it’s drawbacks as Mrs T and I agreed he would get the first lap on race day. As should be expected when the sun went down the IPAs went down as well and the bonfire roared.

Race day weather was akin to the turd in the punchbowl, rather then sunny and 70 it was cool and cloudy, staying warm in camp while Stove, Jayson and the crew were out working up a sweat on the trails was going to be hard work.

 With smoke grenades and Sex Pistols screaming the battle was under way. Immediately I rolled up my sleeves, set about translating the day’s strategy, eating, generally fucking off and having a good time with Mrs T. Leg Titty rolled into camp with the Jerks holding onto a 20 second lead, Gino was manhandling the 6 hour race with Punchor, Scooter and the rest of the crew snapping a few wrists. Nico’s departure into battle meant Stove’s arrival at the camp and yet another jerk to party with until my first lap. Nico was in with close to a minute lead, Punchor was out after hitting the deck, registering a 7.2 on the Richter scale Lawman was crushing laps fueled goji berry brownies and Sasha was deep in the pain cave and not really liking life. Well, as the hands on the clock closed in on 9:00 Nadly, Nicwad and Arm Baby had snapped the wrists of all competition winning with almost a 5 minute lead. Gino was firmly ensconced in the PBR throne of champions with a 6 hour victory and Lawman bagged 2^nd in the Clydesdale division.

Such domination of the podium had the troops in full party mode with Scooter using moves only seen in the dojo as he danced up a storm. Perhaps it should have been referred to as a tornado and apparently the owner of the amazing boots was unimpressed with his dancing skills taking our beloved Scooter to the grass in a full naked choke hold.

The podium showers of PBR were soon replaced by the mother of a storms driving the troops back to base. Somehow Scooter managed to make it into the hammock only to find a swimming pool, showing superior attitude and super state of mind it was right to the Subaru Inn for a solid night of rest before the Sunday Cx race.

As for your author, well it was one tremendous weekend and I want to say thanks to the team for showing me yet another great time. See you at Cxmas (one more time Gino)!

Sunday, Dirty Sunday

Greetings, Team Seagal Hombres. We are currently ensconced in near-perfect weather, which only makes the riding and racing that much bett0r. A titty bit nipply early in the morning, which slowly transitions into perfectly mild temps by mid-morning. The leaves are starting to crisp over, and the balloons on my late-season jenkem harvest are almost at full-expansion. I love this time of year.

Of course, this is also the time of year where the Tall Oak Challenge rears its drunken head. Having not missed one of these since we first started attending a few decades ago, I was sure mark this as "Top-Steven Priority." I mean, how can you not want to take part? It's not that far of a drive from the STL, and the race loop is just like one of my least favorite hook-ups in college: "Tons Of Fun." (Funny thing was, she wasn't *technically* a ton, and she wasn't much fun either.)

Over the course of 6 hours, you can get in some big mileage, without having to be hours and hours away from the start point. Then drink afterwards. Everyone has a genuinely good time, except for that dude who snapped his derailleur hanger before even entering the singletrack at the start. Poor bastard.

The wheels were set in motion at Team Seagal HQ, and the plan was to deploy 5 members of our elite strike force. Punch0r, FrozenPizzaPie, KneeCorn, Sandwich, and myself, CFR. Unfortunately, due to one of the very few forces beyond our control, Punch0r was called on to a different mission of an even higher priority, thus getting served by the best. Needless to say, he was no longer going to be part of our Jefferson City Landing Party. Myself and ItsNotDelivery would be in the 6-hour Mario Van Peebles Class, while Kneecorn and Titty would be in the 6-hour Danny Devito/Arnold Schwarzenegger (Twins) class (The Duo class.) Our man Scooter was also riding dirt bikes this sunday, but his bike was equipped with drop bars, and he was riding in the Alton Superprestige CX Race at La Vista Park. 11th out of 18 in the Super Badass Class. Nice fucking work. May your post-race turds flow like lava out of Krakatoa.

I rendezvoused with the other three at an undisclosed location, where we set sail. On the way over, we passed a tanker carrying what must be a load of "Unobtainium" from Oakley:

We took a southerly route to our destination, and arrived on target just in time to not have to play catch-up with the rolling start. All business prior to the start, we had no time to schmooze. Didn't need any arm warmers or emBROcation, as it was perfectly mild. Tons of dudes lined up, and I got to see Peat for the last time for the next 6 hours. There were tons of people, which was awesome, and Larry Pirtle sent us out. 

Usually I end up jam-jobbed for most of the first lap at this race, but this time I put myself in a good spot in the open field which had me into the woods ahead of the bulk of riders, and both Titty and Grorg were just within sight of me. I also managed to keep my effort reigned in so that I didn't bury myself into a hole too early. Didn't even have to drink much.

Quick Product Review Section:
What was a little sketchy was riding on two brand new tires, not knowing how they handled yet - Continental X-King 2.2" with the "Protection" Sidewalls, which I had never gotten a chance to ride prior to mounting them tubeless 3 days earlier. The mounted up easily to my (dinged-up) Velocity Blunt SLs, and I started the race at around 28-30 psi (according the the pump that I borrowed from some dude who didn't even know it.)  The tires un-mounted are very stiff, and un-flexible. They easily keep a round shape in your hand without folding over. I may have had the pressure a little high, but I'm also like 215 lbs, so I err on the high side. I was expecting a softer ride, and was wondering if my fork was even working. Maybe it was the fact that I haven't really had much time on the MTB at all in the last couple of months, but the bike was feeling a little nervous-handling. I wasn't pushing into the corners as hard as I would like to. I eventually learned how to ride them properly after a few laps. They did roll fast, but then by the 2nd lap I had to stop briefly and burn a big air co2 cartridge to replace the air that I had been burping out in the rear tire. I had to stop one more time to top off my tires 2 laps later due to burpage. I'm ok with that, as long as they don't get sliced to death, which they didn't.

Anyway, laps rolled by, eating gross Clif-Shots that I got for free, and downing water, Hater-ade, cute little mini CocaCola cans, chocolate milk, and Bolthouse smoothies. I haven't done any endurance mtb races this year, so I didn't really have much of a plan for this event other than eat and drink sugary/caffeinated bullshit each lap. My teammates were using this race to get a little more dialed for the upcoming Burnin' effort, whereas I was just riding since I sadly can not make Burnin' this year.

Whatever their plans were, they worked beautifully, because by the end of the day, Gino had placed fucking 3rd in the Mario Van Peebles class behind two seriously fast dudes - one dude on a Felt, and another dude who is the newest cutie-bumpkin on DRJ. Nico and Titty got 4th place behind the Ethos twins, Ploch and Albert, and two other broski's. I don't know where I placed, but it was somewhere in between the two Peats - one place ahead of Peat Goode, but behind 4th place Peat Henry.

I managed 9 laps, while Gregward and the Twins got 10 laps. That's a lot of fucking mileage. More impressive, was Nico's mustache winning the prize for best mustache. It was especially meaningful with previous facial hair champions Josh Carroll and Peat Henry in observance.

The post-race much enjoyable with lots of beers being drank, lots of meat being consumed, and much discussion had. Our van had one more destination in it's sights: Shakespeare's Pizza for the best fucking pizza, the JOBS:

Holy shit, that was good fucking pizza, accompanied by 22oz Ranger IPAs and 22oz Bell Two Hearted Ales. And a homeless guy in the shitter.

We decided that for Burnin', we decided that Taggort, Punch0r and C-Dubs should be on a team entitled "Crotchety Old Fucks." With an emphasis on the crotch.



On a side note, this blorg has seen much activity, and I feel that we are fortunate to have been able to keep at it this long. But alas, this post marks the end of an era - the bachelor Crotch. In a few weeks, after returning from honeymoon, I expect to not be able to write worthwhile posts any longer, the life having been sucked from my married ass. Hopefully I shall overcome.

-Casey F. Ryback


P.S. After a 6.5 hour thrashing, my hands are more tired than that time I downloaded those topless photos of Bea Arthur.

Sunday Centuriousness

Greetings, Team Seagal Holdouts! Oh boy, is there a lot of crap going on. Between CX starting, Tall Oak Challenge next weekend, Burnin' a few weeks after that which also coincides with C-Dubs triumphant return to his spiritual homeland. And let us not forget the ongoing challenge to continuously get fucked.

And for how much has been going on lately, we would like to extend a laurel, and hardy apology for our lengthy hiatus of porsting on this blorg. But today, mainly on special request to Punch0r, I'm going to chronicle Sunday's goings-on.

Nearly all of us (Except Mr. Roland Sallinger, good man that he is) had to miss Hermann CX, however some of us (myself included) had to go and drink a lot on Saturday night on account of my looming nuptials. So waking up in time to make it to Hermann in time for some racing on Sunday was a tall order.

That left open the option for a long ride, leaving mid-day from South City. Holy shit. I met with FrozenPizza at the Store that Sells Only Jerkwards' house in Dogtown. Our plan: to leave, and  then return, having reached triple digit miles. And since we left around 1:30-2, we made sure to bring lights. This was sure to get our juices flowing even faster for an all-out assault on the Burnin' competition. (FYI: Just because Snurb broke nearly every bone in his body like 1-2 months ago, his mustache has reached its fighting weight - which means only one thing. The top of the Burnin' SS podium will be defended.)

Back to our heroes.

We set off up Midland, quickly achieving escape velocity. As we dropped down Marine Road into Creve Coeur Lake Park, we heard the sound of a whip cracking. I immediately thought of the salesman who sold Homer the snow plow using a whipping sound. But then I looked to the right, and there was whip-cracking contest happening right before our eyes. We all were staring in confusion trying to figure it out, but as we merged onto the bike path, we quickly were snapped back into reality - when riding the Creve Coeur Lake path, you need to be on full alert - it is the land of shirtless rollerblading badasses, wind-bladers, and triathlete wannabes. Fortunately for us, PizzaTown has recently installed a bento box on his bike, so we were pretty confident that we would be accepted by the locals, and they would grant us safe passage to the other side of the Page Bridge.

We did manage to pass over into the St. Charles County safely, but not before seeing the smoothest and most rhythmic roller blader we've ever seen. (Shirtless, of course.) We also were passed by a true human centipede of a triathlete paceline. These dudes were all in their aerobars/restbars, and they were definitely pacelining. I was hoping to witness one of these:

Anyway, we dropped onto the Katy, and this time went north, with our sights set on the end of the line in Machens. Passing the Family Arena, we got to witness another cool contest - autocross in their sprawling parking lot! Very cool stuff. I'd never ridden north on the Katy past downtown St. Charles. I quickly found out that it ends up being relatively twisty and with much more up-and-down, compared to the rest of the trail - definitely a plus. Our man-train plodded along, always keeping the pace strong, and before it, we hit the end, which was pretty underwhelming:

We were on a route that had previously been traversed by our own Toscani and Boyd, on a recent vampire century on the night of Hurricane Isaac, so we knew we were in good hands. This route, after leaving the Katy, went through miles and miles of nice, quiet farm roads, as we pointed our handlebars at the Hwy 67 bridge into Alton. Not long before reaching that bridge, we saw yet another fun community activity - an honest-to-Energor tractor pull. Using normal, everyday tractors. I didn't take any photos, because I got the feeling that the fat dudes in overalls already didn't like the less-fat dudes in spandex stopping to watch.

So we kept moving, and were treated with a nice view of Alton (if there is one):

We stopped at the last gas station for provisions, and then headed across the bridge in the bike lane which, for a cyclist, was only slightly better than no lane at all. Whatever. We were back up on the levee and riding back south in no time:

 Good to be on a fat-tire pavement bike for all the gravel we encountered. No big deal, we crushed it, handily. Riding along the Chouteau Canal, we had one of the only glimpses of the sun the entire day - and it was a nice one too, as it set:

We were brapping the shit out of this trail, and at the last possible moment of gravel, Jerkward's had to get a flat. which was good for me, because I was in the process of getting my wrist snapped, having slowed down to take that sunset photo, and then being unable to catch back up on account of my corpulence.

As we returned to pavement from the gravel levee trail, I was able to hear the faint sound of three t'aints rejoicing in unison. However, that would be short lived, as we passed through the outskirts of East St. Louis on the way towards the McKinley Bridge. Passing underneath the arch, avoiding the horse piss and shit all over the ground, we turned briefly up Chouteau, and made a quick stop at this nearly forgotten church, which has the most ominous statue out front:

Whoah. Dude.

It'sNotDelivery and Toscani made it evident around this time that their legs were made of pure Quantanium, as I was unable to answer their impressive accelerations over the bridge, down the River Trail, and then all the way down Broadway. 90+ miles in with our lights on, I was just watching their blinky tail lights from a distance. To better paint a picture, while I was passing the entrance to Bellerieve Park, those two jerks were already passing (and thankfully not turning into) the entrance to Sister Mary (You're Alright) Charles Park.

We thankfully regrouped and rode up River Des Peres Road, and made a stop at Walgreens for actual frozen pizza, right before getting back to Casa Croach, where we drank the rest of the Hamm's that I had previously bought at Quicktrip:

That's fucking cheap.

We relaxed well, having ticked over 100, and enjoyed the recent rain that our region has received, which allowed us the luxury of riding dozens of miles on the Katy Trail and other gravel, with hardly ANY dust at all. Oh man. September's century: done.

Now on a side note, as this cyclocross season gets underway, you might end up having to suffer someone as they complain about how hard (or easy) the day's CX course is, or how it doesn't suit their style. I would like to offer some advice - that you simply tell them to:

that's good advice.

Don't forget to come to The Gateway Cross Cup. Since there is a decent chance that you don't know anything about it this year, it is at Heman Park again, and it is on Wednesday, September 26th. Don't fuck this one up.


-Casey F. Ryback

Team Seagal Sighting In Leadville

Hello Jerks and followers of us Jerks.  Sasha Pestrovich here. Just wanted to let you know that our fellow teammate Scooter is in Colorado right this very minute, shredding some of the sweetest singletrack trails known to man. Yea, lucky bastard.  On that note, he is racin' this Saturday, in one of the toughest mountain bike races around.  It's not the DK200, but I guess it will pass.  Team Seagal member, Scooter, had decided to man up and ride the Leadville 100.  His plan of attack is easy.  I am not at liberty to tell you anything, so I won't.  Superior Attitude and Superior State of mind always prevails.  KRUSHIT!

**  Hollaatyourboy!

Jerk Crit #5

Greetings, loyal Team Seagal Dust Clouds! Yesterday was the penultimate Jerk Crit, and one which shall go down in infamy. Struckman and The Claw had mercy on all us dirty critters, and saw fit to host final, 6th edition to this glorious series next week, and it will no doubt put the "tits" into "dirt crits." We at TS HQ are as anxious for next thursday as Criss Angel is when he's putting the movie "The Lord of the Flies" into his VCR.

Though I can't speak for everyone on our team, even though I usually do, I'll say that we all were hoping for the forecasted chances for rain to come to fruition. Normally, the rain dance that we do at Team Seagal HQ is a rain-PREVENTING dance, and one that is particularly drenched in yak splooge. However, today was a rarity where we were engaged in a rain-CONJURING dance. This dance, being a perverted version of the normal dance, employs a healthy dose of yak dingleberries. And given how hairy yaks are, dingleberries are plentiful:

The A Race was fast and furious, Tokyo style. And as usual, it was a dust bowl of 1930's proportions, with the racers filing through the final stretch with a fine coating of dirt all over 'em. Unfortunately,  our own Sam started strong and was battling it out in the rank and file of the group, however due to his resistance at committing to a singlespeed, his chain got jam-jobbed up in his single-chainring chain keeper business, requiring him to bust out a fat log and start beating it like a rented mule. A lesser person may have called it quits, however due to his infusion of goji berries and cordyceps, his superior attitude and superior state of mind were in full swing, and he finished the race:

Good thing It's Not Delivery, because if the real pizza delivery guy showed up to my house with a scowl like that, the tip would be less than generous.

My experience in the B's went a lot better. After getting a piss-poor start behind an ocean of Momentum Cycles jerseis, I was jam-jobbed like crazy going through the singletrack, but slowly worked my way through traffic, eventually finding myself behind Emily "Kitten Bottoms" Korsch. Let me tell you, I was witnessing a fury like none other - I wasn't sure I could make a pass stick, so I sat in for about a lap or two. I'm at a pretty high level of intensity (for a bloated carcass of a human that I am) the first time I heard her call out "Faster! Faster!" to the dude on a CX bike two cars up in the man-train, it was like a mosh pit in my head - I let go of my handlebars, threw up the double horns, and started some intense, neck-breaking headbanging. Holy shit.

Lawman, seen here on a mystery bike, had found earlier that day that he broke his CX bike, most likely a result of getting a little too heinous during the Vampire Century:

 

Racing while high on the jenkem is not too different from this photo:

But eventually, I had to do some more passing, so I poured a little saucer of milk for KB to lap up, and finished that race with a near sprint-finish with Jeff Murray (for like 20th or 25th place.) Lawman finished the race by sticking his finger further down his throat than anyone has ever stuck anything before, and threw up his burrito from earlier that day. Rumor has it that that "burrito" was mostly "sour cream."

In reflecting what could have been done differently during this race to bring out the most prestigious B-Race Win, I decided that I might just be able to squeeze a little more road-bike-esque speed out of my mountain bike, if I add these little gems onto it:

I own these.

I won't be able to loose.

Those drop-bar ends, on second glance, seem to be modeled after Sam Axel's special banana case:

In other news, I want to remind you how awesome Vampire Century was. How awesome? It was so awesome that this was happening at approximately 9am on a Sunday morning:

But Croach, that isn't setting a good example for our children! And what about our children's children! Fuck it, it's not like anyone reads this fucking blorg anyway!


Stay awesome, and don't be a dick!
-Casey F. Ryback

2012 Vampire Century

Greetings, loyal Team Seagal minions! Boy, do we have an adventure to tell you all about. As part of Norkorn's Year of the Century, in which this year has him doing at least one century a month, there would inevitably by a very difficult century once the daytime temps get to where they are now. You can approach a hot July century in two ways - by hardening the fuck up and riding in the heat (which many of us have been doing every day) or you can out-smart-en the fuck up by avoiding the heat all together, and ride during the coolest part of the day - at night.

This is not the first time we have done this, eithor. Exhibit A. But it would be the most well-attended, despite being without our beloved DA9SPDR, Tropical Depression Masson, or even Robort to ride along, we did add many new recruits (myself included.) And even though Robort was not on the ride, we did discuss recent sightings of him on the Grant's Trail.

In attendance for this most-recent edition of the Vampire Century:
-Norcorn "Corn-Knee" Toscani
-Sam "Mostly Prefers Chamois Cream To Sandy Paste" Axel
-Peat "Icon Pedals/Blast From the Past" Henry
-Jack "First SS Century" Taggort
-Jonathan "Shredded Castlewood on 23c Gatorskins" Cold
-Cock "Nothing Worse Than Being Diabetic At Donut Drive-In" Punchor
-Mrs. "Badass Track Girl" Boyd
-Orin "Wept At The News of Donut House Closing" Boyd
-Gino "Bad Influence" Felino
-Casey "Has Yet to Remove The Dead Animal That Is Rotting In His Ass" Ryback

Meeting us mid-route would be our own Lawman and the recently-shorn Pry0r, being able to eschew homely duties for some late-night tomfoolery.

Our war-plan: to congeal at Casa Crotch's South City Headquarters at around 11pm, from which we would depart on a course that would take us directly to the Page Extension, where we would join forces with our 2 cohorts, and then continue on to greatness throughout the region. We would eventually return to Casa Crotch, where we would drink as heavily as possible and eat as many tubed meats as we could before passing out all together.

Norc-ward arrived, and we combined our supplies into the fridge, creating a beautiful sight:

Once our murder reached full strength, we set off down Macklind. Passing through the Park on the very convoluted path to Midland, we were basically obligated to do at least one dusty lap of the CX practice course, so we crushed that shit. Twice.

Back onto the bike path, we had nary a pathlete to contend with as our (wo)man-train Jerkward and Titty led us from the Park to Midland, on a few spots that required our badass CX skills:

Whew. Good thing we were on CX bikes.

Once on Midland, there isn't really anything to slow your roll, until you ascent to Adie, and descend to Maryland Heights and Westport:

Descending down Marine to CC Lake was pretty jawesome, especially since we were able to get some fluids at the shitter:

Even though it was after midnight, we were at Creve Coeur Lake after all. So we had to be on the look-out for rollerbladers, wind-bladers, tandem incumbents, and shirtless dudes on hybrids with aero-bars. All of which, due to their general lack of control and propensity to take up extra space and have flailing limbs could really be a problem in the dark. Fortunately, we made it safely to the Page Bridge, where we paused momentarily to soak in a new odor (having just met up with Lawman and Pry0r) and to reflect a peaceful scene on the river - one of the Casinos shining like the North Star:

Lawman informed us of beer that he had stashed away at a nearby location, which we proceeded to crush, as demonstrated by Peat:

After putting all that beer into our bodies, we continued towards our first major destination, Bangert Island. No photos were taken on that island, as we were to busy doing one of two things at any given time: shredding trail on super-hardpack dirt, or sinking into the deep sand pits that  have gotten exponentially worse this summer. I felt like Princess Buttercup falling into the lighting sand a few times. However, despite the truckloads of sand that were encountered, none of it was able to penetrate into our vaginas, as we pressed on, having 60+ miles to go. We were worried that we'd have to bust out the VDS-12, but we hopped back onto the Katy, our vaginas free of sand, back towards the Page.

We said our goodbyes to Lawman and Shorn-Pry0r, our murder back down to 10. It wasn't but another minute though, that we latched onto the back of a one-raccoon raccoon-train that was charging ahead on the Page Bridge, full-speed-ahead:

He wasn't having some jerk-ass wheel-suckers get a free ride, so he left us to do our own work:

We took the flats over to Hog Hollow, where we climbed and stopped at the one Phillips 66 station that IS open. I was starting to feel some twinges of sleep wanting to creep into my brain and eyes, so instead of just getting some Hater-ade, I took Peat's suggestion to boosh-boosh-boosh-down some Mountain Dew:

From here, we made our way out to Wildhorse Creek Road, and out into the town of Wildrock. I really started to reflect upon how it felt as if the roads had been closed off for us, since there were zero vehicles anywhere. None. We saw fewer cars on the roads than there are hot girls in Criss Angel's dreams. We did a Wildhose/Ossenfort hot lap, ascended Hardt, and took Wildhorse Creek Road back over to Hwy 100.

It was interesting how even though we did feel fatigue, as long as the pedaling continued, it was totally enjoyable, and just a great time riding on completely empty roads, in temperatures that we super pleasant. I remarked to Punch0r how even though my water has been in my water bottles for a long time, the water was still cool, and not like bath water.

Many truths came to us at this time as well - such as the notion that there is a fine line between peeing off your bike while riding like a Euro-Pro, and peeing on your bike like a triathlete. Best not to get too close to that line, because the moment you are going Euro-Pro style and a single yellow droplet hits your top tube, you have crossed over to the dark side and have become a triathlete.

My experiences riding on Hwy 100 for any stretch usually involve intensely exposed in the sunlight, wind, blazing heat, and crazy fast traffic. This night, it would be cool, quiet, and take us right to where we wanted to go, stress free - Melrose. Of course, blazing down Melrose we had a little debate as to whether or not to stop by Thrasher's house, and demand cake. But in light of the evidence provided by our watches - 4AM - convinced us that he might shoot us. I know that the time the smaller-than-it-is-now FBC stopped by our very own Masson's house at like 1:30 AM, he was none to pleased, and we all almost got shot.


That led us onto the Al Foster Trail, where we got our first flat tire at the Sherman Beach lot. Waiting for that to be changed, we learned something about Tony Truelove:

Was this Tony's condom wrapper?

Nico with his custom Hammer Gel flask:

Continuing down the River Scene Trail, I descended down the cable-drop and stopped to snap a shot of someone else shredding. Peat delivered:

It was down near the river that we started seeing the first real sunlight. It had us in high spirits, so some of us decided to crush out a Dirt Crit lap, while the rest of us got water. Leaving Castlerock, we did some debating. No one really wanted to climb Ries Road, which meant that the only other option would be to climb Love, and get on to Big Bend, and then onto the Grant's Trail.

No doubt a top-level jenkem balloon.

There is no greater method to superficially inflate your ego than to pass the shit out of pathletes on an over-crowded bike trail in the county. Grant's Trail Pathletes: crushed.

Exiting the southern end of the trail, the only thing on our mind was Donut House on Union. We were fiending for some donuts, our group being a group of donut connoisseurs, and donut fiending gets worse when you've already ridden 95 miles. Approaching the Donut House, we all literally felt like Clark Griswold approaching the entrance to Wally World, having journeyed so far, and endured so many hard ships:


However, we could not have felt MORE like Clark Griswold when we reached the front door to find this sign:

Not being upset at the proprietors of the Dounut House, but more just at the sad state of business, we cried all the way to Donut Drive-In:

From there, we just had a few blocks to get back to Mi Casa, where beers courtesy of PBR Dave, chicken sausages, and a bottle of Jalapeno BBQ sauce that fitted perfectly on my patio awaited:

Those beers had to get drank, and we had to have some fun:

Let's take a closer look at that last photo:

That's a chip about to land on Corn-Knee's shoulder, having been tossed by Pizza City.

100 miles without sleep, plus lots of free and delicious PBR, means that staying awake is a great challenge. The second attempt to wake me up finally stuck, and I found my bike a top my parabola/pergola:

What a great time. Everyone managed to stick together and finish as a group. Good times, unique riding, and tons of fun.

The following people need to go to hell, because I said so: T-Tocs, Dr. Sallinger, B0rsken, Strove Frodeman, Masson, and you too, if you are reading this.

Friends don't let friends pee on their bikes,
-Casey F. Ryback