A Syllamo To Remember

Greetings and Salutations, Team Seagal JERKfosi. It is I, the PunchOr of Cock, with a post-Syllamo tale to tell. Our story begins several months back, when I decided to sign up for the SS category...a first for me for this event. Turned out to be a very wise decision. After accepting the advice of several teammates, I wisely swapped my normally very adequate 34t chainring with a moAr Arkansas friendly 32t. Smooth move, ExLax. Now running 32X20, I felt at least somewhat prepared for what Satan's little section of the Bible Belt could dish out.

Fresh brake pads, fresh Stans and fresh gearing had my attitude in a very Superior state. After much work related bullshit was put behind me, I met up with our newest Soldier, Czech "Pohodar" (that means BADASS), Adam Rybar, and our chauffeur, Loreen. We met at Loreen's office in South County, which meant my radio was tuned to KSHE for some fuckin' Skynard, the T-tops were off and the hi-tops were on. The sun was shining and much excitement was in the air. Upon making the gear & bike exchange to Lo's Suby, we paid a quick visit to the latrines and hit the road for the five-plus hour journey Southwestward.

Our first stop was a visit to Route 66 Bicycles in RollOrz, where we, along with the PROprietOr, Dan FuhrmOrnn, discussed the lack of trail maintenance and likelihood of horrid conditions (100% chance of shit) we were to encounter. We then stepped outside to admire FuhrmOrnn's rock garden.

Those rocks are as prevalent as frightened children at Criss Angel's pool party.

Departing RollOrz, we motored on Southward on highway 63, which is like the Great Silk Road for meth trafficking. By the time we made it as far as West Plains, a pit stop was in order to fuel up with Casey's General Store pizza and to beef up our Juggalo count.

The "woman" driving this rig had as much metal in her face as this little trollop. So we topped off with gas and hit the roAd once moAr.

We arrived in "downtown" Mountain View to pick up our lightly swagged out registration packs, complete with t-shirts made from the excess inventory of highway worker uniforms. These things are brighter than the asses of little boys in Criss Angel's dreams. Two Hammer gels, a bunch of literature and one ugly ass shirt. If that’s not worth the price of admission, I don’t know what is!

On to our home for teh night, Sarah's Cabin. A lovely little cottage and a bunch of JERKS to share it with. The residents for the next couple days were: PunchOr, Rybar, Lo, The Reverend Storve FriOrdmOrn, Dave H, Rob L and ChristOrine FOrd, all the way from Iowa CitAy.

Upon arrival at the cabin and taking the bike down from the roof, my rear brake hose decided to simply fall out of the lever. I believe this is what one refers to as "Avid breaks." My once Superior Attitude quickly became decidedly less so. However, having a bunch of very Superior cabin-mates, we quickly ASSembled a plan.....a trip to RURAL ARKANSAS MAL*WART!!! We secured DOT4 brake fluid and a syringe (for the latter, we probably could have found one in any of a number of vacant properties nearby).

Got back home and set about fixing it. Not really fixing, because I still have Avid brakes, but Dave got it to at least get me by pretty well. It required a lot of pumping....not unlike a typical evening at the Criss Angel Summer Camp for Wayward Boys....but it did the job.

Everyone enjoyed a bit of dinner and a couple beers before settling down for some non-sleeping. Race day we awoke to moAr rain, temperatures in the mid-40's, and a lot of people using one bathroom. We traveled over to race HQ, prepared our minds and out taints for battle, listened to the promoter describe the dangers and the 'untrimmed-ness' of the Red Loop, then lined up for the mass start. As we were standing there, the rain began to fall at a heavier rate, prompting the entire 300+ racers to scream "Let's fucking Go already!!!" And GO we did....straight up that 9/10 mile motherfucker prior to the fuck-fest that was the singletrack entry.

The Blue Loop was, for me and many others, virtually un-rideable. I honestly think I walked about four or five miles of the 50 during the race. Moab doesn't know dick about "slick rock." Get the fuck down to ArKansas after three days of rain and 2/3's of a big MTB field in front of you....then you will understand slick fucking rocks!

I felt very good after arriving at the first aids dispensary. I refilled bottles, ate a banana and a Pop-Tart, and continued on. Upon turning off of the Blue Loop and onto the Orange, I felt touched by the hand of Energor himself and enjoyed totally ridable trail for several miles. Reaching the 2nd of three checkpoints, my spirits were lifted, my Attitude became once again Superior, as did my State of Mind. Once past station number three, at about the six hour mark, things were actually humming along quite nicely for me. Met a couple doods from Mississippi and rode with them for many miles. Then, on the Red Loop, after all that rocky bullshit prior, I flatted....TWICE in about 7 miles. Fortunately, I had two tubes and was able to make it to the finish, completing my first Syllamo on SS. I have to say, I am still pretty sore, but pretty goddamned happy about doing this with so few miles under my belt thus far this season.

Following my "race," I can't tell you how much I appreciated Strove walking up and handing me a very illegal IPA at the finish:

I was fucking spent, but felt great at the same time.

Back at the cabin, the Reverend StrOve led us in Bible study:

Following prayer, many tubed meats were consumed, along with copious amounts of various beers from around the region. I was able to sit on the pOrch for a brief conversation with an Asian gentleman and then engage in moAr merriment until passing out at about 9:30pm. A fucking awesome day.

Up early Sunday morning, we loaded up and headed home, but not before stopping for the worlds slowest breakfast cook:

While there, I visited the top of Mt. Kohler, where, as the sign directed me, I left "Warm Apple Dumplings."

I hope the old dood following me in there did not OD on the Clif Shot fueled jenkem vapors I left behind.

And, it's worth noting that St. Louis' own Dr. Rich Pierce brought home this nice bit of garden decor:

Huge thanks to Dave H and Adam for the help with my brakes....I would have been unable to even start without the assistance. A great time with a bunch of really cool peoples. I hope everyone enjoys a nice mini-vanning today……….

NW Epic Series Race #1 Stottlemeyer 30/60 Race Report

Greetings Team Seagal Official Jerk Club Members,

Masson "PNW JERKLIFE" Storm here after too much time away from teh TS blorg. Well it's that time of year again here in the PNW when Jerks start to surf the brown pow and shred the gnarnia with every chance they are given. I have been riding my RAIJIN every Monday at the Port Gamble Tree Farm for the past 9/10 weeks in preparation for the past weekends race. So much trail out there it's unreal, a short ferry ride and 7mi road approach via your bike and you can ride for hours and hours.  This was my 3rd time racing this race since moving to WA and it has become an annual thing for me, and the invite for out of state participants is always wide open.

The NW Epic Series out here is top notch and offers a great ability to race a full endurance series with all the races being less than four hours from Seattle, and in the case of Stottlemeyer it's a 20 min ferry ride and 7mi drive from my doorstep. The proximity of these trails to where Katemeyer and myself have lived going on 3 years now has been so great. I look forward to sharing the sweet sweet single track that awaits any Jerk who signs up. With something for everybody, and moar trail than any Jerk could ever dream of Stotty is a great place to shred. With one exception, when its muddy, and I mean really fucking muddy. I'm talking whites of your eyes Dutch in Predator Muddy.

I was signed up for the 60mi as I had done the year before, but after almost a full weeks worth of rain in Port Gamble, WA. the week leading up to the event I knew how muddy it was going to be, so I changed to the 30mi and prepared to get served. Thankfully I had some sand lingering in my chamois as it would turn out to be the only dry part of this past Saturdays event.  The race starts with a 2.5mi false flat fireroad climb before you make it to the single track that starts the 15mi loop. I had decided that no matter what I was going to maintain a steady 10mph pace to start the day, I did just that and entered the shit show probably somewhere in the middle of about 200 racers. The 60 milers had been on course for the past 2 hours and the leaders caught me while finishing my first lap, it was they're 3rd.

The course was brutal, but even despite how muddy, slick, soul crushing it was you just had to smile. I suffered the entire time, mashed my gear 32x20(I could've used a few more gears) for nearly 5 hours before finally crossing the finish line. 14/16 in the SS cat and 228/270 overall might be my worst result in a while, but I was just so happy to have finished the event. It was easily the hardest race I have ever done, and quite honestly I don't know how anyone finished the 60mi let alone in under 6hrs.

After the race the participants were treat to ice cold Rainier Beer and BBQ. I crushed out 4 brewsers, a pulled pork sandwhich, and hit the road with Katemeyer and the dogs for our campsite at Lake Crescent.  We got a fire going, made some braquitos, read scrolls, and enjoyed all the beers my cooler could hold. Another Stotty in the books for the Storm's, and I'm already looking forward to next year!
Next up for Mr. WA is a self supported bike race/ride across the state of Oregon, the Oregon Outback. This continental divide style, but much smaller. 360ish miles that I will be taking on Mario Van Peebles Style aboard my  2013 Kona Unit SS 38x17. Post to follow. GTF'ED Y'all.

Storm

A Crotch visits the N.E.C.S. on his home turf and turns it briefly into "TC MANhattan"

Greetings, fellow Midwestern mountain biker jerks! I, the Doughy Rider himself - Coachward F. Crotch-back, come with a tale to tell. For I, along with the Saintly Mrs. Coach, have just returned from a diplomatic mission of peace to the great state of New York, where we got to visit, amongst many other things, our very own New East Coast Syndicate - C. Dubs. In the process, I have learned many great things about The Empire State, or to be moar specific, the Isle of Manhattan. Please bear with me, as since this was a strictly diplomatic mission, there was no two-wheeled warfare waged, at least not on a race course.

First though, it must be mentioned that it is with some sadness - a lack of euphoria, if you will - that I write this passage, having been unable to attend the Missouri Cycling Monument, Cedar Cross. I wish I could have been there to get lemonade from the road-side stand, I wish I could have been able to hear Mr. Jenkins himself advise his nephews to drop the water bottles full of beer if the cops show up so they don't get in trouble. I wish I had been there to destroy the Ham's Prarie restroom for everyone who followed behind me. But alas, there were even greater forces at work this past week, and I had little to no control over them - much like my bowels after a pot of my own special Crotch Blend of espresso roast coffee in the morning. (The best part of waking up indeed!)  That all being said, a couple of huffs from my handle travel-friendly e-balloon, and I was quickly transported back to the outskirts of Jeff City - reminiscing about many times past, specifically that of picking gravel from my crack two years ago.

We arrived, with a suitcase full of extra delicious Midwestern beers. Stepping outside the airport, I could smell the fresh NYC air, and thought to myself how it smells better than I was expecting, which should make for an even better contrast for the special brew of "Fly-Over State Jenk" that was I planning on releasing later in the week. This fresh air was even more surprising after emerging onto the sidewalk after a lengthy trip on the Subway.


Anyway, great care was taken to preserve the integrity of said beers, (carefully wrapped in my undies) for a proper delivery. Before the J.P.S. (Jerky Parcel Service) was able to complete its rounds however, we had to meet for some food and beers at a neutral location, to discuss the transfer of good-will for beers:

We saw numerous things in NYC, specifically a surprising lack of totally sweet urban-fixie-brah-messenger-lane-splitter types.(Maybe it was different in the outer borroughs.) What we DID in fact see, were hundreds upon hundreds of Mexican or Chinese food delivery dudes on old, beat-to-shit mountain bikes with 2-ring road cranks installed cruising around everywhere with big Wald baskets on the front. So if you want you're looking for sweet NYC courier work, contact any of the hundreds of Chinese or pizza joints and they'll hook you up. Just beware, they work in ALL weather - I felt as though their numbers on the streets increased once the rain came down. Of course though, everyone knows that rain is not good on deep-section painted wheelsets, so many fixie-brahs may have retreated once the weather turned sour.

A strange occurrence that happened moar than once, would be when my gay-dar would go off, and upon a second glance, would realize that they are just European once they started speaking French or German or whatever. Please bear this in mind.

When in NYC, there are many things to do and see, so here is a short list of things I can check off the list for next time. For example, having visited the strip clubs, I found to be very strange, and unsatisfying, for a Missourian such as myself. These hardcore bitches were terrible at working that pole, not to mention the open windows during the day killed the atmosphere, as seen here:

After going to the titty bars, I felt a little gross, so we took the Subway back to home base for a good shower. This fit in nicely, for it gave me the opportunity to partake in a little bit if Missouri tradition in the Empire State - a good ole' shower beer:

Of course, venturing to this city required the sampling of some tasty vittles. At one particular food purveyor, we found something that I simply can not believe has yet to arrive on the banks of the Mississippi just yet - fucking crispy bacon with maple syrup for dipping:

I did opt to avoid a drink known simply as the "Negroni," which sounded moar like something that would have been served to black slaves in the 1830's:

 

 Hell, St. Louis may be south when compared to New York, but it isn't THAT south. Sheeeeit.


All this boozin, eatin' and clubbin' had us needing to take a break, and stretch our legs, and what better place to do that than in world famous Central Park. We had good weather, so a nice stroll down the curved paths, around the Reservoir, past the bridge from Home Alone 2, and around numerous  closed-for-the-season meadows. We eventually happened upon a food cart, so we picked up a salty pretzel, some shish-kebab, and a hot dog to munch on while we watch the people pass by. And let me tell you, if you think Forest Park is busy with lots of weirdos, Central Park is on another plane of existence. Freds, as far as the eye could see. Rental bikes in a continuous procession. And it wasn't just bikes for rent, but there was also a place somewhere that you could rent fucking Elliptigo's. Take this choad-burger for example:

What you are seeing in this photo is a full grown man, on a rental Elliptigo, who stopped in front of us to attempt to snap a "selfie." Unable to reach his arm out far enough to allow his crap-filled phone to encompass the entire monstrosity that is an Elliptigo, he managed to get this passer-by to take the photo - though he had to turn his contraption around so he could try and get an "action" shot. 

In another commons area, we had another full grown man, taking the form of a fruit-booter (with all due respects to reformed 'booter, the Tropical Storm) who was fruit-booting around this little area, listening to a boombox, and dancing like a figure skater. What music was he listening to? Stairway to Heaven - a song during which he was doing circles while holding up the metal horns. Completely enthralled in his music, he would buzz nearly everyone who went past, usually while holding his boombox (not pictured here:)

 

It was a fascinating study in human narcissism, observing all this strange behavior - the desire to be noticed. In the same super-busy commons area, were three dudes in everyone's way doing free-style frisbee, no doubt for the attention.


All this is well and good, but I was giddy as Criss Angel with a schoolboy at the chance of meeting up a dude who is probably more robot than man now - our very own New East Coast Syndicate and the lovely Mrs. Dubs, deep within N.E.C.S. territory. Riding the elevator to his floor, my ears popped, and gave me pause to think about the velocity that his turds must reach upon flushing his toilet. What is the terminal velocity for turds in sewage pipes running straight down for 2 dozen floors? Does overall consistency enter the equation? And would a "floating" log have a higher or slower terminal velocity than a "sinker?" Truly, these are heavy questions that will continue to "float" or even "swirl" around in my mind.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Dubs treated Mrs. Crotch and I to a magnificently prepared meal, and continued to provide me with numerous beers that all ended up in my stomach - a few extras of which made the return trip home. A wonderful evening with solid company - you couldn't ask for moar.

It was so high up, we were above the crop-dust cloud I had left at ground level:

Needless to say, I was almost as excited to impart my own "flavor" upon Dubs' own Mt. Kohler, his "fortress of soli-poo'ed" if you will, after having heard many, MANY tales of it's resilience. Imagine my surprise to walk in, and find some restrictions already in place:

 He's one step ahead of me!

With pleasing night-time views like this, I see where he continues to get inspiration to continue the important research in the field of jenkem studies, of which he is currently a tenured research professor:

 

All good things must come to an end, such as our sojourn into the Megalopolis of NYC. However, I did not return to Team Seagal HQ empty handed, for my suitcase fit a surprising number of beers:

Now, as a public service, since Team Seagal puts great emphasis on continuing education, I thought that it would be a good opportunity to offer a few ways to pick out tourists from the crowds on your next visit to Manhattan. I feel adept identifying these traits, having just been there, and having exhibited many of these traits before learning the ways of the natives to blend in and adapt their culture:

• badly sunburnt face from open-air tour buses/boats, and standing in long lines outside
• SLR camera permanently around neck - usually in conjunction with large backpack or square shoulder bag
• Standing in the middle of a massively busy sidewalk taking a photo, oblivious to the throngs of people trying their best to not run them over
• Tourists tend have their heads up, looking/gazing around and pointing, while residents mainly just look down, trying to avoid eye contact
• They may or may not be wearing a complimentary/novelty poncho in the rain, seen here:

• Tourists will still be speaking quietly
• They'll be the ones happy to pay asking price for cheap bullshit in Chinatown
• Residents seem to generally be dressed for work, or for a workout. Tourists look like they are going to a family reunion all the time.

These are just a few of the observation I made, feel free to add your thoughts.



I hope that this has been enlightening for you - for as I said, Team Seagal tries to educate as much as it does snap wrists. In summation, I found the city of New York to be, despite it's problematic lack of public restrooms, a huge, beautiful, crazy, interesting, and above all, a wonderful place to visit. I can only hope that I was able to impart my own "flavor" to it during our short visit.

In the meantime, feel free to get totally minivanned.

-Casey F. Ryback

Tour of Hermann 2014

 Greetings, Team Seagal Fanboiz! After reading the hair-raising account from our Good Doctor, regaling us all as to how he and his fellow jerks assaulted the state of Arizona harder than his dog Taco assaults the kibble at the first twinge of the post-jenk munchies, I was inspired.

This weekend was certainly shaping up to be beautiful - a fact that I'm sure was appreciated by no one more than Jeff Yielding, the wily overlord of cycling in Hermann. Last year the weather was amazingly awesome with enough sun to almost cancel out the wind. This year was more of the same, sunny, and a little less windy. Energor surely has smiled on us.

What was the plan? The Tour of Hermann is more of a "fondo" than a race. It's a fondo on beautiful gravel roads around one of Missouri's most picturesque areas. Picturesque, and hilly. Very hilly. Let's put it this way - the roads go up and down more than Criss Angel's head during nap time in a kindergarten class. Anyway, after last year, I learned my lesson - that Hermann will go Commando on your legs:

 With that lesson in mind, I applied mountain bike science to a drop-bar bike in the form of an 11-34 cassette, then applied some PBR to my mouth, and proceeded to profit.

Saturday morning.

4:30 AM came early, but would ensure early arrival to properly prepare my mind, taint, and bowels for the upcoming onslaught. This is a another lesson learned by this weekend - being the first person to "christen" the porta-john is a double edged pork sword. On one hand, there is no line, you have all the fresh single-ply TP you could want, no pressure to finish in a timely fashion, and no splatter on the seat to wipe off. On the other hand, with no underwater turd-mountain built up yet, the chances of a chemical-water splashback are very real - I now know this first hand. Those kerplunks and the subsequent wetting of my cheek meat  from below had me remembering the movie "The Sandlot," and Ham's amazing cannonball that splashed water all over the sunbathing girls.

The other benefit of hitting the plastic shitting box early, is avoiding a line like this:

Saddling up, I was happy to see a healthy contingent of Jefferson City crushers, and was bestowed many a training secret from one Corey Case, specifically that of the Second Surge energy gel. That shit has enough caffeine in it to get even the Masson Storm himself wired. The sun was rising, much like my anticipation of the start, which couldn't start soon enough.

As we rolled out, forming into a fairly high-paced line down Hwy 19, I could only marvel at how freaking slow some people pedal - I call it the "pathlete's cadence." This is essentially when someone who doesn't know any better stays in the hardest gear, pretty much all the time, thinking it to be the best way to go fast and get a good workout. I see it all the time, dudes crushing out the Forest Park bike path at 10 mph with a pedaling cadence of about 15 rpm. It is the equivalent of maxing out when weight lifting, all the time.
 

Whatever, it was a beautiful morning, and I was enjoying the bobbing and weaving on the Katy Trail, as I weaved in and out of different groups, before turning onto the first climb of the day, an average paved climb that has you cresting and looking at a simply beautiful valley, one that belied the utter pain soon to come. Some rolling flats brought us to the first real gravel climb of the day, one that I think I'll call the "grosso cazzo bianco." It was just huge,  long, and unrelenting. And, to top it all off, the erosion "trails" going across and down the road kinda reminded me of engorged veins. By this point, Robo-Peat, despite our recent assassination attempt, had already passed me back on the Katy, and I was wondering just how someone could truly mount the grosso cazzo bianco on a singlespeed. Hell, whatever - it's all because the titanium hardware in his hip makes him lighter. Yeah, that's it.

Anyway, the first loop wasn't too crazy, as the roads were very well groomed, and the climbs were just a handful, though they were harder than Criss Angel at tee-ball practice. During a short re-route on pavement, I was happy to see the steam from the Callaway Nuclear Power Plant rising straight up, not being bothered by the wind:

It was awesome to bomb back down to the Katy Trail, for it was easy riding back to the car, where I had waiting some tasty pancake muffin things prepared by the saintly Mrs. Crotch:

The only way they could have been better would have been with syrup.

After stuffing my over-sized head with Mrs. Crotch's muffins, I joined forces with the Nick "You think that muffin is good, try mine" Smith. It was game time, and had to roll out. We rolled for probably 20-25 miles, bullshitting and also watching bulls shit. (Good thing Rich Pierce wasn't there, because the way he attracts murderous wildlife, those bulls would have no doubt ran us over.) He pointed out some stuff I would have missed, like this glorious church steeple peaking out from the trees out in the middle of nowhere, which required a short break:

We had a good steady pace going, though I think we were both going faster than we would have, had the other not been right there. On this second lap, the roads got a little deeper in spots, requiring more brappage. Fortunately, my Continental Top Contact II's give zero fucks about anything in their way - something that helped out the moment Nick and I came across an erosion canyon on a bombin' downhill. There was a nice lady there who had already flatted, and was waving us down to curb our speed so that we wouldn't end up like her, but I had to brap the tires and plow through the canyon.

This loop found us really employing out seated climbing position, lest we risk spinning out (not baller.) This would only get moar challenging as the grade increased, and our muscles fatigued. No matter, the roads and hills unfurled before us, as our chit chat lessened and we stopped noticing the scenery as much:

As the hills continued on loop two, the distance between Nick and I stretched out a little bit as we settled into the best paces for each of us. But it wasn't long, before plopping back down onto the paved road that would take us back into town, which was a nice rest from the buzzing.


Rolling back into the staging area, I felt relatively good, but with an ominous sense of apprehension about going out again. I knew I could, but I knew that I was gonna get totally fucking equalized by the end. So that may explain taking a little too long of a rest before loop 3, where the temptation to engage in drinking and merriment was strong. I had to press on though, as I had missed most other people I knew who were going out for the 3rd already - all of 'em on Team Noah - those jerks!

Most people seemed to think the 2nd loop was the hardest, but I disagree - the 3rd I believe was the most soul-crushing. Heading down the road, my legs were fatigued, but still turning the pedals over. However, it wasn't long before I was feeling like Mr. Burns trying to decide between "catsup" and "ketchup...

..."I'm in way over my head."

The third loop was the hardest, because the hills were more rapidfire, and there was less mellow flat-ish roads in between them. One hill would crest, point your right back downhill, where you would coast right into the next one. Bombing down one hill in particular not too far along, my spirits were briefly lifted as there were a small herd of no-doubt-feral children cheering me on, hoping I would run over the sticks they had laid in the road. What CUTIES!

My smile was quickly rotated 180% once I reached the base of one hill in particular, Benson Road. I'm not sure how I summitted this towering peak, but I do know that I was watching the speed on my Cateye fluctuate between 2.5 - 2.6 mph, for about 10 minutes. The thing just never stopped - I was praying to Energor, asking him to give me the euphoria to continue.

One thing I couldn't help but notice though, despite my euphoria, and in between periods of reminiscing, was the abundance of trash - mostly beer cans - on the side of the road, in ditches. It was more annoying to look at than choppy internet-streaming footage of Spring Classic races from Europe. And anyone who thinks that there is a lot of trash in the city, doesn't realize just how much there is out in the middle of no where too. In fact, if I bet the overall amount of trash would be relatively equal if you looked just 50 past the road's edge. End rant. Start euphoria.

That third loop was a truly done Mario van Peebles style - solo. Passed one person, and thankfully was back onto the road home a little sooner than I expected. That being said, the paved road was no picnic either - the final two paved hills made me feel more defeated than a Japanese girl staring up at a tentacle monster.

Unable to pull a proper wheelie up the Stone Hill Winery driveway, I was euphoric at the application of the third sticker to my number plate:

Arriving back at Stone Hill Winery, it was clear that plenty of ladies were getting married, as the  supply of loud, drunk holsteins piling into their cars with ill-equipped suspensions was much higher than it was at 9 in the morning. Fortunately, I received a glorious prize from the man himself, Jeff:

After finishing up and shoveling some of the random food I had in my trunk down my throat-hole (old french fries, peanut shells, clipped toe-nails... still avoided the Clif Bars though) a meeting formed between myself, Maria, Robo-Peat, EK, Mr. Clarke, where we decided to re-convene as quickly as possible at Wings-A-Blahzin' for some fried pickles, prepared meat, and a Punch0r Special:

...A.K.A. a Stag - this time held in the most worn-out coozie I've ever seen, courtesy of Peat. (I still have mine, too - though it still has some "loft.") I felt like Cancellara after his Tour of Flanders success, immediately drinking a beer, as only a badass would. Once my food arrived, I ate it so fast that I think I could have gotten respect from Marines in boot camp. (Maybe.)


Unfortunately, I was unable to stick around for a second day of euphoric ascents of the Hermann Hillsides on account of official Ryback family business, however I was pleased to learn of Sasha and Lawman taking my place. I was less pleased to see that Lawman somehow managed to puncture his "it's not fat, it's plus-sized" tire, and had to walk to the nearest oasis - out of air and out of PBRs, he procured the only other 12oz at his disposal, displaying true Superior State of Mind - I'm just thankful that 12oz was not a Lime-a-rita.

I am more than a little impressed at those who were able to complete all 5 laps, particularly Maria and EK, who ground up more gravel than a lovesick Crazy Jim. Nice work, we're not worthy:


In the meantime, continue to get super stoked at this upcoming season, and to help you get super fucking pumped, watch this extreme hardcore downhill freeride wreck:



Stay tuned, as there is moar to come:
-Casey F. Ryback

2014 AZ Training Camp & The Sedona Big Friggin' Loop

 Greetings Jerks!!! Doctor here. As I sit here in a jenkem haze on the eve of Prescott Monstercross, rubbing yak semen on my elbows and making offerings to Energor, I am still trying to figure out why I signed up for a 50 mile race with 8,000 feet of climbing. It did seem like a better idea than the 70 mile option with 12,000 feet of climbing. The only conclusion I can come to is that Spring Training has worked. You see, Northern Arizona was recently struck by White Lightening. I am not talking about moonshine or shitty chain lube, but one Jerko Toscani's whip loaded with jerks and baller single speed Konas!

The Polar Express

      A three man strike force consisting of the aforementioned Nico Jerkscani, Jonathan Cold, and Orin "Tit Balls" Boyd piled into said vehicle for a record breaking 19 hour run into beautiful Arizona for the 5th edition of Spring Training. The jerks sped through the night in order to see the San Francisco peaks in time for breakfast.

Flagstaff

Breakfast Palace Omelette

     After a gut busting stop at Martanne's Breakfast Palace, where they have instituted the entirely covered plate policy, the jerks drove the last hour and a half into Prescott where they found a green building containing their Doctor hard at work.

Ironclad Bicycles

The hardening process began immediately. Many IPAs and Coffee Stouts were consumed while I finished up the last of my work for the week. Once we were all about three deep we decided to go for a ride that would make all the rest of the rides of the week seem easy. Climbing about 1200 ft in 5 miles while you're drunk is no easy task, but Training Camp isn't about easy it's about hardening the fuck up. We got back to the shop 20 miles of trail later ready for some serious food and beer at Prescott Brewing Company. Somewhere downtown we discovered the Ladybug, the shop owner's car, looking good on the streets.

The Boss' rig

     The 5th edition of Spring Training saw perfect weather throughout, temps in the mid sixties and sunny. This is the first year that no snow whatever was involved. Beautiful. Wednesday morning saw the Polar Express pointed in the direction of the 305 trail, one of the best trails in town in my opinion. Combined with the Salida Gulch loop you end up with a great 3 hour ride, which of course left us with a great hunger and powerful thirst for beer.

Raijin at The Green Gate (305 trail)

       Bill, of Bill's Pizza fame, has opened a hamburger place called Bill's Grill. You can get as custom as you want. It's even enough food to put Titty down. Look at that monster of burger!

Titty: Before and After

Taco the Dog holding' on tight

     That evening we ventured to the campsites a mile up the road from my house, had a little fire and watched the sunset. My dog taco was very excited to have so much company in the back of the truck, her preferred mode of travel. The hardening process was going full steam at this point, with another great ride planned for Thursday.

Sunset at the top of The Senator Highway

     Tim, the manager at the shop, single speeder, and honorary Seagal, wanted to take us on a ride in town Thursday morning, but suffered a nasty crash Wednesday morning out riding before work. With him sidelined and the Black Canyon trail only an hour away, the choice was clear. White Lightening was once again loaded with fancy single speeds and pointed south for some desert single track goodness. Black Canyon trail is totally different than Prescott riding. Not as much climbing, much twistier, more consistently rocky, and not a tree in sight. A great place to harden the fuck up.

     Anyone who has ridden with Jerkward much, has probably witnessed his uncanny ability to spot underwear and condoms in the wild. In fact at one point during the week I felt like Nico was my guide and we were out on a condom safari. Take this rare velcro equipped pair of BVD's, photographed at the bottom of the 305 trail. There was some speculation that these might belong to our very own C"rot"ch, but we were unable to guess how they may have traveled this far.

Coach's BVDs

Snake in the grass

     This condom was found somewhere near the aspen creek trail head on our first ride of the week. Jerkward clearly has some sort of 6th sense.

Black Canyon Bloomer

      Here Jerkward has captured something much less likely to give you full blown aids, the bloom on a cactus at Black Canyon. Here you can also see how different the terrain is to the ponderosa pine forests of Prescott. Note the saguaro cactus in the background. Nice work! Nothing works up an appetite like going on condom safari for a few hours so we had no choice but to go back to Bill's grill to get totally fucked. After a nice easy ride on Friday we would be headed to the mystical land of Sedona for Big Friggin Loop.

Titty and his Burger

Coconino National Forest secret desert campsite

Meet the Jerks

Brahquitos in the works

    Some people like to taper down and rest a little before a big ride. Not at training camp. After a pretty good week of riding, 50 plus miles of Sedona was looming on the Horizon. My initial plan was to maybe dink a little bit less on Friday with an almost 8 hour ride the next day and all. That plan went out the window as soon as we got camp set up. Almost immediately fire was applied to brahquitos to soak up some of the beer. After chilling by the fire jamming some 90's hip hop we were mentally prepared for the task that lay ahead. We were ready to get totally extreme. Criss Angel at T ball practice extreme.

You know which line in the trail Team Seagal chooses

       Sedona offers yet another totally different environment. The terrain is rocky as a mofo, with beautiful red rock vistas around every corner. The riding is so fun that it really takes your mind off of how worn out you are by this stage of training camp. The trails are super technical, but oddly flowy at the same time. Sedona Big Friggin Loop is a bucket list ride for sure. For all you jerks that haven't been to training camp yet, start planning for next year now.

Jerkward managed to capture some great photos during the ride to further entice you to join us next year.

Dr. in Sedona

    After a solid day of riding we were off to Flagstaff to visit Lumberyard brewing for some top notch food and BEER!!!  Another Training Camp in the books. The next morning it was back to the Breakfast Palace to get some Jerks carbo loaded for their drive home. I had so much fun during Big Friggin Loop I went to work on Monday and signed up for some Monster Cross. Now two weeks later my digestive tract has finally recovered, my liver has been battle hardened, and Superior State of Mind has been achieved! Until next time, get totally fucked!!!

Doktor in the Chute