Another day in Pirate paradise, another successful Wednesday night pRide. Looking back on the past *38 posts we see the word heat more times than the Clergy was indicted for touching little boys. The infamous moist and dreadfully hot Midwest summer is in fact a reality, once again. Could it be Global Warmings? Maybe just the end of days and Satan is one step closer to the surface? Whatever the case may be, when it's time to ride it's time to ride; no lollygagging, no excuses.
The crew that dared the 105 degree temps was small yet solid, consisting of Tall Bitch, HandleBalls, Mr. Joshua, Silent Killer, MaxiThad and Jack Sparrow. You knew it was going to be a good time when the duct tape lighting technique was applied pre-ride, Handleballs was tossing down a Miller Lite Tall Boy and MaxiThad was already moaning and laying on the ground. I for one was ready to get my mash on due to a lunch hour tequila fueling earlier in the day motivated by circumstances that are not for public knowledge, yet brought out the Irish temper that many of you have had the non-pleasure to witness in years past. All I could see was red and Dirt Church was the only chance for aggressive meditation w/o ending my day in an eight by eight concrete box bumping ugly's with Bubba.
So yeah, we finally got to riding bikes. The self manufactured breeze was welcomed by all as we tore through the humid and forested landscape. We pretty much stuck to legitimate trail the entire ride which was the beginning of our demise as the crashing and head-over-tail yard sales started off almost immediately. I think it was TallBitch with crash number one, where he almost went down, yet while thinking to himself how psyched he was about recovering, he went ahead and crashed his taint off anyway. A proudly displayed 6'-4" snow-angle of flattened grass was testament to his full body contact with the earth. Laughing it off, we kept riding.
Memory fails me, as it often does moments after any horrific event lacking cheerleaders or chainsaws, as to who else was eating dirt during our adventure, but I know there were many crashes. I vaguely remember that 99% of them were TallBitch, who for at least the next 132 hours will be referred to as TrailsBitch, since in fact that was the case.
As we rallied through the goods that is the SMP trail system, I noticed that THE tree gap, the one that was once super-scary tight, so dang tight that there's scares at handlebar height on each tree, had changed. It appears that the downhill tree is dead an is falling toward and blocking the sally line. Prosser said it best, "Long live the Tree Gap!".
Silent Killer was doing his typical complaining about how our pace was too fast and that he needed to rest more, but we just ignored him as usual and kept a solid pace that would make even Lance dope. HandleBalls, who'd just escaped from prison labor camp minutes before the ride, was crushing and riding strong; the energizer bunny of all things singlespeed.
Our overall festival of bikes was shorter than usual, but a good time was had. We rode for a few hours before retiring to the driveway to toss back some refreshments and talk shit on Silent Killers fear of booze. I guess I can't really imagine him with the extra power one gains from a 12 oz. IPA. He'd be unstoppable, especially when he gets that evil look in his eye, poking at whomever might fall for his Lawrence Hill sprint/race trickery at the end of every P-ride he attends.
Next week is a Holiday, so we will be on a hiatus from night rides for a week or two. Other adventures await. Beans will be spilled.