"Drive time to and from a mountain bike destination shall not be greater than actual ride time".
I regret to inform you, the masses, that we here at Pirate headquarters came damn close to breaking the golden rule of mountain biking in an attempt to experience all that is the Smithville Humpday Ride. Being of sound heart and mind we always strive to spin our brains-out on all terrain that exists in the multiverse, and SMV trails had not seen rubber-to-dirt from our crew in a coons-age. Our small crew of jorks consisting of the almighty MaxiThad, Shoffy, Silent Killer, TallBitch and Jack Sparrow headed out in the man-wagon toward the great white north a bit behind schedule. I think it was the grand tour of Shop-de-Maximus that at first did us in, not soon to be followed by a shiz-load of rush hour traffic and directional memory loss. But we did in fact finally acquire the correct co-ordinance to attain a parking spot at the Smokin' Davey trail-head, which is the sight of many adult beverage drank and pseudo campfire's burnt, or so we were told.
Upon late arrival, a solid 45 minutes too late to actually meet the local dirt loving man-train, we met little to no resistance getting our loyal steeds on the trail, starting with nothing other than the dirt strewn goodness referred to as Lakeside Speedway. This was my last ride on the Death Machine, a bon-voyage of sorts, and I wanted to make sure I could live without her constant peddling and loose rear-end. It's sad to let a good hunk of steel go, but money is all too often king in this bastard of a world, and I have to pay the piper before I earn a pair of concrete shoes.
|The Death Machine Fixie|
Spinning around the SMV trail system we were rolling about as fast as the roadrunner being pursued by the coyote, with some carnage along the way; consisting for the most part of the typical MaxiThad mechanical circus. First [he] flatted, then he proceeded to put down as much power as a hobbit on meth, which resulted in the instant yet tool free removal of his non-drive side crank arm. Here is the hard evidence, still attached to the man himself.
|Crank Arm? Check.|
Halfway through our first glorious lap we met up with TallBitch, who was hoping he'd miss us and have to wait for hours guarding the beer cooler back at the parking lot. Instead he got to ride some great trail. The SMV crew has been working their tails of with no less than *145 re-routes, new wooden bridges over the most heinous of creek crossings, and stone block reinforcement of various seepy areas. In short, the trails are in prime, ball-kicking shape.
|Silent Killer (enter evil laugh here) overlooking Maxi's flat repair skills|
After our circumnavigation of Smithville Lake, we returned to partake in the Skirt-Humping festivities. To our surprise there was no campfire, but a small smorgasbord of chips/salsa and goldfish crackers which were easily washed down by the various and hoppy barley-pops in Maxi's cooler. Many a local were telling tall tales of stardom and showing off their bikes.
Slowly the crowd dwindled to just the P-ride crew (minus Silent Killer) as we dawned lights and headed out for stage two of our mission; riding bikes in the dark with a minimum blood alcohol content of 10%. We shredded the trails like Miss Piggy reacts to constructive criticism. MaxiThad Once again ripped apart his cranks and lost the tiny bits that hold them together, which in turn would end his night ride festivities. Shoffy, running a junky light provided by yours truly, was on point leading us through the darkness and sometimes into the woods.
|Pirate "Wanna Ride More?" MaxiThad "I'm Fucked Up, Yeah."|
Finally we'd had enough, figured the *764 miles back home would be plenty to sober us up, and we loaded up the family truckster and rolled out. If my calculations are correct, we just barley followed the golden rule with just shy of three hours on the bike and just over two in the vehicle. Driving that far to ride sucks. But then again, sometimes in life it's important to just show up, as we did, and so it goes.