Dirty Love...

I'll have a grip of Taddihogg Cycling Hats at the DK festivities Friday night. I'll be outside the Granada or at the bar down the street. Come find me. These are a limited edition DK embroidered, locally handmade custom hats - the beezneez. 
There are only 15 12 of these in existence for 2013. Be Awesome.

(we sold out of these hats in TEN MINUTES sitting in front of the Granada on Friday night!!!)

Booty Call...

My last big training ride for the DK200 went down last night like a rainstorm down a gutter. I was in a weird head-space and in turn forgot bringing my damn cycling shoes. This was the first of way too many hiccups in my only night of fun for the week. Thankfully Princess Boner Ghost had some flats that I swapped onto my steed and we were ready to slay some pave'.

The weather forecast was for thunderstorms and we were under a tornado warning until 10 p.m.. We could either ride bikes and risk getting wet and possibly ending our days in Oz, or sit around getting even fatter than we already are - swill booze and just fade away. We chose to roll the dice and ride. It's pretty much been raining here for the last 4 day straight. We needed the ride time. Blah Blah cry me a river.

After reaching our mid-ride point of 68* kilometers, we pit-stopped at the Bier Station for refreshments. It dumped rain while we drank fine ales and talked quantum mechanics. Suddenly, and with great enthusiasm WhiteMike popped out of his seat, headed for the door and said " there's my ride". WTF El Blanco Miguel! You're dissing the rest of our ultimate DK training ride for some fine looking blonde in short shorts? O.K., we get it. You had more fun than we did, but the final 89* mile push through the bowels of Scary Village was easily a close 2nd, or maybe 16th, or maybe just...not.

Gravel Death...

This weekend, I'm racing this.

200 miles of gravel B roads accross the Flint Hills and Kanza Prairie.

Should be a good time, assuming there are no tornado's.

Some good advice from Adventure Monkey HERE.

Oh Shit...

I saw it coming, about half-a-second before the barbed-wire ripped through my flesh and retired my new pair of Evil socks. I'd just left the crew doing laps at SMP, headed off on a rogue trail back towards the lair when I rounded a corner and there was it was, a fallen tree. As I attempted to dodge said tree, I lost control (as I was on a steep-ass rocky and rutted-out descent) and went OTB off the down hill side of the trail. As I ejected from my steed, I noted the barbed wire death-trap about 18" off the ground. I did what I could, used all of my Ninja skills, to avoid loosing both legs as I somersaulted into oblivion. The inside of my ankle looks like hamburger. Chicks dig scars. 

Robidoux Roundup...

Get out and race your bike this weekend in St. Joseph at Krug Park! 

All of the cool people will be there.

By The Wind...

This weeks P-ride was a total blast. Most of the crew was laid-up from Stinky-pinky, Knee Injuries, Lyme Disease or pure laziness - but Captain's Cuntwat and Jack Sparrow were present for what would be a night of fat tire bliss.

We chose to ride at one of our alternate locations, full of rogue trail, sandy beaches and hemp plants the size of small trees. We refer to this place simply as the Kaw, a true pirate treasure of non-maintained proportions. Somewhat of a blind bushwhacking adventure to say the least.

It had been some time since I had the Fat Pearl out for a spin. Dry singletrack and racing has had me out-of-the-loop as far as fat tires and slow movement goes, but it was a nice change of pace and a helluva good night of riding. Not too many details I'm willing to lay-out for you folks in words, but rather opting for the following photo-essay, which unfortunately (for the most part) stars Princess Boner. Enjoy!

 

Cedar Cross 2013 Race Report...

I've been meaning too, as I'm a man of many words, write about my experience at the most rad gravel event to be dawned upon the overly-christian populated state of Misery - The Cedar Cross. Bear in mind that the following text may or may not paint an accurate or unbiased picture of what truly occurred during the eleven-hours of taint-punching time spent in the saddle. My ramblings may or may not alienate the fuck out of each and every one of you. But since you are currently living so vicariously through the musings of others, I shalt not apologize. Whatever you get out of the time-waste of a post this truly is, I hope it either brings you joy or ensues a call the Westboro hotline. Either of which I couldn't possibly give two-shits about. But I do care enough that I wrote this fine piece of literature, a Cedar Cross poem, for you to begin your journey towards unemployment.

Twas the night before gravel racing and all through the lair,

not a creature was stirring except this mad bear

For I'd no time to plan, 

to coordinate at best, 

hence the weight on my mind and my fur-covered chest 

I'm a sight for sore eyes,

or a hand-job at best, 

and my race training graph resembled a tweed pinstriped vest

Though I had good intentions 

to be ready to crush, 

my legs were all blubbery, 

and packing I rushed. 

I knew I could do it, 

finish the task 

I prayed for a good time - 

 a finish-line I.V. cask.

I showed up to rumble,

to do what I do,

But all I came home with 

was a dirty bike and horse poo.

An so it goes, and so we went. At 2 a.m. I'd finally finished packing and prepping my bike. I hunkered down for a cat-nap before the Pirate Crew would arrive (at 4 a.m.). Two hours of sleep is perfect when you are using this particular gravel race as a "Training for the bullshit called life", as I was. Half awake, half drooling bad coffee and a retarded good donut that The Manimal shoved in may face, The Silent Killer, WhiteMike, Handleballs and I rolled the 2+ hours to the Mid-Missouri rendezvous point (in the rain), only locate-able by the signal fire illuminating the distant river bottoms.

We knew conditions might be grim, and we counted on that to make the race most entertaining, as there were rumors of miles of dirt singletrack to be had - a veritable mud-wrestling date with our bikes. Though we'd have preferred the Swedish Bikini team, Bikes would have to suffice in this case (though we later learned that cattle would be an option).

The rain settled as race time grew near. We prepped our steeds with frame bags, fresh mango and enough Chamois Butt'r to choke a small goat. We were destined for success. There would be nothing to stand in our way, though the *26 Adult Superstores along interstate 70 en-route almost made us miss the shotgun start.

Bob Jenkins, a.k.a. Dr. Moobs, a.k.a. THE man behind all that is Cedar Cross, spoke his mighty words of wisdom to the 75-ish racers as we prepared for a younger Jimmy Hendrix version of the National Anthem. Next thing we know, we are rolling out.

My actual race portion of this tale is going to be cut short, as I've already exceeded my word-count limit by 312*, and shit gets boring as hell without some rad photos, which you can find by clicking HERE. But I will tell you this; We climbed some serious gravel hills, descended some rock-strewn and muddy-as-a-baby's-diaper singletrack, forged knee-deep creeks tainted with enough horse and cow shit to poison a a small country, eluded homeland security as we posed for photos at the nuclear reactor site, Hike-a-biked some gnarly steep mud embankments, ate road-side grilled hot-dogs, rode mechanical horsey's, spun fast enough to not get ankle-bit by the asshole white dog, bunny-hopped water puddles and had a generally great, err make that kick-ass time group-riding-the-fuck out of the course.

I will admit, being a mountain biker at heart, that one-hundred-and-fifteen miles of gravel was like a punch in the dick, or as WhiteMike would say, was "a bowl full of dicks". I can't say that me or my taint are looking forward to the DK200, but of course, we like to suffer and will be there smiling.

All in all, The Cedar Cross was a fine event. Beer was flowing before, during and post race - a requirement in my book as to the commitment of the promoter(s) and level of fun to be had. There were prizes, even for DFL, which in my opinion was the best prize - aside from the dildo-capped trophy given to one gentleman for his DNF. The course was awesome, legit and no walk-in-the-park. You could choose to tell USAC to fuck-off and not pay for a daily license if you so chose - I certainly back anyone race promoter willing to extend that offer to those racing. The entry fee was minuscule,  less than you'd fork-out for a 12 pack of cheap booze.

The Pirate Crew: WhiteMike - Burnsey - The Manimal - The Silent Killer - Handleballs

I'd highly recommend that in 2014 you relocate your spine and participate in this fine event. I know the Pirate Crew, Ethos Racing and Team 8-Lumens will be back for more. Pure Awesomeness abides. 

Cheers and Beers!

Gunbarrel...

Tuesday nights Pirate ride commenced at the fine trails of Landahl. With temps in the upper 80's (from the 30's a week ago) our small crew was stoked to get out on some dry trail and see what we could get done. We typically ride for 2-3 hours and have a helluva good time. This particular night was sorta-kinda a different story, to say the least.

WhiteMike and his new hood ornament, care of Princess Boner Ghost

Our crew - WhiteMike, Captain Cuntwat (a.k.a. Princess Boner Ghost), The Silent Killer, T-Donn, The Manimal and Burnsey all headed out of the Argo lot at 6 p.m. sharp (that means like 6:20 due to the consumption of pre-ride beverages and Burnsey forgetting his man-shorts) for some dirt. Captain Cuntwat was leading the circus at mach speed until the time that Burnsey had to stop and adjust his saddle from the boner position in which it had just arisen, back to normal.

Next stop we find ourselves entering the technical offshoots on the Family trail. These short sections of trail are home too some of the most wickedly fun rock gardens that we have in the area. There sometimes a hundred yards of wicked-fun step-ups/downs and spines of limestone to ride with good exposure and fall potential. Here we generally slay the tech but were not all at 100%. We then head down Scott's Gunbarrel, a rocky decent into a fun loop of difficult dirt/rocky singletrack, leading us towards trails 10 & 11 for the real adventure - to which we will now refer to as The Shit Circus Revisited. From here lets just say it all went down hill fast.

Trails 10 & 11 are rarely visited by the standard Landahl guest. The shit you have to pull-off to pull-off no dabbing is retarded-hard. I can't say that any of our crew made easy work of any of these two trails, but rather the trail made short work of us - and our bikes.

 First Princess Boner Ghost gets a flat, Then The Silent Killer burps his fatbike tire, then WhiteMike blows his saddle off-the-rails, then Burnsey breaks one of the rails on his saddle, then Princess' freewheel implodes. Phuggin' shit circus to say the least, really.

The lesson learned here folks is that the Pirate Crew was prepared to repair, all were able to ride out with fully functional bikes. That is one of the many reasons these rides are a huge success - you're expected to come prepared to fix anything and keep up - and that's just what we all did.

Though most of us got our ass thoroughly handed to us on the hardest trails in the KC area, we had a helluva good time riding and hanging out post ride swilling booze - and talking about how we'd string-up whomever's been stealing crap from the parking lot lately. Asshats.

In closing, as my pal Dave always says, " It ain't mountain biking unless you're hiking". With that said, we were truly mountain biking.

One of many mechanicals of the evening - Captain Cuntwat flats the Krampus

WhiteMikes seat explodes off the rails and is MaGyver'd by Burnsey with no less than *123 zip-ties

Burnsey's Ti-rail = bent and cracked

Mothers Day...

Got out for a nice ride at SMV with my baby momma on Sunday. 

Trails were perfect, great company, good memories. 

I Just Peed a Little...

We might have to fire Princess Boner Ghost as SSP's right handjob man/contributing editor and hire Ryan*. The following Craigslist Ad is about as classic as it gets, and let us remind you and your mom sitting next to you, that we here at SSP know a thing or two about class, chicken fucker!

The Bike

"Grab a paper bag, breathe into it and calm your ass down. You're hyperventilating because you ain't never seen a deal like this before. Now collect yourself, then keep reading this incredible description that barely serves to do justice to my 2010 Felt Gridlock 3 speed fixed gear bike. Yes 3 SPEED FIXED GEAR. Also known as the greatest bike the city has ever had the privilege of existing around.

What makes this bike so much better than every other bike that has ever been pedaled? Glad you asked. It starts with the paint scheme. It looks like Iron Man if Iron Man were a bike. That's bold, son. Curb appeal. It's probably also why some piece of trash stole the front tire that originally came with this beauty. Why didn't he steal the whole bike? Because he knew he wasn't man enough. That's ok, I replaced it with something that looks even more boss. The next thing is the genuine leather seat. My taint has had a love/hate relationship with this particular bit of the machine. But it's got those swanky brass rivets so I can't stay mad that it smashed my prostate and has likely rendered fatherhood impossible. But let's face it, I'd rather have have a bike than a kid.

What else? Let's talk about that three speed in-the-hub, fixed-gear transmission for a second. It's as gnarly as it is exotic. Like the tropical, saw-toothed platypus. Which is a species that does't even exist. Fortunately this crazy ass hub does. It offers 3 speeds, as the name implies. It also offers a terrific chance to introduce that dome of yours to the asphalt if you sleep for one single second on this beotch. So don't trip. Ride safe. Get a helmet and if you've never ridden a fixed gear bike, maybe it's time to move along, young sir because this back tire doesn't flip flop and it doesn't offer any respite. What this bike does offer is a one-way ticket to legits-ville. Find a bowling ball. Then find another one. Your nuts must be at least that big to even consider making this whip the dreamiest object to ever take up too much space in your tiny ass apartment. But you'll be filled with joy once you throw a leg over this flawless piece of American-made* cycling excellence.

What else? Ryan, the paint's a little dinged up. Yeah, well, that's called real life. It comes at you fast, bro. Besides, you really want this glimmering, shimmering sex machine catching the eye of some small time thief? I already told you what happened to the tire. You really don't want to be living your own version of PeeWee's big adventure. Consider the lived-in feel a natural crime deterrent. If this bike were denim jeans, it'd be called "de-stressed" and you'd be paying extra for the privilege. I'm not gonna charge you extra for it, though. Cause I'm not trying to take advantage of you. But you should take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

But, aren't you sad about selling the greatest bike on earth? No. When you ride this bike once it permanently eliminates your ability to feel sad about anything ever again. Even for little puppies who are afraid to walk down the stairs, because the stairs...they're so big, and they're so little. Puppies who are young, but have already discovered the world to be a cold, unforgiving place. But you won't give a shit about it because you'll be on your awesome new bike living the dream.

Ryan, is that a toilet in the background? Yes. Why? Because this bike is the sheeyit. And you've just learned something else about me. That's right, my name is Ryan. And your name is lucky motherfather if you make the best choice of your life and pay me cold, hard cash for this ridiculous ride.

*Felt bikes are imported from Taiwan. Sorry to burst your bubble, homie, but globalization has been restructuring the way products get manufactured and sold since the 80's. Some believe it's eroding the American middle class. If you're the last to know, sorry for party rocking. Read "The World Is Flat." Form an opinion. Joint the dialog. By the way, the book is like 12 years old so this shouldn't be news. It's messed up, but we didn't start the fire. No we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it. Now buy this bitchin' ass bike."

The Cedar Cross - Images...

I'll soon be writing a race report on Cedar Cross and all of the pure awesomeness it shat in our smiling faces. But today I am tired and swamped with work, so for now, please enjoy a few images - a mix of shots taken by Team Ethos/8-lumens (The Manimal, The Silent Killer, WhiteMike, Handleballs and Burnsey). We had a helluva good day in the saddle, group riding the phug out of some one-hundred-fifteen miles of gravel, mud and horse crap. Thanks to Bob Jenkins for putting on a killer event. 

For those of you asshats who did not show up to race, I hope you enjoyed your day at home with a cat licking peanut butter off your soft taint. We were happy to drink your allotment of beer.
(CLICK TO ENLARGE)