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.
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| 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!
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