When one thinks about Kansas City, the idea of our burg being a mountain biking destination might be the last thing that would come to mind...yes we have world-class barbecue and 2 shitty-ass professional sports teams - well, one damn good soccer team I guess - crappy-as-fuck infrastructure, horrible public transportation, and a freetarded lack of commuter bike lanes. But, for those of us whose European ancestors decided unwisely to stop here and farm instead of continuing on to Oregon or California, or those of us here for 'work' or some other ignoble excuse, at least we have the best trail builders in this quadrant of the known universe, as well as at least eight sets of incredible trail systems. I have ridden extensively in the mountains of Oregon, California, Kentucky, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas and Colorado, and other than lacking true elevation, our trails here in KC are just as good or better than any I've ridden elsewhere.
Today I chose to straddle my Jones, and with Speeding Jesus and Ben from Chamois Butt'r, we hit the new extension with the glee of a priest with a closet full of 8 year old boys; to say nothing of the prime condition of the dirt and rocks which my Jones slaughtered with the efficiency of BP and an oily drill bit stuck in an impoverished trailer park.
The only disappointing factor in the day's events was the sighting of a Handleballs driving away from the trails: surely he was on his way to bring me back my weekly allowance of hooker blood or meth-mouth drainings; or maybe not, considering that I settled for pickled mouse anus burritos from Taco Hell...
...actually the memory of making sweet love to this beer Saturday night was what sustained my efforts on the bike today: attempting to follow a pro who was half my weight - and 50 fucking years younger - for 2 hours may be something to write home about from the Eastern Front, but it is not conducive to well-relaxed muscles - maybe El Blanco Miguel will kindly share his gaggle of massage professionals; I will pay the extra for a happy-ending. And, I told myself that I would not call him out, but that's my raison d' etre: the Goddamn Pirate was late and was unable to take advantage of me and my wide draft; I sure do hope that he had to ride by his lonesome as punishment for his tardiness....then again, as much as he wrecks it is probably better for his ego that no one was there to witness the carnage. Cheers Burnsey.