Karma, you dirty dirty sloot -redux.

   

    When I moved back to the Midwest in 1998 after a 4 year stint in the Pacific Northwest, one of the first cyclists/mechanics I met was this tall-ass jerkoff asshole who basically told me that everything I knew about mountain bikes was wrong and that I should reconsider my primal relationship with the two-wheeled steel horse; evaluate the person you are and can be on the velocipede and shut the fuck up about anything else. And thus started the on and off relationship/marriage I had with the Big Grin, also known as BikeKarmaSutraSexyPants, Joel Dyke. So many other people have said it better over the last 48hrs since he left this mortal coil, but there is literally an endless supply of anecdotal evidence that supports the hypothesis that Mr. Grin was the central pillar on which the KC cycling community built itself upon over the last 20 years. I could sit here and drown my sorrows with New Belgium Rampant IPA, listening to the Black Keys 'The Flame' - which I am actually doing - but instead of departing on the melancholy express, I will reminisce on the week that was; a veritable agglomeration of adoration of all things bikey, for that's what Sexypants would have wanted: me shooting my wad in the eye of the establishment, even though they are wearing sunglasses at night...

Let us have an hour of silence and a circle jerk into the Kaw River.

Too drunk to remember where I stole this image frometh...poor bunny.

G-Whiz, the reluctant baker...

#hardcorbincummybuns Oh Oh Oh Oprah face.

yes please.

Burnsey, Santa, Cuntwat and El Blanco...many moons ago.

Oddity Cycles: Because you aren't worth it.

How did this pic not get me banned from Facefuck, finally?

Making lasting mammaries, spooge included...

Thanks to The Beej for this gem...

Uncle Samuel, the myopic traitor.

In light of Stephen Colbert stepping down from his exalted podium of excellence, a new, federal 24hr cycle  of remembrance should immediately be instituted by John Boner and his Senate hacks: Satirical Genius Day; for when the best news and commentary come from those who use triple entendre to make the most cogent arguments against empire and plutocracy, we have a more than a problem, Houston, we have fatuousness run amok. 

And, whilst we are on the topic of Pork and its many antecedents, lettuce look reverse-wise into the non-future, and consider the sheer terror/elation of riding Fatbikes in frozen sand, drinking enough fanky beer to kill off a third-world country and traveling to Petit Jean State Park, Arkansas - a  minuscule slice of Oregon 5 hours from my front steps; no order or linearity required.

Cedar Falls -90ft. Petit Jean 

When we returned from Arkansas, the cocaine had melted...

#hardcorbincummybuns raging on my Krampussy, Kaw River sandbar, KCKS.

Failure is an option.

     There are myriad a method in which to assess personal triumph - the way to succeed and the way to suck eggs - and the first step in this self-analysis is to peruse through the last week of Stagramming to gain insight into the quality/quantity of beer one has consumed. After a 3.5 day trip to Colorado last weekend - ostensibly to ride mountain bikecycles - I returned to KC with a plethora, a cornucopia, a surfeit of micro-brews, all of which are gone as of tonight. The antithesis of any intent ever attempted by yours liarly is the thought of an actual reserve of an intoxicant; i.e. a beer cellar in which to store a future brain/belly-party, wherein a guest can be schmoozed with a display of bottles aged for their enjoyment. Fuck that. I have a bike cellar; that's way porking better.

Butt, as was aforementioned, the riding of the mt. velocipedes was stellar in the Ft. Collins general vicinity, and the denouement might have been the best ride I've had since last winter in Arizona: a 4 hour night ride at the IMBA Epic trails at Curt Gowdy Park in Southern Wyoming. This fetivus of fetus was truly a wind-blown paradise under the full moon - with the Moonmen and Oddity crews - and is on my short list for a return trip wherein I can actually have an asscracking idea of how lost I actually felt 99.9% of the time. I was also able to hit Heil/Hall with the Pirate on a 60 degree day, and then Blue Sky on a chilly, overcast morning, which is blast in the pants with a tailwind. 

an Oscar Blues/Reeb joint in Longmont...badballs.

...many a drunken hour were spent here in the wee hours completing the FatFatFat by Oddity, pictured below.

Fuck me in all three holes, Kansas is way too far from Colorado Pl...Oxycontin anyone?

...Muru Cycles with Nextie carbon rims: yes ma'mamma jamma.

...and I guess I'll be missing SSAZ due to the fact that I'll be attending NAHBS this year with these crazy fuks:

https://www.facebook.com/kcbikecollective?ref=br_tf

Check it then wreck it.

8Lumens is dead: Long live 8Lumens.