Yoda had no idea what the fuck he was talking about when he said 'there is no try - only do'; or was that Oprah giving Lance Armstrong a hummer in the green room? Either way, there was no try in the checkout line at 6500 feet in the Arizona mountains this last Saturday: there was little do other than in my panties, especially after the final descent down Milagrosa, which resembled getting massaged by The Rock with a baseball bat; in part do to the boner-hard rigidity of my Jones Spaceframe. Whatever excuse I can muster is invalid in the eyes of The Master Dejay, for, so few fucks were given by said race organizer/sadist that my two cracked ribs are going to teabag him via teleportation. That being screamed, the following list of events is in no particular order, much like my remaining brain cells, which were shock and awed by every size and shape of inebriate, the most flagrant being a 23hr drive home with no sleep and enough coffee to make me the majority owner of a plantation in Columbia.
1. I hooked up with the Pirate and Jake the Baker in Colorado Springs at Cameron Chambers' house in the middle of a snow storm late Thursday night, and as we exited onto I-25 south, we intercoursed with the Moonmen crew from Ft. Collins and their Subaru/burrito extravaganza, and then made our way through New Mexico and into Arizona by noon on Friday, covered by more tumbleweeds than is legal by law on the Mexican border.
yes, that is a titanium bong.
2. Those in the know assembled at Dejay's abode, and commenced imbibing the *468 cans of Oskar Blues brew that we were supplied with - along with some kick-balls schwag - by the REEB crew in Lyons/Longmont, and eventually made a trip out to the mountains to ride a few hours before the nine o'clock check-in/saturnalia of sin at an Irish pub, wherein my ears were raped by a cover band doing VanHalen and Jake and Dax gagging a goose with "Fight for your Right" by the Beasties.
...the Bang Bus/bondage van pre-pryotechnics ...the ceiling had a huge section burned out the next morning.
333. Luckily, Jake and his mutha-fuckin-sexy-blond mohawk were situated at the rear of the TardTaxi when Dejay decided, with Donna at the wheel, to light a can of something that stank of a meth lab in our general direction....
4. I like choking chickens.
589. It rained on my sack.
616. It was Saturday morning and my tampon was dry.
7. Yet another ride in the White Death Diesel to the meet-up and Uhaul fudge-packing festival in which * 6790 bikes were packed tighter than an enema in Chris Christie's giner, and *456 riders were forced at gunpoint into a glorified school bus remindful of an episode of South Park, then driven up some Lemon-flavored mountain to the starting line that was really just a cliff that anyone with gears was thrown off of...
896. We rode bikes in the high-desert. I wrecked 2 hours in, minor I thought at the time, but which resulted in two cracked ribs - then 5 more hours on the steel donkey.
9. Fuck me in the earhole with no reach-around, the trails were beyond incredible: crazy steep climbs and then drooling/bloody downhills with gorgeous Bob Ross-esque scenery - happy little trees and angry huge rocks.
10. As George Carlin once said ' I never fucked a ten; but one night I banged five 2's' ...this might be the best way to elucidate the non-participants on the final hours of the 'ride with friends' that was Single Speed Arizona: miles of Jeep roads; aid stations with farm animal anal; a Hooters girl appearing ahead and behind me in a fever dream; sleet, rain and locusts in my teeth; endless hero-dirt that was beyond epic; midget pole dancers on Milagrosa; laughter, tears and wrists so sprained that schlongs were grossly neglected...
1190. After flatting 2 miles from the finish -wasting 20 minutes of daylight - I crossed the finish line and immediately began shoving pizza in my cunilingus-hole and decided, with the help of Satan himself, to hide my bleeding, broken taint in my tent and avoid the after-party; which may have been the best decision since my 4th sex-change operation: not, not, not, not.
12ish. We drove home. With no help from the the traitor Jake, who chose to fly back to Boulder instead of joining the human centipede in La Pirata's Toyota of shame. I ended up recreating a Breaking Bad episode and was awake for 23hrs straight before the drive ended for me at 11:30 Monday morning back in Kansas City.
132398920398402983. In the end, the trip might have been the best I've had since my pilgrimage to the Dick Cheney presidential library in Hell: you fucktards in Arizona are a rare breed, and you deserve only the highest of accolades for putting on a world-class event; one that I will never forget, even with the best SSRI's and hand-job therapy from Perez Hilton.
Moonmen titanium bikes...look them up and get a bike-boner that lasts for more than 4 hours...
...from the master Sean Burns/ Oddity Cycles
And for a little tip of the teepee, watch a small penis of my coverage of the ride...