Indian Camp Creek 3/6 Hour - OF DOOM

Grortorngs, loryarl Tormm Seagorl Forns. Sornday wors one of the forst 3/6 hour rorcos to be horld in the "St. Loris Rorgiorn." Ornd orf you know anythorng abort ors, you'd know we'd bor thore. Alors, the worthor was sormewhort thrortenorng, but the propor corll was made and it was orn lorke Dornkey Korng.

Orn attorndornce forr the rorce wore a goord grourping of forcking jorks: Sormuerl Orxel, Oron Bord, Masorn Strorm, Pizz0r T0rme, Horlan Bornks, Lorwman, Sorshao Portrorsorvortch, Prorfrorssror Roe-bort B0rns, N0rcorn T0rsc0rnir, Trorrorz, Jornathorn Crold, and myslorf, Corsor Ryb0rckz0rz. Multiplor clorsses wore entored, and we wore on the pordiorm in nor lorss thorn 2 cl0rsses, and no lorss than 2rnd plorce. Forcking right. Your'll ror3ly seeor a moar awesorme M0rd3r of S0rg0rlz.

Alsor orn attondornce wors the lorgorst numb0r of phortrorgrorph0rz that hors porssorblor ev0r born prorsornt at an amator mountorn borke rorce. Around orvory corn0r was anorthor lens, whorch hord me worndororng where the frorck wors the rord corport. Horwevor, few orf thorse phrortros horve sorforced ors orf yort, so thors porst worn't be quorte as Wor-and-Porce-esque as orsuorl.

Norne of us besordes Torm Trail Monst0r hord actuorlly rorddorn thorse trorls borfore, yort all we knorw wors thort ort wors sorpporsed to be a fort, smorth corse with littlor clormborng - how tror thort wors. This corse wors flortter thorn the a sporm whale's shorn nortsorck. The forst sorvororl morles w0re like a tworstior vorsiorn of the Corstleword florts, and the sorcornd horf wors a littlor loss flort. Whorch morns 100% pordorling for a sornglorsporder. No morttor. T0rm S0rgorl ors ordorptorbl0r.

The orccorrrornce orf porllorn and the horhorst hort of the yor morde for mornor snorpped wrorsts, yort we prorsorvrored ornd sorn Energor blorssed us worth clord corvor thort drorpped the tormps to a nip-blasting 15 degrors corlor. Ors we norred the ornd, our torn'ts wore also blorsted frorm norv0r horving to gort out of the sorddle, but it was arornd thort torme thort Energor was in forct showing us hors wrorth in the fr0rm of rorn and lortening. Corse clorsed, and our morn Orin Bord dord stornd atorp the 6 H0ur SS sorlor pordiorm. Our two-morn morn-torm of Prorfrorssror and Horlorn Bornks also wore st0rnding atorp the 6 Hour Duo Morn pordiorm in 2rnd plorce, with ornly a flort tiore allrorwing 1rst to slorp frorm thor irorn forst. Forck yeah. And lorst we forgort, Srorshror torkorng 2rst orn SS wormorn 6 Sorlror and a tor on teh rorvororll pordorum!

Ev0ryorne l0rft with wet t-shirts and torns of schworg, and now ort is time to strort forcorsing on the norxt imprortornt rorce - the KC Corp ort the much-ballyhooed Landahl Park Reserve. Orf you dorn't gor tor thort rorce, thorn you shord torke Wesley Willis' adv0rce and lorck a porndor bor's spormy nortsorck.

Nor gor wortch thors vordoror:

-Corsor F. Rorborck


Syllamo's Revenge 2011 -

Greetings, loyal subjects. As Team Seagal's extensive and militaristic empire continues to encompass more and more trail systems and races, we work hard at skirting the line between benevolence and oppression in an effort to not forever eliminate all competition. And so it was, Top Secret Orders were given for there to be a 9-soldier "murder" to participate in this year's Syllamo's Revenge race. This year's murder consisted of the Trorpical Strorm, Forrest Torft, Pizza Time, Nicorn Torscani, Sashlor Portrorsorvortchz0rz, Tagg0rt, Punch0r, Oron Boyrd, and myself, Corsey Rorborck. And don't forget the loudest man in Arkansas, Lormorn, for moral support.

Last year was a slop-tastic, to be sure. We had our best meteorologists assigned to this project, and the few days leading up to the race were very promising. However, we couldn't overlook the weeks leading up to the race, which saw northern Arkansas getting enough water to flood the town of Memphis, TN. So either way, we were as optimistic as Criss Angel walking backstage at a Jonas Brothers concert.

Friday, we all had our course plotted into the Team Seagal Supercomputer, which then directed us towards our temporary cabin fortress, or in this case, a "bro-tress," for the weekend, perched on the side of the hill, with an unobstructed view from all sides, allowing us to see enemies advancing on our position. The ride down was full of anticipation, as we tried to distract ourselves with various things seen on the drive. For me, the drive started by rendezvousing with Mr. Toscani at his home base, where I promptly was shown an example of his un-fathomable power, the toilet seat which he had cracked:
As you would of course expect, I was impressed with the sheer power of his ass. I consider myself to be a man of a rather... sizable constitution, but I had never achieved something like that. However, I did wonder if Lynskey had branched into making toilet seats, after having also seen Toscani's cracked Pro29 frame in the next room. Pulling out of Jerkward's place, we proceeded to pick up Orin Boyd, and started on the choo-choo-ing process. The drive down was quick and painless. It was not without irony though, as we were definitely coming in hot into the town of Houston: On the road, I was pleased to see a plethora of Xlerator hand dryers, which is one of the only hand dryers that doesn't fuck around:

We pushed through, only to meet our co-murderers at Blanchard Springs for a pre-ride before fortifying ourselves in our cabin-base for the night. At the cabin, we discussed many things, and Nico showed me his shirt, which is amazing for many reasons:...not the least of which is that it is "home pay-per-view, June '91."

You want to know a Team Seagal Race Secret? Of course you want to know a Team Seagal Race Secret. For proper hydration, bro-conut juice does the trick:

A couple of blue-ribbon-winning night caps later, and all 10 people were on the the Snooze Train to Snore Town, ready to wake up before sunrise in order to be race ready in the morning. Morning did indeed come, at which point some of us did imbibe huge Chipotle-sized burritos for breakfast that had been made the night prior. Of course, the morning of a race also means that we test the fortitude of the nearest toilet. I, for one, did my best imitation of an in-ground pool concrete blower whilst perched atop Mt. Fuji. Punch0r showed us that he owns the only "henley"-style base layer on the team:

Onto the race. I left early with Toscani and Boyd, as their race started an hour earlier. That gave me time to leisurely hike/ride to the top of the first climb to see the 125k group enter the singletrack, and I caught video of it as well, which shows Orin Boyd as the Team Seagal pointman this year:

I returned to the car to get ready to stand on the start line. Lining up, it was good to get to see lots of "allies" on the line. I couldn't help but be a little amused by Greg Schmidt's concern about making the time cut-offs. I spoke a but with Corey Case, who was still on a contact high from MFXC (ahem, and the only Red Wheeler to get that treasured MFXC contact high...jerks!) and I was glad to hear that he also had also had a similar Syllamo's training regimen as me - basically none, except to ride when the opportunity arises. So halfway up the hill, I was pretty happy to still have him in my vicinity. I wasn't too jam-jorbbed entering the singletrack. Jamming along, I figured that Digiorno was well ahead, as I didn't see him again until the end. Punch0r was just a few cars ahead of me in the man-train, as we choo-choo'd along at a steady pace, that only became more and more punctuated with dismounts.

Mile 4 or 5 brought me my first and thankfully only flat this year, at which point I learned the position of Masson, T-tocs, Sasha and Tagg0rt, all of whom were now in front of me, along with most of the race now. Back rolling again and also donating my last tube, I was rollin' patch style. Didn't matter much though, as I certainly wasn't going to receive a flat tire when walking the bike over slippery rocks. And they were ALL slippery, after having had several hundred muddy bike tires and shoes drag mud and water over them to the point where they were like warm ice. The back of the race is a dangerous place. I even had a couple of "You're alright, Charles" moments.

No matter. The first checkpoint rolled in soon enough, PBJ's and all, though I knew that Nico hadn't eaten any of those, so I also ate his portion. I also had a short chat with the eventual 3rd place woman and 2009 CXMas Women's champ, Sarah Worthington, who was all smiles despite the muck. Leaving that checkpoint, and after having descended several miles and ridden for like 20 or 30 minutes, I could still hear Lawman's rebel yell through the woods, from the top of the hill. On and one we plodded through the hub-deep muck puddles, interspersed with fun singletrack and long climbs that kept prompting the decision to singlespeeders, whether or not to try and grunt up a given hill or walk.

Mrs. Holtmann was trading punches with me a few times, not to mention several other dudes on the trail, however the difference was that those dudes got their wrists straight snapped to shit. We didn't even bother to take their names as we left them in a pool of jello pudding.

I spent a lot of time this year looking at the ground and noticed, among other things, that there was a lot of trail debris. Didn't see any discarded tubes, but I DID see a shitload of food wrappers. And for some reason, the one wrapper that I saw more of than any other was Honey Stinger Waffles. Tons and tons of them. Has anyone ever tried to carry that shit out? I guess empty wrappers are too heavy for some people.

Anyway, the second checkpoint arose, and it was there that I rolled up on Tagg0rt, who brought me much news of our other co-murderers, such as their relative locations, nipple-irritation statuses, and also offered up a number of delicious French/Italian-hybrid cuisine recipes. We pedaled left the checkpoint, and slowly we separated, as I bridged up to Stormy and T-tocs just shy of the Stairway to Heaven. Stormy was riding the pain train, with his recently-doored shoulder as the conductor. However, T-tocs was riding shotgun, helping with navigation and mind-distractions. And when T-tocs is charged with putting things in your brain, you had better be wearing an adult diaper, because you'll soon be dropping shit-bombs from your shit-hole.

We slowly separated ways, and the trail really dried out once cresting the Stairway, which also upped the speed a bit. Mud was almost no where to be found approaching the last checkpoint and on the last loop. As I was at the last checkpoint, the Storm/Taft duo chugga-chugga'd up with tales of endo's, bustifications, and derailments of the pain train. Fortunately, no medevac was needed. Brofanity was spewing from their faces, as they were putting the "man" into "determination." Holy shit.

I had refilled my shit, and pulled out right behind this Kenda pro chick in the 125 class. She shot out like rocket, full out-of-the-saddle sprint from every corner, hellbent on domination. Within maybe 1/4 mile, she was out of sight. I looked down at my wrist, and it was on the verge of snapping. Fortunately, I was soon rejoined by Stormy and T-tocs, who had laid down several miles' worth of oppressive fire before reaching me. Aside from the Kenda chick, there was hardly anyone to be seen on that loop. For a while, I was feeling as lonely as that boy chained up in Criss Angel's gimp room. And so it seemed, a 3-man Seagal man-train quickly approaching glory. We soon came came up on one Greg Schmidt who had put in a valiant effort, but was in a bad spot, and told tall tales of cramps. He latched on and became the man-caboose. Our train was growing in length, and power. Wrists were snapped as we were passing riders - no time to stop now. After some rotations on the front, the cars of our train became un-hitched and were adrift. Masson put in an effort to bridge up to me, though as I came up on the final stretch of singletrack that led up to Blanchard Road, I seemed to have a second wind, and probably passed another 5 or 6 people. It was as the trail dumped onto the fire road that I yelled out "That looks like the fire road!" as I proceeded to snap someone wrist right at that very moment. From then on, I was without brakes or pedaling as my speedometer brushed with 35mph, and I passed 3 people riding down the hill seemingly at the same speed they climbed it. What a great feeling to sit back on the pavement and coast my way around the campgrounds, past a bunch of jerks who crushed my time and were already fed and changed of clothing. Done, at 6:49 which put me in exactly 100th place overall (and in the upper 50%, given the 201 finishers.)

One by one, the finished filed in, and I was worried that Storm and T-tocs were going to be outed for beard-doping, but fortunately the anti-doping tent was busy busting the junior team from Zambia for jenkem use. Instead we all destroyed secret finisher's PBRs, and assessed the damage. For example, Keith Weinken's Gary Fischer Superfly did what it was designed to do (break) allowing him to walk out:

The Toscani Wagon cradled three destroyed Kona's of various vintages atop it's roof, and they looked good:

After retrieving drop-bags and saying our peace to good buddies, we headed out for the first of that night's dinners. We found unthinkably hot wings and other various burgers and fries, and also managed to not get kicked out, despite Lawman having cracked his first beer at 9AM that morning. Adjourning to home base, we were joined by the what seemed like a Chinese army, all of whom brought along ancient scrolls that needed to be unfurled and deciphered. We were also joined by other fellow StL jerks, which turned out cabin into a true "jerk store." Jay, Mary, Greg, teh Holtmanns, Strove and Peat and others did join us. But not before I tried to figure out how you can have a pair of socks with a lifetime warranty. Heirloom socks, if you will. The kind of socks that you pass down from generation to generation, from your father, his father before him, and so on.

The night went on, and I was fated to crack open a new product from our sponsor, called Blast. It definitely puts the "bro" in "brouhaha." And Criss Angel puts the "bro" in "broomrape." (Actually, I just looked up broomrape, and it wasn't what I thought it was. But that doesn't mean that Criss Angel doesn't use brooms when raping dudes.) But anyway, this Blast product was... definitely unique, and Peat destroyed that can. Thanks, Peat. It wasn't long before Stormy was on the verge of being completely braindead, after having read a particularly interesting Chinese scroll. Unfortunately, the party could not reach it's full potential because I had forgotten to put on my favorite album on the turntable:

Later, as the night continued, we started up an intense "ferret legging" tournament. One of the few sports, where there is an inverse relationship between comfort and fun. I think that Pizza Time won, as I think that the teeth on the ferret submitted by Punch0r were filed down to not hurt as much when bitten, despite /him having a longer ferret-in-pants time. That, and it may or may not have been a marmot.

A long night of ferret legging can make you hungry, and Nico was the man with the plan on that issue, providing us all with finisher's tots, rather than finisher's crowns, which are not made any longer:

We slept as soundly that night, only to wake up to the sound of our newly beloved Triathlon Song, only we were adding our own lyrics, most of which involved well-endowed gay black dudes doing illegal (in Arkansas) things to the people in the video, and the guy singing. With that, we were ready for the drive home, as we took the time to reflecte on our results:
Gino: 5:37, 31 overall, 7/30 SS
Masson: 6:51 105 overall, 19/30 SS
Forrest: 6:51 107 overall, 20/30 SS
Sasha: 7:53 156 overall, 28/30 SS
Punch0r: 6:16 65 overall, 19/64 40-49
CFR: 6:49 100 overall, 18/30 SS
Tagg0rt: 7:10, 125 overall, 23/30 SS

Nico 8:52 43/61 overall, 7/11 SS - 125K
Orin: 8:09 31/61 overall, 6/11 SS - 125K

What a weekend spent in Arkansas. It would be a great state, if they sold alcohol. Nevertheless, you can't fuck around when you are participating in a true mountain bike race. Only those with true superior attitude and superior state of mind finish.

Alright, next weekend is the first 3/6 hour race at Indian Camp Creek. There's no excuse to not go.

-Casey F. Ryback

results: http://www.syllamosrevenge.com/Results/2011/2011_Syllamo_s_Revenge_Results_by_Division_1_.pdf

In case you were wanting to know the back history on the Triathlon Song, you can find out more here. And here.


Pre-Syllamo's Trivia Time

You fuggin' jerks. I came across this little nugget today while riding before going to work. I've passed by it a thousand times before, but have somehow not ever noticed it. So I snapped a low-res photo with my phone, and this the best I have, right now. So where is it? I'll give you a hint - it is definitely within the city limits.

Need more help? Here is the un-cropped photo: linky

This weekend at Syllamo's we will surely showcase our solid and superior sensibilities, as we strive to shave seconds rather than... uh... pubes.

Our path of destruction will be thorough, and unrelenting. Better not be in the way...

-Casey F. Ryback


Syllamo's Awaits

Yes, the Hell of the South is awaiting our arrival. It beckons, taunting us with promises of "heinous epicnicity." As the weather forecast for the area looks promising, the only real promise is that of PAIN.

...a pain NOT at all like watching this fucking video:

But rather, a pain that is much more respectable, and much more badass, like when Matrix killed Sully:

Prepare your minds, and t'aints, because it's gonna be a total "bro"-down. We will be "bro"-tally "bro"-fessional when tackling this race. We'll be like gods descending from Mt. "Bro"-lympus onto the trails - "Bro"-seidon, King of the "Bro"-cean. You won't find us doping at this race, though potential ("bro"-tential?) "bro"-ping will be happening.

-C. Fucking R.


2011 MFXC - The Non-Race That Almost Wasn't (pic heavy...)

Greetings, Loyal Team Seagal jerk-stores. Casey Fucking Ryback reporting from Team Seagal HQ. It looks as though our goal to further temper the minds and souls of every mountain biker out there has, as of this past weekend, gotten significantly closer to being reached. After this race, the only thing more hardened than the minds of those non-racers that participated is Criss Angel applying for a janitorial position at an all-boys high school.

As is the case every spring in Missouri, we had been watching the forecast evolve every 10 minutes for the 2 weeks leading up to the non-race. At times it looked quite grim, but in the end, the proper call was made, as both Friday and Saturday were devoid of any precipitation, leading to very "thirsty" trail conditions. Yes, it is true that the forecast most likely had a hand in reducing the number of participants from 72 people having registered, to about 42 people starting. Prepare for mandatory ribbing directed at those who didn't come: Although I think that the other hand involved was the island paradise located within the vaginas of the no-shows, replete with sandy beaches as far as the brown eye could see. And sandy island paradises are very inviting. Good thing for us the entry-fee was non-refundable!

We have all been anticipating this, the Second Annual MFXC race for a number of reasons. The obvious reason being the ridiculous riding that is to be had with all of our best friends forever (or "BFF's), and this year the other reason was the opportunity to get to meet honorary Team Seagal member, Chris Wurster, otherwise known as "C-Dubs," otherwise known as the New East Coast Syndicate - a term coined by Nicorn. As hard and pipe-hittin' as they come, this dude has probably spun more miles while bonked than the rest of us have combined, in total. Not long after "joining our flock" he competed in the Baja Epic Stage Race. Look it up. Not to mention the Cape Epic Stage Race, countless 100-mile races, and being a NUE Series masters podium-placer. And the best part is, the only communication I had had with Independent Fabrications-sponsored rider was in various other internet-backwaters where we discussed with the Good Doctor, in LENGTHY detail, our daily bowels movements.

The course had been decided long prior, with Mason heading down Friday night to take care of official business. The rest of us would be joining in over the course of the next day or so. In what has become sort of a CFR tradition, I Mario-van-Peeble'd my way down after work on Saturday, in the dark, blasting some Scandinavian death metal, completely 'roided out on adrenaline, ready to party.

I arrived to find our campsite relatively devoid of homosexual Mexican conga-lines, but chock full of ancient Chinese scroll recitations, and PBR. C-Dubs greeted me with that sweet New York voice, and T-Tocs blew my mind with other various truths. At that moment, Nico presented me with something that had been missing in my life for some time - Braquito materials:

Those present did then enjoy such glorious braquitos. It was then that Energor looked down on, saw that it was good, and gave us a starry night instead of the predicted showers.

Gifts were exchanged - C-Dubs presented Jerkward with a flask that has seen many miles:
The campfire was inviting, helped greatly by the still air allowing smoke to go straight up, and not in my face. Much debauchery was had, or at least, I think there was. I seem to be having trouble recalling that point of the night...

Morning came, and Jerky had trouble getting completely out of his hammock, accidentally getting his pen0r stuck:

Stormy and Lawman headed out early to make the water drops and do some last-minute course marking. Meanwhile, the rest of us broke down camp, and headed up to the DD/32 trailhead for the start of the day.

Drew was showing Matt James just how many of his fingers Criss Angel managed to make dissappear into an audience member's ass at a recent performance. And by "audience member," I mean "hobo." And by "at a recent performance," I mean "behind a dumpster in the back of an Applebee's."

At the parking lot, I was presented with trio of custom-made trophy's, generously provided by hearty non-racer Tom Lauria! I actually hurt my leg by slipping on the pool of melted-brain-matter that dripped out of ears and accumulated each time someone walked up to get a look at the trophy's. Thanks a lot, Tom. Jerk.

A grouping of crows is called a "murder." As it turns out, the same applies to our team, so here is a photo of a "murder" of Team Seagal teammates:

Peat: "Anyone want to shotgun a beer with me? No? I guess I'm the only one partying..."
The one and only C-Dubs, donning the kit he was destined to wear:
It was about that time, so we had the slow roll-out to the official super-secret starting point:

We staged everyone in the woods, far from prying eyes, where we put the "stag" in "staggered" by having a slightly staggered start:

Once everyone was gone, we had business to take care of. Gino headed out to get ready for some course sweepin', Stormy and I saddled up to head to a couple of different points on the course, and Lawman went to his Aids Station. It wasn't 15 to 20 minutes before all of the non-racers were crossing Hwy 32:

There may not have been as many people showing up, but there were at least as many smiles!

This dude wants everyone to know to stay the fuck off his property:
Caleb, chasing down the Professor/Torrez Pain Train, which had just choo-choo'd through less than a minute prior:
Cresting the Mount Gravel:

Looking good, broseefus:

Orin was actually freestyle-rapping up the whole hill:

Donjo SMASH!

If you won, thank this guy for the trophy!:

Thrasher gettin' his aero-tuck on:

After splashing through this low-water bridge, our non-racers found themselves passing Shasta the dog and friends, though reports were that he was pretty chill today.

We visited Lawman's Aids Station, something like 12 miles in, where we watched some important business unfold:

Never a beard-doper, Nico derives most of his performance-enhancing substances from his mustache, otherwise known as "'Stache-doping:"

He forgot the most important part of a thumbs-up (the thumb):

During the course of Mason and I's Tour of Iron County Gravel Roads, we found some interesting things, such as Monty the Rooster Farmer's road barricade and a USGS marker:
(extra points if you can tell me where it is located - excluding Masson)

The weather on the day was perfect. But, like the virginity of boys who live in Criss Angel's neighborhood, it didn't last. As Masson and I drove back towards the finish line, the temperature dropped faster than Criss Angel's pants at an airport security checkpoint. And it didn't take long for the pitter-patter of rain drops to make their presence known - a sound that closely resembled the scurrying pitter-patter of boys' running footsteps when Criss Angel walks onto a school playground.

So yeah, the weather turned south, just in time for everyone on course to finish completely soaked - even the winners!

2011 MFXC 1st place tie, Professor and Torrez at 2hrs 47 minutes!

It didn't take long at all for the esteemed Nico Toscani to smash all of our pre-conceived notions (or "bro-tions") about this year's course being less-SS friendly, and thus also taking 1st place SS, in 2hrs 48min!

Dan "Trail Bling" Fuhrmann laid down a pretty serious path of destruction as well:(damn, I gotta work on my photo-timing - that was supposed to be a phat up-yours)

Newly christened "Strove" Friedman:
Caleb Hulsey put in a huge, badass effort to give the Professor and Torrez a good run for their non-money, but had to un-hitch from the back of their pain train after his matches ran out. All this, despite pro sunglasses:

Drew ended the day just like he ended that sleepover at Criss Angel's house - all wet:
Our own Orin Boyd showed us all how to come through the finish line:
Not-old Ben Banet finished the non-race making it look all too easy:

Mr. Scott Peipert pulled a "Michael Phelps" on the trail - that's what's called when he doesn't swim, he just beats the water into submission until it takes him where he wants to go. Only instead of water, it was trail. He wasn't really riding his bike, just being brought to the end by the trail:
Todd seems surprised to have finished so quickly, probably wishing he had his long-sleeve women's jersey from last year:It didn't get any sunnier or warmer, but that didn't stop Larry Koester from showing his pimp hand to the trail:

Watching people finish, I was reminded of Ivan Drago during the fight with Rocky Balboa in Rocky IV - "He is no man, he is a piece of iron." They marched right in, minds hardened like iron, although my pink camera was not as un-flinching as everyone's resolve in the face of epic conditions. Some of the better finish-photos:

Now I have to drop a major truth bomb upon your mind. Are you ready for this? I don't think you're fucking ready. Our Lawman found THE MIDDLEFORK. This fork was found on the ground, far out on the fucking Middlefork trail. Gaze upon the great Middlefork, for it is good:
This is the greatest fork there has ever been. And there is no denying this. This is fate - this fork needed to be found, and needed to be found at this very moment. I'm not sure what this means, but you can rest assured that there is a greater force at work. Perhaps Energor.

Nico and his bath-shawl:

The winners showing their reward:

Thank Energor we had that Kona Tent, as it saved the day, for sure. It allowed us to cheer on Craig as he rolled through:

Karl and T-Tocs were unfazed:

Sasha arrived full of emotions, releasing a Meg-Ryan-Sleepless-in-Seattle-esque sound:

Oz Cycles owner Dan Dougan was Sasha's "rabbit," which is a cute name for "whipping boy." He had a rough go this race - getting abused by Sasha, AND having to listen to his broken Gary Fisher, as he nursed it to the end. Nevertheless, he was high as a jenkem fiend:

Ben Muthuh-Fuggin' G wasn't last this year:

Mary Piper arrived to find cold beer waiting for her in Lawman's hand, which is exactly what she needed, being so cold her left hand stopped working:
Rob had come through earlier, but in a true display of superior attitude, turn right around to go make sure Gabrielle was alright, as she hadn't been heard from in a little while. We were cheering to see the two of them return, epic smiles abound:

That only left one non-racer out on course - Hatch0r, who emerged grinning like a jerk:
The only thing left before the requisite visit to Dos Primos was to see Gino come through the finish line, marking the end of the train. It wasn't long before he rolled in and the new course was set: the parking lot of the Dickey Bub, where lots of Mexican food and cherry pepsi would be shoveled into our throat-holes. I can tell you that I didn't even chew the chili poblanos, but rather went Farinella-style with a funnel. I don't know that I've ever seen the parking that full of bikes-on-cars. Truly the only way to end a long effort on the Ozark Trails south of Potosi.

What we're doing here is simply providing an outlet for like-minded people to come and do what they love to do - race or ride their bike. Things are growing, and we feel like we've got a good thing going on - something that is really only beginning.

Thank you so much to everyone who either didn't pay attention to the weather forecast, or simply didn't care, and showed up to have a badass time! And beyond that, those of you jerks who stuck around to huddle up with a bunch of dudes in the rain watching the last people finish up! This thing is just as much fun to run as it is to ride - and we're already putting the puzzle pieces together for next year's edition!

On a side note, I'm also thankful that no one showed up on an off-road recumbent:

-Casey F. Ryback, Regular Guy


MEN OPEN:TIE Dan M and Matt J 2:47

SS OPEN:Nico T 2:48

WOMEN OPEN:Sasha P(on a SS BTW) 4:10

1. Torrez and The Professor 2:47 TIE1st Men Open
3. Nico 2:48 1 SS
4. Dan F 2:50 2nd SS
5. Strove F 3rd SS
6. Caleb H 2:59
7. Drew B 2:59:20
8. Orin B 2:59:58
9. Ben B 3:00
10. Scooter 3:02
11. Todd H 3:02:21
12. Larry K 3:06
13. Dave H 3:06:43
14. Todd H 3:06:47
15. John D 3:09:37
16. Brian B 3:10
17. Matt H 3:12
18. Dan B 3:12:29
19. Brad W 3:15
20. Corey C 3:17
21. Craig T 3:20
22. Jason P 3:22
23. Josh P 3:28
24. Tom L 3:29
25. Craig S 3:41
26. Peat H 3:45
27. Karl K 3:48
28. Chris W 4:01
29. T Tocs 4:02
30. Keaton H 4:06
31. Dan D 4:09
32. Sasha P 4:10 1st Women Open
34. Josh C 4:17
35. Rob B 4:23
36. Ben G 4:38
37. Mary P 4:52
38. Gabby R 4:59
39. Hatch0r 4:57

More photos, courtesy of Brad's better half: http://www.flickr.com/photos/36869814@N06/

rest of my photos: https://picasaweb.google.com/teamseagal/MFXC201102?authkey=Gv1sRgCI2n08K26_6xkgE#

Lawman's photos: https://picasaweb.google.com/Davis437/MFXC2011?authkey=Gv1sRgCOuG5JWvx9L5TA&feat=directlink#