Jerk Crit #5

Greetings, loyal Team Seagal Dust Clouds! Yesterday was the penultimate Jerk Crit, and one which shall go down in infamy. Struckman and The Claw had mercy on all us dirty critters, and saw fit to host final, 6th edition to this glorious series next week, and it will no doubt put the "tits" into "dirt crits." We at TS HQ are as anxious for next thursday as Criss Angel is when he's putting the movie "The Lord of the Flies" into his VCR.

Though I can't speak for everyone on our team, even though I usually do, I'll say that we all were hoping for the forecasted chances for rain to come to fruition. Normally, the rain dance that we do at Team Seagal HQ is a rain-PREVENTING dance, and one that is particularly drenched in yak splooge. However, today was a rarity where we were engaged in a rain-CONJURING dance. This dance, being a perverted version of the normal dance, employs a healthy dose of yak dingleberries. And given how hairy yaks are, dingleberries are plentiful:

The A Race was fast and furious, Tokyo style. And as usual, it was a dust bowl of 1930's proportions, with the racers filing through the final stretch with a fine coating of dirt all over 'em. Unfortunately,  our own Sam started strong and was battling it out in the rank and file of the group, however due to his resistance at committing to a singlespeed, his chain got jam-jobbed up in his single-chainring chain keeper business, requiring him to bust out a fat log and start beating it like a rented mule. A lesser person may have called it quits, however due to his infusion of goji berries and cordyceps, his superior attitude and superior state of mind were in full swing, and he finished the race:

Good thing It's Not Delivery, because if the real pizza delivery guy showed up to my house with a scowl like that, the tip would be less than generous.

My experience in the B's went a lot better. After getting a piss-poor start behind an ocean of Momentum Cycles jerseis, I was jam-jobbed like crazy going through the singletrack, but slowly worked my way through traffic, eventually finding myself behind Emily "Kitten Bottoms" Korsch. Let me tell you, I was witnessing a fury like none other - I wasn't sure I could make a pass stick, so I sat in for about a lap or two. I'm at a pretty high level of intensity (for a bloated carcass of a human that I am) the first time I heard her call out "Faster! Faster!" to the dude on a CX bike two cars up in the man-train, it was like a mosh pit in my head - I let go of my handlebars, threw up the double horns, and started some intense, neck-breaking headbanging. Holy shit.

Lawman, seen here on a mystery bike, had found earlier that day that he broke his CX bike, most likely a result of getting a little too heinous during the Vampire Century:

Racing while high on the jenkem is not too different from this photo:

But eventually, I had to do some more passing, so I poured a little saucer of milk for KB to lap up, and finished that race with a near sprint-finish with Jeff Murray (for like 20th or 25th place.) Lawman finished the race by sticking his finger further down his throat than anyone has ever stuck anything before, and threw up his burrito from earlier that day. Rumor has it that that "burrito" was mostly "sour cream."

In reflecting what could have been done differently during this race to bring out the most prestigious B-Race Win, I decided that I might just be able to squeeze a little more road-bike-esque speed out of my mountain bike, if I add these little gems onto it:

I own these.
I won't be able to loose.

Those drop-bar ends, on second glance, seem to be modeled after Sam Axel's special banana case:

In other news, I want to remind you how awesome Vampire Century was. How awesome? It was so awesome that this was happening at approximately 9am on a Sunday morning:
But Croach, that isn't setting a good example for our children! And what about our children's children! Fuck it, it's not like anyone reads this fucking blorg anyway!

Stay awesome, and don't be a dick!
-Casey F. Ryback


2012 Vampire Century

Greetings, loyal Team Seagal minions! Boy, do we have an adventure to tell you all about. As part of Norkorn's Year of the Century, in which this year has him doing at least one century a month, there would inevitably by a very difficult century once the daytime temps get to where they are now. You can approach a hot July century in two ways - by hardening the fuck up and riding in the heat (which many of us have been doing every day) or you can out-smart-en the fuck up by avoiding the heat all together, and ride during the coolest part of the day - at night.

This is not the first time we have done this, eithor. Exhibit A. But it would be the most well-attended, despite being without our beloved DA9SPDR, Tropical Depression Masson, or even Robort to ride along, we did add many new recruits (myself included.) And even though Robort was not on the ride, we did discuss recent sightings of him on the Grant's Trail.

In attendance for this most-recent edition of the Vampire Century:
-Norcorn "Corn-Knee" Toscani
-Sam "Mostly Prefers Chamois Cream To Sandy Paste" Axel
-Peat "Icon Pedals/Blast From the Past" Henry
-Jack "First SS Century" Taggort
-Jonathan "Shredded Castlewood on 23c Gatorskins" Cold
-Cock "Nothing Worse Than Being Diabetic At Donut Drive-In" Punchor
-Mrs. "Badass Track Girl" Boyd
-Orin "Wept At The News of Donut House Closing" Boyd
-Gino "Bad Influence" Felino
-Casey "Has Yet to Remove The Dead Animal That Is Rotting In His Ass" Ryback

Meeting us mid-route would be our own Lawman and the recently-shorn Pry0r, being able to eschew homely duties for some late-night tomfoolery.

Our war-plan: to congeal at Casa Crotch's South City Headquarters at around 11pm, from which we would depart on a course that would take us directly to the Page Extension, where we would join forces with our 2 cohorts, and then continue on to greatness throughout the region. We would eventually return to Casa Crotch, where we would drink as heavily as possible and eat as many tubed meats as we could before passing out all together.

Norc-ward arrived, and we combined our supplies into the fridge, creating a beautiful sight:

Once our murder reached full strength, we set off down Macklind. Passing through the Park on the very convoluted path to Midland, we were basically obligated to do at least one dusty lap of the CX practice course, so we crushed that shit. Twice.

Back onto the bike path, we had nary a pathlete to contend with as our (wo)man-train Jerkward and Titty led us from the Park to Midland, on a few spots that required our badass CX skills:
Whew. Good thing we were on CX bikes.

Once on Midland, there isn't really anything to slow your roll, until you ascent to Adie, and descend to Maryland Heights and Westport:

Descending down Marine to CC Lake was pretty jawesome, especially since we were able to get some fluids at the shitter:

Even though it was after midnight, we were at Creve Coeur Lake after all. So we had to be on the look-out for rollerbladers, wind-bladers, tandem incumbents, and shirtless dudes on hybrids with aero-bars. All of which, due to their general lack of control and propensity to take up extra space and have flailing limbs could really be a problem in the dark. Fortunately, we made it safely to the Page Bridge, where we paused momentarily to soak in a new odor (having just met up with Lawman and Pry0r) and to reflect a peaceful scene on the river - one of the Casinos shining like the North Star:

Lawman informed us of beer that he had stashed away at a nearby location, which we proceeded to crush, as demonstrated by Peat:

After putting all that beer into our bodies, we continued towards our first major destination, Bangert Island. No photos were taken on that island, as we were to busy doing one of two things at any given time: shredding trail on super-hardpack dirt, or sinking into the deep sand pits that  have gotten exponentially worse this summer. I felt like Princess Buttercup falling into the lighting sand a few times. However, despite the truckloads of sand that were encountered, none of it was able to penetrate into our vaginas, as we pressed on, having 60+ miles to go. We were worried that we'd have to bust out the VDS-12, but we hopped back onto the Katy, our vaginas free of sand, back towards the Page.

We said our goodbyes to Lawman and Shorn-Pry0r, our murder back down to 10. It wasn't but another minute though, that we latched onto the back of a one-raccoon raccoon-train that was charging ahead on the Page Bridge, full-speed-ahead:

He wasn't having some jerk-ass wheel-suckers get a free ride, so he left us to do our own work:

We took the flats over to Hog Hollow, where we climbed and stopped at the one Phillips 66 station that IS open. I was starting to feel some twinges of sleep wanting to creep into my brain and eyes, so instead of just getting some Hater-ade, I took Peat's suggestion to boosh-boosh-boosh-down some Mountain Dew:

From here, we made our way out to Wildhorse Creek Road, and out into the town of Wildrock. I really started to reflect upon how it felt as if the roads had been closed off for us, since there were zero vehicles anywhere. None. We saw fewer cars on the roads than there are hot girls in Criss Angel's dreams. We did a Wildhose/Ossenfort hot lap, ascended Hardt, and took Wildhorse Creek Road back over to Hwy 100.

It was interesting how even though we did feel fatigue, as long as the pedaling continued, it was totally enjoyable, and just a great time riding on completely empty roads, in temperatures that we super pleasant. I remarked to Punch0r how even though my water has been in my water bottles for a long time, the water was still cool, and not like bath water.

Many truths came to us at this time as well - such as the notion that there is a fine line between peeing off your bike while riding like a Euro-Pro, and peeing on your bike like a triathlete. Best not to get too close to that line, because the moment you are going Euro-Pro style and a single yellow droplet hits your top tube, you have crossed over to the dark side and have become a triathlete.

My experiences riding on Hwy 100 for any stretch usually involve intensely exposed in the sunlight, wind, blazing heat, and crazy fast traffic. This night, it would be cool, quiet, and take us right to where we wanted to go, stress free - Melrose. Of course, blazing down Melrose we had a little debate as to whether or not to stop by Thrasher's house, and demand cake. But in light of the evidence provided by our watches - 4AM - convinced us that he might shoot us. I know that the time the smaller-than-it-is-now FBC stopped by our very own Masson's house at like 1:30 AM, he was none to pleased, and we all almost got shot.

That led us onto the Al Foster Trail, where we got our first flat tire at the Sherman Beach lot. Waiting for that to be changed, we learned something about Tony Truelove:

Was this Tony's condom wrapper?

Nico with his custom Hammer Gel flask:

Continuing down the River Scene Trail, I descended down the cable-drop and stopped to snap a shot of someone else shredding. Peat delivered:

It was down near the river that we started seeing the first real sunlight. It had us in high spirits, so some of us decided to crush out a Dirt Crit lap, while the rest of us got water. Leaving Castlerock, we did some debating. No one really wanted to climb Ries Road, which meant that the only other option would be to climb Love, and get on to Big Bend, and then onto the Grant's Trail.
No doubt a top-level jenkem balloon.
There is no greater method to superficially inflate your ego than to pass the shit out of pathletes on an over-crowded bike trail in the county. Grant's Trail Pathletes: crushed.

Exiting the southern end of the trail, the only thing on our mind was Donut House on Union. We were fiending for some donuts, our group being a group of donut connoisseurs, and donut fiending gets worse when you've already ridden 95 miles. Approaching the Donut House, we all literally felt like Clark Griswold approaching the entrance to Wally World, having journeyed so far, and endured so many hard ships:

However, we could not have felt MORE like Clark Griswold when we reached the front door to find this sign:
Not being upset at the proprietors of the Dounut House, but more just at the sad state of business, we cried all the way to Donut Drive-In:

From there, we just had a few blocks to get back to Mi Casa, where beers courtesy of PBR Dave, chicken sausages, and a bottle of Jalapeno BBQ sauce that fitted perfectly on my patio awaited:

Those beers had to get drank, and we had to have some fun:

Let's take a closer look at that last photo:
That's a chip about to land on Corn-Knee's shoulder, having been tossed by Pizza City.
100 miles without sleep, plus lots of free and delicious PBR, means that staying awake is a great challenge. The second attempt to wake me up finally stuck, and I found my bike a top my parabola/pergola:

What a great time. Everyone managed to stick together and finish as a group. Good times, unique riding, and tons of fun.

The following people need to go to hell, because I said so: T-Tocs, Dr. Sallinger, B0rsken, Strove Frodeman, Masson, and you too, if you are reading this.

Friends don't let friends pee on their bikes,
-Casey F. Ryback


Jerk Crit #4, and the Weekend.

Greetings, dick. What a badass continuation in the Dirt Crit, or rather, Jerk Crit series. Unlike last week, which offered a brief respite with temperatures merely in the 90s. No such luck this week, as it climbed back up to 170 or something.

I rolled in to Castlerock, immediately saw Devin's unassuming car, and started to channel Paul Sherwen by thinking "Well someone has really released that cat amongst the pigeons!" Of course, for the second week in a row, my wheezing, bloated, and yet strangely handsome fat-ass would be starting in the B's.

The As went well for our soldiers, which did better this week, despite being minus one Sam Axel. ItsNotDelivery didn't wreck this time, which is a good thing, but seemed to be riding in no mans land each time I watch him go past. Good thing it isn't actually delivery, otherwise it would be awfully difficult to carry all that pizza around with him. It was also good for Torrez, as he put the "man" into "managed to secure a top ten finish." Our good buddy Peat may have been a little out-gunned from the lead group this week, pedaling just off their tail, as Devin, Scott, Sam and Jeremy had one of those fancy European bullet-style man-trains going. The pace was high, which made it even moar impressive that Scott was hanging with them on his skinny tires.

Lining up for the B race, I looked down the line and was just dudes, as far as the eye could see. And in addition to that, it was like there was a I was fortunate in this race to not wreck into stinging nettle, not destroy any part of my old bike, and managed to pass a bunch of dudes in the final field for something like 25th to 30th or 35th place. Who knows, who cares. The important part was that I beat the one-man-jerk-fest known as Lawman, who was on skinny tires.

The same could not be said for BJ Keane, who passed me in the woods on his CX bike like George Costanza:

It was almost as if Energor himself smiled upon the B racers, as it actually started raining at the start line. That knockedthe temperatures down a bunch, but the humidity skyrocketed, leaving everyone soaked from haircut to toe in sweat.

No matter. On to moar pressing things.

This Saturday we'll be putting the "secretion" into "super-secret training mission" by embarking upon our first Vampire Century (read: overnight) of the year. This will not be our first Vampire Century, so our plan is already set - setting sail from Casa del Crotchio, and 100 sans-sun-screen miles later, we shall return to eat bra-qhitos, beer, and maybe a few surprises cooked up by the Soon-To-Be-Mrs. Crotch.

What does it take to become a Mrs. Crotch, you may wonder? Many things, not the least of which being a willingness to remove her olfactory system. In addition, she has been subjected to a rigorous regimen of bad jokes, embarrassing drunkenness,  unchecked body hair growth, and general forgetfulness. There is a move by some on the team to nominate her for Saint-hood.

Stay tuned for a Vampire Century Report. Surely, once that ride is over, we'll be so delirious, we may do something stupid, like this:

-Casey F.U. Ryback

P.S. We're only a few months away from CX Worlds. DON'T FUCKING FORGET!


And To Think, It Was Almost a Road Ride

Greetings Team Seagal Loyalistas! Weekends are amazing, and what better way to spend time than in the saddle. Axel and myself formulated a battle plan the night before - getting "trifectious" in the heat. But first we had to recruit some soldiers for our St. Charles Assault Team, or S.C.A.T.

Several potential recruits were out on their own trail assaults, but we were able to recruit our Mayor McPizzaTime, J-Peezy, and C-Steezy. We hadn't encounter C-steezy in quite a while, leading some of us to wonder if he had gone down the wrong path and gotten too deep into the jenkem underground. Fortunately he was live and well, arriving with Pry0r just in time for us to launch our initial attack upon the trailhead of Lost Valley.

Leaving the mound lot, we were already sweating in the late morning sun. And unfortunately, it at the exact moment that we hit the singletrack that Axel's chain got jam-jobbed like crazy, wedging his paul chain keeper into a bad spot. I know just how that goes, having DNF'd this past Turdsday due to a nearly identical problem:

A few minutes later our man-train was back on track and building up some steam, charging ahead down the brown dirt snake. Unfortunately, Pry0r and C-Steezy had to book it right out, unhitching from our party wagon, and returning to home base. Our trio pressed on, making sure to ride safely with all the safety equipment:
Pizza Time was basically on a test ride the whole day. No matter though, it was shaping up to be an even better day than previously thought. Climbing the center fire road, we choo-choo'd down the upper singletrack, and after blasting down the singletrack towards the creek, Digiorno and I discussed a possible no-brakes run down the final descent. I think it's possible.

Continuing down the fire road, we crossed over to the Katy, and decided to hit Klondike first and Matson on the return trip:

Klondike offered all kinds of superior business:

We had to do a couple of laps of one of my favorites, the Strip Mine Loop, because that loop is just like one of my old girlfriends - tons of fun.

The heat was really something to be managed today, as it didn't stop. We took a long break at the Klondike campground, and lamented the removal of the vending machine there a couple of years ago. I've never been sad to see a vending machine go, but this one hit me (and I think anyone who enjoys a good trifecta) pretty hard, because it is nearly the farthest point from the Mound lot, and it always worked to serve me a marvelously cold Mountain Dew or something like that. Oooooweee.

Enough lollygagging around. Hitting 36 mph on the little drop to the Katy, we set our sights for Matson Hill. But we had to stop to give our "salute" to the sign for a person running for re-election on a solid platform of dumb-assery:
I think nearly all of us remember his attempt to ban cycling on St. Charles County highways, which would include tons of normal non-highway like roads. It's a slippery slope to go down, and it is one of the only times I wanted to live in St. Charles - so I could vote against him.

 We made the dreaded turn up "The" Matson Hill, which was more loose than usual - kinda like climbing a hill covered in talcum powder. In upper 90's heat, as we slogged up that hill, I looked down to see that I was not moving faster than abotu 3.5 mph. I worried that I would see it slip below 3 mph, at which point I would hop off my bike and try to impale myself on my un-plugged handlebar.

We made it to the top, and proceeded to shred the incredibly buff Matson trail, which was so parched that it was cracked and dry like the disgusting b-hole of the person who put thumb tacks on the course of today's TdF stage.

We can't wait until that trail reaches it's full potential, because it is already WORLDS better than it was even 3 years ago. Word seems to be spreading too, because that trail has been getting lots of traffic, which is different from years past, when you would rarely see signs of people out there, let along other riders!

Crawling up back out of that valley, we coasted back to Defiance where we would rest once moar, and meet up with a cutie little kitten-bottoms that Jerkward, Boyd and I met earlier this year while on the M-Train to Hermann:

That was a long fucking day. 48+ miles on dirt, which is awesome. We were fortunate enough to miss out on any broken ribs or spines, the same which can not be said about Snurby McSnurberson a few days ago. He had an unfortunate encounter with the ground as Lost Valley, breaking a few ribs, spines, and helmets. Doctors were unable to determine if he had sustained any damage to his brain, as he is already totally fucked in the brain. I mean shit, have you evar met that guy? But he does have at least one thing going for him, he never has pooped his pants (in his adult life.)

The same can not be allegedly said for Master Steven.

-Casey F. U. Ryback


Dirt Crit #3!

Greetings, Team Seagal blorg read0rz! Another glorious week on the dirt side of the StL Training races. Let's be honest, this may be just some lousy ole' mid-western snoozer of a river town, but if you are a cyclist and are looking to get stronger, you could do a lot worse than St. Louis. Between the Tuesday Night Worlds Criterium Series, the Wed. Night TT Series, the Thursday Night Track racing at Penrose OR Thursday Night Dirt Crits, not to mention Bubba CX races in the cooler weather, and don't forget all the group rides around here and weekly races, there's no excuse to let your carcass get any moar bloated than it already is.

Granted, most of those series are road, but there isn't anything wrong with that. The road will make you strong, and the Dirt Crits will make you a badass. You don't even need a mountain bike to get dirty.

I think everyone was looking forward to much cooler (read: not AS hot) temperatures for this week's go-'round. Specifically, a numbor of us jerks here at TS HQ. We were all buttered up and ready to go for this week. Lining up for the A Race, we fielded a strike force consisting of Torrez, Gino Phallus-ino, Sam Axel and (making his first 2013 Dirt Crit appearance) Dr. Roland Sallinger, who was PAF as usual.

They were lined up, waiting for the gun:
Unfortunately, the bullet they used for the starting gun was not then lodged in a juggalo's head. Oh well, I guess I'll have to do that myself.

It was a chaotic race, which saw Torrez tail-gunnin' pretty early thanks to some kind of foolishness. The ole' point 'n shoot managed to get a couple of shots for the A's:
Mayor McFrozen- Pizza

PAF Roland

BAF Torrez (BAF = Blurry As Fuck)
Cutie McKitten-Bottoms Emily was warming up and pointed out her jawsome socks:

Peat had his sights set. On victory.

 Samuel "Fuck You" Axel wasn't fucking around when he spit in front of the camera:

Unfortunately, Digiorno had an untimely end with the ground, snapping the wrist of a spoke and brake levor, after having a bit of a tussle with a fellow racer. I met with him after he had to pull out, and his side was more dirty than an East StL hooker. Supremely frustrating. Fortunately, his superior attitude and superior state of mind kept him from unleashing too much fury.

Last week, I must have taken a spill in the sand pit and gotten more sand into my nasty V, which resulted in me cat-ing down to the B's, where I would at least be able to race in a group, rather than be the eternal tail-gunner off the back, sticking my thumb up my ass, riding a one-man man-train into oblivion. It went pretty well, despite all the spills in the B class that was FUCKING HUGE. It was seriously one of the largest mountain bike race classes I've ever seen in this town. The combined weight of both my pasty white ass and my 25 year old bike is approaching a metric ton, so I was sure to be some solid pack fodder.

Off the gun, it was a jam-job of expected proportions into the woods, where shit eventually sorted itself out. It hurt lots, with passing only truly possible in a few spots. I made it through nearly two full laps, enjoying the back-and-forth more than I had the week before:

Unfortunately, 2/3rds of the way through the 2nd lap, I broke my shit. In it's defense, that derailleur had lasted just fine for like 25 years. But it wedged itself so tight against the rings that the crank was immovable, and since I was packing light for a short race, I had no tool with which to maguyver that thing:
Don't worry though, we'll be back next week with a vengeance - just like the gold flakes in this pill that you ingest to make your dookie sparkle.

Not much else to mention about this race, other than that it was cool to see people coming to do their first mountain bike race.

Alright, pop quiz:

You're trapped in an elevator with Sammy Hagar, Buddy, and Criss Angel. You find in your briefcase, a pistol with 2 bullets. Who do you shoot, and who do you let live? See below for answer.

-Casey F.U. Ryback

Answer to today's pop quiz: Shoot yourself twice - once in your butthole, that way Criss Angel can't do much to you after you have shot yourself the second time, but this time in the head to put yourself out of your misery. May your final breath be a sigh of relief.