A Syllamo To Remember

Greetings and Salutations, Team Seagal JERKfosi. It is I, the PunchOr of Cock, with a post-Syllamo tale to tell. Our story begins several months back, when I decided to sign up for the SS category...a first for me for this event. Turned out to be a very wise decision. After accepting the advice of several teammates, I wisely swapped my normally very adequate 34t chainring with a moAr Arkansas friendly 32t. Smooth move, ExLax. Now running 32X20, I felt at least somewhat prepared for what Satan's little section of the Bible Belt could dish out.

Fresh brake pads, fresh Stans and fresh gearing had my attitude in a very Superior state. After much work related bullshit was put behind me, I met up with our newest Soldier, Czech "Pohodar" (that means BADASS), Adam Rybar, and our chauffeur, Loreen. We met at Loreen's office in South County, which meant my radio was tuned to KSHE for some fuckin' Skynard, the T-tops were off and the hi-tops were on. The sun was shining and much excitement was in the air. Upon making the gear & bike exchange to Lo's Suby, we paid a quick visit to the latrines and hit the road for the five-plus hour journey Southwestward.

Our first stop was a visit to Route 66 Bicycles in RollOrz, where we, along with the PROprietOr, Dan FuhrmOrnn, discussed the lack of trail maintenance and likelihood of horrid conditions (100% chance of shit) we were to encounter. We then stepped outside to admire FuhrmOrnn's rock garden.

Those rocks are as prevalent as frightened children at Criss Angel's pool party.

Departing RollOrz, we motored on Southward on highway 63, which is like the Great Silk Road for meth trafficking. By the time we made it as far as West Plains, a pit stop was in order to fuel up with Casey's General Store pizza and to beef up our Juggalo count.

The "woman" driving this rig had as much metal in her face as this little trollop. So we topped off with gas and hit the roAd once moAr.

We arrived in "downtown" Mountain View to pick up our lightly swagged out registration packs, complete with t-shirts made from the excess inventory of highway worker uniforms. These things are brighter than the asses of little boys in Criss Angel's dreams. Two Hammer gels, a bunch of literature and one ugly ass shirt. If that’s not worth the price of admission, I don’t know what is!

On to our home for teh night, Sarah's Cabin. A lovely little cottage and a bunch of JERKS to share it with. The residents for the next couple days were: PunchOr, Rybar, Lo, The Reverend Storve FriOrdmOrn, Dave H, Rob L and ChristOrine FOrd, all the way from Iowa CitAy.

Upon arrival at the cabin and taking the bike down from the roof, my rear brake hose decided to simply fall out of the lever. I believe this is what one refers to as "Avid breaks." My once Superior Attitude quickly became decidedly less so. However, having a bunch of very Superior cabin-mates, we quickly ASSembled a plan.....a trip to RURAL ARKANSAS MAL*WART!!! We secured DOT4 brake fluid and a syringe (for the latter, we probably could have found one in any of a number of vacant properties nearby).

Got back home and set about fixing it. Not really fixing, because I still have Avid brakes, but Dave got it to at least get me by pretty well. It required a lot of pumping....not unlike a typical evening at the Criss Angel Summer Camp for Wayward Boys....but it did the job.

Everyone enjoyed a bit of dinner and a couple beers before settling down for some non-sleeping. Race day we awoke to moAr rain, temperatures in the mid-40's, and a lot of people using one bathroom. We traveled over to race HQ, prepared our minds and out taints for battle, listened to the promoter describe the dangers and the 'untrimmed-ness' of the Red Loop, then lined up for the mass start. As we were standing there, the rain began to fall at a heavier rate, prompting the entire 300+ racers to scream "Let's fucking Go already!!!" And GO we did....straight up that 9/10 mile motherfucker prior to the fuck-fest that was the singletrack entry.

The Blue Loop was, for me and many others, virtually un-rideable. I honestly think I walked about four or five miles of the 50 during the race. Moab doesn't know dick about "slick rock." Get the fuck down to ArKansas after three days of rain and 2/3's of a big MTB field in front of you....then you will understand slick fucking rocks!

I felt very good after arriving at the first aids dispensary. I refilled bottles, ate a banana and a Pop-Tart, and continued on. Upon turning off of the Blue Loop and onto the Orange, I felt touched by the hand of Energor himself and enjoyed totally ridable trail for several miles. Reaching the 2nd of three checkpoints, my spirits were lifted, my Attitude became once again Superior, as did my State of Mind. Once past station number three, at about the six hour mark, things were actually humming along quite nicely for me. Met a couple doods from Mississippi and rode with them for many miles. Then, on the Red Loop, after all that rocky bullshit prior, I flatted....TWICE in about 7 miles. Fortunately, I had two tubes and was able to make it to the finish, completing my first Syllamo on SS. I have to say, I am still pretty sore, but pretty goddamned happy about doing this with so few miles under my belt thus far this season.

Following my "race," I can't tell you how much I appreciated Strove walking up and handing me a very illegal IPA at the finish:

I was fucking spent, but felt great at the same time.

Back at the cabin, the Reverend StrOve led us in Bible study:

Following prayer, many tubed meats were consumed, along with copious amounts of various beers from around the region. I was able to sit on the pOrch for a brief conversation with an Asian gentleman and then engage in moAr merriment until passing out at about 9:30pm. A fucking awesome day.

Up early Sunday morning, we loaded up and headed home, but not before stopping for the worlds slowest breakfast cook:

While there, I visited the top of Mt. Kohler, where, as the sign directed me, I left "Warm Apple Dumplings."

I hope the old dood following me in there did not OD on the Clif Shot fueled jenkem vapors I left behind.

And, it's worth noting that St. Louis' own Dr. Rich Pierce brought home this nice bit of garden decor:

Huge thanks to Dave H and Adam for the help with my brakes....I would have been unable to even start without the assistance. A great time with a bunch of really cool peoples. I hope everyone enjoys a nice mini-vanning today……….


Doctor said...

Jerk!!! I was more entertained than Criss Angel covered in vaseline and smoking crack at the sunday matinee showing of Rio 2 whilst reading your word papers. Syllamo's is one of my favorite racings. Get totally fucked!!

Orin Boyd said...

West Plains is where the Stro got a new fuel pump on the way home from SallyMo last year! After being towed from a few miles shy of the missouri/arkansas border.

Casey Ryback said...

Sounds like Syllamo's once again lives up to it's reputation the race you always ask yourself "Why am I doing this again? Because it ain't for the great trails."

Your last-minute Avid break resuscitation leaves me speachless - I'm moar impressed than Criss Angel dropping the pants the boy who reached puberty early. I'm moar impressed than a juggalo parent watching their failure-of-a-child not OD on a previously-unthinkable amount of meth.

Punch0r, way to exemplify extra hardness in the face of rain on the startline. fuck my life!

New East Coast Syndicate said...

From the sounds of Syllamo's conditions (slick, smooth, wet) I anticipate that Criss Angel will be on the starting line next year.