DBH Final Reschedule. This Is The Final Date. We're Super Serious.

Greetings, patient Team Seagal Comraderinos! Due to circumstances beyond our control, our multiple attempts to plan this ride have been thwarted. It has been akin to the movie Commando, where John Matrix's daughter has been snatched from him, and he has to go through a long, arduous journey involving dropping guys off cliffs:
...ripping out car seats, breaking the neck of a man in an airplane, swinging like Tarzan through a crowded mall, ripping out phone booths, and then spearing the shit out of Bennett:

Only instead of a daughter getting taken from us, it was a scheduling date - and instead of killing lots of people in glorious fashion, we had to search and search for a proper date.

And now we have a set-in-fucking concrete date. Mar 15th, a Sunday. Moses himself went up into the clouds and had a new set of Ten Commandment tablets made that were the same in every way, except that this time there is a note at the bottom, stating that DBH will happen on that date. Then he came back down, and said us, "Ya'll a buncha bitches - be there or be square. Don't like it? Then go get mini-vanned." This goes for Scummy Skeezy too.

Of course, we would have preferred to not keep skipping days like this, but we have to make the best of a less-than-optimal situation - kinda like when you have to remind that new lot-lizard girl you met in that truckstop parking lot that at least her face can't get pregnant. It doesn't matter though, because with the weather being warmer in mid-March, we will have more fun than Criss Angel re-watching replays of the Olympic Two Man Luge competitions, in the Under-16 Category.

Some of you may be "over" the DBH ride, since it keeps getting moved around. For this reason, TS HQ declared a new promotion we'll be running on the day of - in order to drum up numbers and help meet our quota (set by the higher ups in management) we will give you a free race entry if you provide us with the scalped Euro-mullett from a wannabe-pro amateur roadie's head, or the scalped head of the now-disgraced former Penrose Track Director, Kacey. That jerk has been doing nothing but driving potential trackies away from Penrose, and into the arms of another mistress - recumbent touring. A little known secret is that he has been a closet 'bent rider for years - but as of late, his constant rants to people about how much faster recumbents are than upright bikes seems to be taking hold. In fact, some sources surmise that the recent surge in sales of Keen SPD sandals, tall orange safety flags, 16x1" tires, large wind fairings and pocket-on-the-front jerseys can be mostly attributed to his efforts of steering people away from the velodrome, and onto Creve Coeur Lake path in a more reclined position.  This is real damage to the future of Penrose that will take years to undo.

With the new date being a couple weeks away yet, you have time to develop a proper two-man-luge mustache, as modeled here on Hörst vön Wëinërhölën, the top luge-man from the town of Hügënbönërstëin, Germany that defected to the good ole' US of A:

"Ja, I'm alvays on top!"
That photo has been cropped to protect the minds of any young children browsing our site.

So prepare your taints.

-Casey F. Ryback


A Stay of Your Hill-Induced Execution

*EDIT* Date below will be rescheduled, once again - this time due to the Team Noah Charity Ride, formerly known as Peat's Hip Ride. We don't want to conflict or draw away from that, being for such an admirable cause. Stay tuned in the next day or two for the final date.

Greetings, Frozen Team Seagal Fans! As you probably hoped guessed, we are going to have to put the "poo" into "postpone" and postpone the Death By Hills ride due to shitty weather. The weather this Sunday is calling for high chances for shittyness, with 3-4" of bullshit expected. And the last thing that you want to be doing is attempting to ride up Babler Forest when your rear tire is spinning, unable to get traction in that slippery bullshit that is sure to be coating the pavement. For many of your, this will most likely make you happier than Criss Angel as he coaches his favorite Swiss soccer team: BSC Young Boys.  (Yeah, that's a real team. "Go Young Boys!")

While this is some supremely terrible news, especially for a one-track-minded Rainman-of-a-cyclist like yourself, it isn't necessarily the worst news for the rest of us who have other things we could be doing on a weekend day with bad weather. Some of those things that we, you, or I could be doing other than riding our bikes all day:
  • researching expensive German carbon bike components to make your fatbike even lighter
  • researching of there is a Chinese knockoff of that same German bike part that works 70% as well, but costs 80% less, and looks 95% as good
  • posting photos to social media that make you look way more interesting than you actually are in hopes of making your loser friends jealous
  • find a new trend in cycling that is just barely budding, and then jump on it early on, in hopes that you can be able to tell everyone that you were in on it first
  • go drink expensive beer with your friends who also think that the Krampus is too mainstream, and not niche enough
  • post on some loser internet forum about how the first generation Di2, 7970 series, was the best because it was the most "hackable"
  • devote time to thinking about how you can make your mustache unique, in a sea of hipster style
  • have a chocolate mold of your butthole made
  • As an actual suggestion, you could visit our friends down at Spoked StL Bike Shop on Cherokee, as they are some scrappy and crunk muh' fugguh's. Check out their site and blorg. Coffee is available their, though no word yet on how they plan to brew/ferment their Zambian Streets Blend.

To those of you who will be unable to make the reschedule date, we at Team Seagal HQ, from deep within a Nevada mountain bunker, do sincerely apologize for the inconvenience. We will be issuing refund checks  as soon as the funds become released from our Cayman Island account.

Speaking of reschedule date, here is the date we're shooting for: Sunday, March 8th. Same time of day, same place. Next weekend would actually conflict with a meeting for the OT100 mountain bike race, which was such a massive success the first time around. I don't need to publish the time and date, but if you are interested in being a part of that event, and not just showing up to race, then throw us a line, or check the Facebook event page. Besides, March 8th is the weekend of Daylight Shavings Time, and it should be a little warmer. Hopefully it won't rain down bullshit on our parade.

In other news, since this site is primarily about education, the rumor mill has been hard at work recently, regarding the track-director drama currently unfolding before our t'aints. The last rumor was particularly disturbing, as the worst was that the jerk Kacey S was involved with the previous track director, who will be known as "Stefan," in a militaristic ku to overthrow the sprawling Penrose Track bureaucratic complex in a blood-soaked orgy of ultra-violence. Pony tails and cycling caps would be used in ways they were never intended: for political gains. The word was that they even had a secret weapon - a pudgy cycling official whose name rhymes with "Muddy" - and that this official, once activated, would be hell-bent on disqualifying anyone in his path.

Please note the reschedule date, as it is TWO weeks away, not the previous surmised one week reschedule date.

In the meantime, check out this kid shredding the push bike - he's just lucky his little boy-nuts haven't dropped yet:

Don't be a douche,
-Casey Fucking Ryback


Rocheport Roubaix is in the Books - the Icy Cold Books

Greetings, Team Seagal Fans! We seem to be on a roll lately, so what better way to keep the party train rolling than to bring you another update involving some assholes riding their bikes. "But Crotch, you poo-particle-spewing puke, why do you insist on crapping on your friends all the time?" Hey, shut the hell up!

When we first heard about the Rocheport Roubaix, the stoke-itude was uber-high. Riding around the outskirts of Columbia, MO on gravel/paved roads sounded pretty radly-like-Nadly. 70 miles? Totally crush-able. But as the day loomed closer and closer, the weather reports would be more and more focused and dialed in. And it wasn't looking good. Not rainy or snowy, but cold - like high of 19 degrees cold. I was already doing the frightened-turtle.

Whatever though, my cohort, B-Rett and the R.O.D. (Raleigh Of Doom) joined forces with me, Casey "The Hairy Glacier" Ryback, to launch a covert strike upon the banks of the Missouri River, at the Port of Roche. There appeared to be few like-minded StL compatriots that I could tell, but that was no matter. I had prepared a special butthash mixture for this ride, specially blended with a Southern Missouri specialty, just a hint of the meth. That way, the euphoria would hit that much harder, and the climbs would melt underneath me. Ooooo-fucking-weee! B-Rett and I had decided to leave the Team Noah clan, Peat, E.K., D-wayne, at peace with their 6am start for the Big Ride, which they were going to do on this very same frigid day. That sounded gnarlier than climbing the staircase at Chubb Trail on a CX bike - and then proceeding to turn around and launch the Staircase drop on that same bike, brah.

Anywho, I had set aside a number of provisions the night before, and with the Kona in tip-top shape, the only thing to do was get my bloated-carcass of an ass up early enough to get up and meet my travelin' buddy.

Crotch-mobile (A.K.A. rusty Nissan) loaded, I looked at the amb' temperature:
10 degrees.

I gave myself just enough time for a quick stop at Donut Drive-In for some Mardi-Gras donuts:

Landing in Rocheport after seeing the biggest flock of birds I'd ever seen, we assaulted the inside-the-car changing session in town hardcore, and mounted our steeds, lock-stock and ready to rock. The good people at UltraMax were huddled together like Emporer Penguins in a blizzard trying to retain all possible heat they had left inside their tent, and running an efficient operation.

As we lined up for the 9:30 start of the 70 mile group, we were all secretly hoping that Mayor UltraMax would keep his comments short and sweet so we could get on with the ride, and get the blood flowing on the first hill, which would start about 50 yards out of the starting gate. I was able to get in a quick greeting from a trusted, and well-endowed Team Virtus emissary Lukas L., and was then in the proper state of mind for the looming endeavor.

A group formed that proceed to rocket away from my top-heavy, needing-a-haircut-ass, and we nevar saw them again. B-Rett and I settled into a talking pace, with a few bro-chacho's yo-yo-ing back and forth with us. We found the effort required to pedal at like 13 mph was similar to that required to pedal 20 mph. However, it wasn't long before that effort became the norm, and there were no more thoughts about it as we formed a loose, fleece-lined man-train choo-choo-ing down the road.

The gravel road surfaces were generally quite nice, rarely was there deep and loose gravel section that sucked the life out of me like Criss Angel upon finding a fresh glory hole in the boys room. It was pretty hard packed, and I *could* often stand to pedal up climbs, that same of which can't always be said about those hills surrounding Hermann.

Over hill and dale we traveled, unable to get a proper lock on the direction of the headwind. Regardless, it was clear within the first hour that my feet were not having any of this bullshit cold weather.  In fact, they were the ones reminding me that last weekend at this same time, it was nearly 70 degrees and the Jerkward and I were getting totally served by King Pathlete on the Grant's Trail. Today though, B-Rett and I found ourselves dreading the descents and craving the ascents, with hopes of building moar warmth. I was continuously channeling Jens by yelling "Shut up feet!" That wind pierced right through my feet, much like Criss Angel using his harpoon gun to reel in the boys after they start running away upon his arrival at the playground. No matter though, because I was reminded of an old Team Seagal saying that goes back generations: "Don't be a pussy."

B-Rett and I crush out any and all hills in front of us, lickity-split, no shit. However, approximately 25 miles, we hit aids-station #2 and had decided to turn around and cut outrlosses - my nerve damage losses, and his lower-back-damage losses. Instead of continuing onto the extended 70 mile route, for which we had signed up, we turned around right there, which would give us 50. So after having buried out heads into another bullshit headwind on some river flats, we turned around and enjoyed a short-lived tailwind. Not, however, before getting some photo-evidence of what I am sure is some kind of code for...something:
I know it's rural MO, but holy shit.

Man-training our way back, our spirits were higher than the spirits that my parents kept on the top shelf of the pantry as a child. I could never get that sweet nectar... So like I was saying, we were, at this point of playing beat-the-cock clock. We started passing many other riders, and I think many of them thought we were in first place, judging by their encouragements. We even briefly encountered one Mr. Borb Jenkems with some Team Virtus mates. However, I was not able to commandeer his tricked-out wheel utilizing one-a-them' fancy NuVinci Hubs, as their train had a full head of steam, like it were straight outta Cleveland. Bob did leave some evidence on my beard though, which is odd because I didn't even notice his exposed member:

Chugging right along, B-Rett and I agreed that our bodies and appendages were actually doing very well, heat-retention wise, however the feet and backs were another issue. That being said, we were still able to full appreciate the beauty of the roads, some fresh scenery, including us passing by what must have been the local fireworks tree, and the near total lack of cars. So our return trip wasn't without discomfort, but all in all we enjoyed the trip back, save for the nut-shrinking descent back into Rocheport. Back at the car, we chronicled one of BH's secret weapons, the best looking gloves of the ride - courtesy of one PBR-Dave:

After changing back into dry clothing, and finding it difficult to put socks onto non-functioning feet, and then finding it even moar difficult to walk on those same feet, I felt kinda like Neil Patrick Harris's character in the 1994 made-for-TV movie, Snowbound:

Fortunately, The Rocheport General Store provided some tickets for free ice-cold beers that would help warm us up:
The Steak Taters And Gravy filled me up right, and along with some Schlafly, we were happier than Criss Angel on the day he became Director of Altar Boy Orientation and Training for the entire metro area diocese. As fellow racers filed into the bar, their frozen bodies were starting to drop the temperature indoors, like ice cubs in a drink. So we put our hats back on, and headed outside for some special UltraMax Chili, being prepared by the hardy workers in the tent. Unfortunately, the crockpots did not seem to be up to the challenge of providing adequate heat, so we decided to continue onto our next rendezvous point - 44 Stone in Columbia, where we would join forces with the one and only Professor - yes, THAT Professor - for beers, food, and comradery:

Alas, the discussions of USAC rules, regs and decisions could only last so long before we started lashing out at people around us. So we parted ways, having injured numerous bar patrons, glad to have personally verified that he is still alive and kickin'. From there, BH and I were glad to have made it onto the road to make out way back home before the snowstorm hit. Otherwise, we'd be wishing we would have been in T-Tocs Tahoe blastin' nips and blastin' snowdrifts on Hwy 70.

Speaking of USAC decisions, there have been some crazy shake-ups and drama-filled excitement surrounding our prestigious and internationally-influential Penrose Velodrome and those in positions of helping to guide it along. Most notably, the recent removal/departure/public-sodomy of the track director, one Kacey S. Now the rumor mill has been hard at work churning out reasons for his sudden vacating of the position, and this blog is, if nothing else, a place of news, education, and more importantly - a place of complete and total truth, 100% of the time. Team Seagal prides itself on not fucking around or coming up with any bullshit. AT ALL. That being said, we wanted to posit a couple of potential reasons for this recent shake-up at the track. Much like one of C-Dubs air biscuits, these rumors are disturbing yet undeniable:
  • It has been rumored that our boy KS had been getting too involved with Team Seagal, and, not surprisingly, developed an addiction to the brown dragon, dat jenk. (I don't blame him.) Even worse, it wasn't long before he was cutting the jenk mixtures with bath salts, leading him to develop cannibalistic tendancies while in the midst of reminiscing about his times past.
  • Another rumor had that fucking long-haired jerk taking rental track bikes on joy rides through through St. Charles County, stopping off at select business districts to propose re-location of the 'Drome to places such as "downtown" Winghaven, "downtown" New Town, on the banks of Lake St. Louis, and even St. Peters in hopes of re-locating to the median of any St. Peters divided highway, with the new equipment building being clad in 100% vinyl siding.
  • It is no secret that homeboy is dedicated to the track. SO in dedicated, in fact, that he had been burrowing underneath Turn 2 with plans to make this burrow his new home, that way he could live AT the track, giving him convenient, easy access every day. Unfortunately, due to his complete lack of education as a structural engineer, that hole collapsed before he could install the stage for the *underground* punk shows, or even the hooks for spare cogs and chainrings.
The rumors are flying fast and furious, so we'll make sure to keep you abreast of the sitch' on this developing story. One thing is for sure, he is such a massive jerk that we can all agree that it is a good thing that he is outta that positon of great influence. Good for the track, good for the North Side, and good for the city. Fuck it - good for the nation too. I mean, that goddamned jerk doesn't even own a CAR, let alone a nice car. Pssshhh.

Don't forget, it's going to be an uphill party next Sunday - so keep an eye on the weather, and hopefully we'll be getting totally pitted on some paved waves in Wildrock.

-Casey F. Ryback

P.S. Look at this badass Ford Festiva:


70 Degrees in February Means One Thing - Getting Totally Pitted

Greetings, uber-dorked-out Team Seagal followers. Here at Team Seagal HQ, this winter has been proof that our monumental, yet secretive efforts to eliminate winter as a real, disruptive season have been going well. Unbeknownst to you, the sheeple, we have been lobbying the cattle industry to have cattle farmers feed their cattle more gaseous feeds, like White Castles, P.F. Changs, Taco Bell, and Dos Primos. Our hopes have been to increase methane emissions from cattle flatulence, ultimately leading to a sped-up warming of our atmosphere through the greenhouse effect. All this, with the grand goal of always having warm weather to ride in, always.

Of course, our long-running jenkem production facilities have been also adding to this speeding-up of the greenhouse effect - but that is really just a nice added benefit to the main goal, which is, of course, to get high as fuck off of some nasty fermented shit-gas.

Weekends like this are proving our efforts are having the desired effect, with 60+ degree temperatures on both days - A.K.A. no reason not to get out and crush some shit. While some superior sonsabitches smashed shitloads of Birthday Bash heinous-ness courtesy of one EK, my mind was not ready for such anguish and pain. And apparently neither was that of one Ward, Jerk and the Drewth. For we had plans to meet at Steinborg Ice Rornk, where we would continue on go all John-Candy-style and point our wagons eastward. Little did we know what Energor had in store for us.

As we rolled down through the super-secret route through mid-town, it wasn't long before Jerkward had to go all "Titty" on us and drain his tiny bladder. Unfortunately for him, he used the Porta-john that we found in what is essentially bum-central, and while it may have smelled like shit, it wasn't that sweet jenk-stank that we love so much, but rather just stunk like the crust that accumulates around a bum's asshole. What a poor decision.

Back on our mounts, we continued onto the Reefer-Front Trail, where DB encountered his first flat tire, which we promptly changed. No big deal - the sun was beamin', it was warm, we were as happy as a handful of turtles sunnin' themselves on a log.

Even happier though, once the first Contender for B.O.D. rolled past (that's the Booty Of the Day.) That increased our sense of urgency to get the tire changed, so we could catch back up to the B.O.D. and you know, confirm.

We laid waste to the RFT, which isn't exactly difficult, but as we approached the Chain of Rocks Bridge, we added another member to our strike force - this one on special deployment from the SCCC. We crossed both bridges into the nether regions of Illinois, but not before catching a glimpse of the newly-blown-up canal bridge:

Up until now, the Missouri side had been very friendly - I'd been jammin' to the internal soundtrack of the Jewish Elvis himself, Neil Diamond:

...and meanwhile, we'd been enjoying a tailwind of totally tubular proportions. However, that totally tubular tailwind turned into a terrible headwind, as seen here, a photo taken of some smokestack smoke going completely sideways:
Looking at that, you can almost hear me saying "FML." Leave it to Illinois to suck!

Anyway, we had traveled for at least an hour or two in Illinois without a flat tire, so we were on borrowed time. Thankfully, as we were exiting that god-forsaken land, DB got his second flat, and noticed it close enough to be able to fix it just across the state line, allowing us to be home good ole' MO soil. Errrr... bridge deck:

not a bad view - of his ass and the city

The sun still out, our adventure far from over, we had a snack, and pressed onward. Despite being stymied on Leanor K. Sullivan Blvd, we rerouted and made new plans. Drew-gonballZ has his third, count 'em third, flat of the day. Turns out, his tires were in worse shape than your average Juggalo:

At this point, our hero decided to cash in his spent rubbers, and split ways with us so he could go find proper tires. The Jerk and I, Crotchward F. Crotchbak, had conceived a plan to head westward, with our sights on the Quicktrip at the Kirkwood terminus of the Grant's Trail, There, we would refuel. And refuel we did. We got some loot:

...and we proceeded to snatch the loot and bring it to a bench alongside the Grant's Trail where we would sit and a) judge people hardcore, and b) spy the next B.O.D.

Sitting there, watching everyone pass by, it is hard to look around and not think about how big of fucking dorks we all are. Seriously, look at me, and at all of us around you - hard to be more dorky. We all may look normal and cool to each other, but had you not ever gotten into riding in the first place, you would look at any one of us riding past and be like "Holy shit, fuck those guys - they are such massive dorks."

Aside from the flurry of flats, we also had many an amazing sight. For example, this old, busted-ass used condom was found at an intersection, where you wouldn't normally be expecting a used jimmy hat to exist:
I figured that our boy Criss Angel had been cruising past, and chucked it out from the backseat window of his blacked-out conversion van, along with any hopes that boy had of escaping.

Not long afterwards, we caught a rare glimpse of the Silver Surfer himself in the wild, helmetless, totally getting pitted on his mega-aggro bike while totally hyper-extending his legs. Probably on his way to hang ten in the Grand Basin next to some sick paddleboats, brah. If only Digiorno and The Brothers Jerk had been there to see it.

But as we rolled down the Grant's Trail, contending with the choked-nature of that trail on a sunny weekend day, we couldn't help but laugh at the King Pathalete who crushed our souls while in an aero-position on his front-suspension hybrid, loose windbreaker flappin' in the breeze.

Arriving back at the the Crotch Station, I was moar than happy to gorge on some food, all the while thinking how happy I was, not being on Emily's birthday death march, which wouldn't come to an end for another 7 or 8 hours. Yowza!

All this riding has me confident in the upcoming ride this weekend, the Rocheport Roubaix. 70 miles of the crunch. Better get YOUR soundtrack ready. I, for one, have new AA batteries in my Walkman, and a fresh copy of this mix ready for some long hours in the saddle:

Remember, don't be a douchebag!
-Casey F. Ryback

P.S. This just in from the New East Coast Syndicate - C-Dubs is hard at work doing some "cross training" as seen in this artist's rendering, as there is no electronic communication coming from the Northeast: