This time however, was different. It was very much in line with how this whole season has been - uninspiring. Despite a very technical course that used more features of the park than last time, I was about as excited as Criss Angel at Ram's Cheerleader Tryouts. (I don't blame him though - NFL cheerleaders are about as useless as an grammar testing at an ICP Gathering of the Juggalos.) That being said, it isn't like I crushed the course - in fact, I got my wrists snapped handily. My purpose in this race was to provide another oversized-rung on the bloated ladder of sadness for the C racers as they climbed their way past me, despite having started like a minute behind.
|This sign was not needed, as there was no one cheering.|
As I cried my way along the course, the only two guys behind me flatted on the first lap, which immediately had me riding by myself - this focused all the attention from the handful of people at the start/finish on me as I tripped and fell over the barriers. All of my tears flowing down my skin made the sand from the volleyball pit stick to me, and make its way deep into my cavernous va-guy-na, effectively creating pristine beach-front property - a veritable tropical island paradise in between my legs. Fortunately, the fun ended for me when I flatted my worn-out tubie on the last lap, leaving me to unbuckle my helmet strap and finish my laps on foot. Don't worry though, I re-buckled it as I passed the start-finish so Buddy wouldn't DQ me for not wearing a helmet. (That's actually not a joke.) To sum up my race, it was like a hit of jenkem before the fermentation has started - just tasting like plain shit without any euphoria.
After cleaning up and eating a PBJ, I went back down and blew the horn in the face of a few people alongside Justin White, eliciting varied responses from people:
|You're welcome, Torrez!|
It wasn't long before this train became unhitched from the Professor/Butthead engine, which quickly separated themselved from sight of everyone else. Justin and I were fortunate to be at the top of those stairs as Professor really was trying to drive home the point of his lecture, and just put several seconds of hurt on Butthead and climbed to the top like a Sprint missle. This move stuck, and he went on to take home another convincing win. Notable was that Brett Heuring came in 3rd, just a few seconds behind Butthea. Nice work.
By the end of the race so many people had left that I thought it was bedtime - but since I forgot my new pillow, I couldn't get any sleep:
|How could I not buy a pillow from this guy?|
I'm not sure what it is, but the local races this year seem to be populated by a different crowd than there was 2 years ago. For example, most of the people in the photos from our previous account from St. Vincent no longer come out. Perhaps this is because, as Mr. Farinella pointed out to me, CX is, according to Alive Magazine, "... the latest two-wheeled fitness trend to hit St. Louis." Kind of funny that it is a trend, yet there seems to be fewer people - despite very organized races and course lay-outs that have been as good, if not better, than ever.
There is hope. Next weekend, the State race in Jeff City, brought to us by our Brothers in Booze - Team Red Wheel, should provide ample opportunity to get a little crazy. JUST REMEMBER NOT TO OFFEND ANYONE - PURELY ENCOURAGING HECKLES ONLY. I mean, cross should be a strictly positive experience.
Heckling and Cross go together like off-road recumbents and speed metal:
One good turn deserves another - watch this stupid fucker eat shit: