Greetings, Team Seagal loyalistas! When January weather gives you a window through which you are able to escape into the southern Missouri woods, you better damn well take it. And this Sunday was rife with sunshine and mild temperatures. So you know us, a superior strike force was readied via a directive straight from Team HQ - all the way from the top.
So our official Team Seagal Strike Force involved Roland "My Nerves Finally Healed After Last Year's Joe Dirt Ride" Sallinger, Orin "Sir Chop-lesteen" Boyd, Cock "My Butthole Was Moar Tender at the End of the Ride" Punchor, Gino "I'm Not Above Using Free Tires on My Handmade Bicycle" Felino, and out very own "If Triathlons Involved Camping, Floating and Biking I would King Shit of Tri-Mountain" Lawman. Oh, and I, Casey "What Can My Brown Do For You" Ryback, was also attending, putting the "I eat" into "dead weight." But we weren't alone in our quest to slay the mighty hills of the Greater St. James area. We had many an ally by our sides. Matt of the North, Pat of the East, not to mention the German Techno Wizard himself, Dan Fuhrmann, who expertly laid out an excellent route and marked it quite well.
The previous night, I may or may not have drank a few too many Coffee Stouts and directly-imported Raniers with like-minded jerks:
...and these substances may or may not have lead me to dream of recumbents. Seriously - ask Mrs. Crotch. It was also during that time that I found out that shower beers may be a regional thing to Missouri. And I would like to confirm or dis-confirm this.
Back to the ride at hand, we rolled out and had an excellent ride along farmlands up a lovely gravel road for a few miles before the first hill showed it's face. Our strike force shoved its way up the hill, and continued its path of destruction. I was becoming acutely aware of a terrible Meatloaf song that was stuck in my head, and had been since the previous day, so I had to work to replace it with something else - something better. My brain, not completely worthless (in life) just yet, was able to conjure up an old favorite, courtesy of Ronnie James Dio (RIP):
The roads were beautifully packed, and my extra-heavy tires kept the party train rolling with nary an issue:
The climbs were tough, but bombing the descents was totally worth it, as we got to C-C-C-C-C-RUSH those downhills. Each hill I climbed, I was happier and happier that I was able to take a truly great morning constitutional, which would be one more "load" off my mind.
Our thoughts strayed to dearest Peat, and the untimely snapping of his hip's wrist. Peat, may you rest and heal well. But then my spirits were lifted when I had the most perfect spraying of water onto a potential chasing-dog's face.
Riding along side so many great friends, we couldn't help but tally the various types of beer cans I viewed on the ground: Natural Light, Milwaukee's Best Light, Coors Light, Bud Light - thus indicating no real allegiance to one brand of beer. This is different from my findings last year at the Hairy 100 in Rocheport - only Bud products, there.
Further into the loop, there were signs directing travelers to the Whispering Winds bible camp. Part of me wondered if Dan was directing the course there as a practical joke, in hopes that all of the Seagal guys would be snagged and given sexual re-assignment therapy. It was not to be though - we managed to out-fox him and finish his "ride."
Going out on the second loop, I was optimistic. Food in stomach, sun on my face, I was feeling better than Criss Angel after a week as a bathroom attendant at the Kinder Care. My legs were fading, but, like the boys that Criss Angel has in his van right now, they were still kicking. Made it all the way to the top of the final climb, and the last road down to the highway was real smoove.
Arriving back at the cars with my boy Roland Sallinger, I reflected on how happy I was to not be doing a triathlon. So I came up with this tri-ku:
My prone position
Corroded bolts all over
Bike is now one piece
I also came back to my phone to find that a friend had sent me a link to a case report in a top medical journal - a report that refutes something I have been saying for YEARS. The saying, something I would say to prospective Mrs. Crotch's, was "Don't worry baby, your face can't get pregnant..." Well, as it turns out, I was wrong - it apparently can. See here for details.
Hanging out in the parking lot, we soon moved to a local eatery, where we were fortunate to see Nick and a few others tackle "El Diablo." I haven't seen a grown man sweat that much since Criss Angel was pulled over in his van that I mentioned earlier, just for a busted tail light. Nice work, and congrats.
-Crotchward F. Crotchback
P.S. I would like to submit another addition to the official Team Seagal List of Manliness - Operating a Jackhammer.