Kid duty forced me to leave before the cooking began, but Kevin brought fresh Utah/Chinese (?) marinated baby octopi, and cooked them over a campfire since no one brought a grill. Mine is fixed, but I figured since Jeff just bought a new one at Home Depot he would be as excited as a Dermacentor andersoni along the Como Trail. I know I would be. Jeff was, however, rebuffed by the assembly required warning on the box.
Leaving work and heading to grab my bike and change into my biking uniform I noticed a wall of clouds sitting over Como, and I knew despite the weather I had to get my ass down there. Since I missed the last wet ride with my excuse that I was busy at work, I had to make this one rain or not; otherwise my jibes of castration and eunuchs would ring hollow. Luckily the clouds move off to the south leaving clear skies to the dozen of riders who also braved the risk of hypothermia. Among the gathered were: Mike, a valley newcomer out for his Bitterroot dirt experience; Sam, the next in the Kern dynasty who recently discovered that mountain biking can be fun even if his dad does it and is already kicking my sorry butt, and John who I never had a chance to introduced myself to, but I think has been on a few recent rides during my Moab adventure.
Ignore the pictures, we are back to Wednesday. While the rain may have missed us, it left a calling card of gumbo on the fire roads and the the canal return Everyone earned their stripes. It was one of those rides that once you get home, you aren't sure whether you are covered in mud or rickettsia vectors.
I guess I'll wrap this up with a little hypocritical bloviating, since I spent lunch trying and failing to reclaim my Blodgett Camp KOM. A KOM I only had because Dean and Jeff and Chad and Cory and Beau, and most everybody riding Wednesday night, even those roadie/triathletes Quentin and Jeremy don't do Strava. When did eating become fueling, drinking become hydrating, sleeping becomes recuperation, and sex become oxytocin management. All these scientific terms, along with being pretentious, convert the best parts into life into obsessive neuroses. Eating and drinking should be sitting around an open fire, roasting seafood and drinking black IPA leftovers slipped out of the brewery; not replenishing electrolytes. Mountain biking should be about climbing hills and not quite making it, sliding around on muddy roads, and finding new uses for rocks on the trail; not about keeping the heart rate in the right zone.