Have you lost your junkyard smile?

Lo and behold, here we are once again, staring into the abyss of the glowing naked lady box, and running down the laundry list of tasks to handle before all of the volcanoes blow at once.

Look at us go.

What did I do over the weekend you ask?

Well, I started things off by misreading a text message three times, and then missing the day to do trail work with some friends, so that was fun.

As proof, here is a photo of my boots and gloves patiently awaiting me to get into my time machine and take me to 24 hours earlier;

It's a monochromatic masterpiece in time mismanagement.

Don't be a me when it comes to reading comprehension. Be a literally almost anyone else. 

In other not so relevant news, Mike Ferrentino texted me the other morning with a thousand words encapsulated within a single image;

(In a serendipitous turn of events, it turns out he's been thinking about the bike recently as well.)

Oh boy do I miss its monthly exploits.

I can't recall if I've mentioned this before but the final article in the Shitbike's life as a fully functioning race steed happened to be penned by yours truly as I took on all comers in an outlaw race in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park, but not before doing a sick fixed gear style skid in a yoddling cowboy outfit;

Photo Kelly Richardson.

Anyway, alas, it was not to be as the series concluded, and I was only left with the scars of the infamous deathtrap bucking me off into a corner of downed branches and probably discarded needles.

As I typed out these words, I was curious if I might still have the article somewhere in my archives. Indeed I looked , and well, I'll be damned. For your edification I'll repost for the first time anywhere my contribution to the Shitbike lore that never was;

"It’s not called The Shitbike cause it’s sweet.

Upon taking delivery of the beast, I began assembling it with excitement only matched by that of building a beautiful new steed. I reflected on all of the adventures it had seen before it landed in my grasp but my focus was on the one that we would soon be having together. The following day I was to be matching skill, wits and fortitude of the liver with the Bay Area’s best at the Soil Saloon’s third year anniversary.

For the uninitiated, The Soil Saloon is a series of outlaw off road bike races that occur with little to no forewarning, and have attracted such industry luminaries as Sheila Moon and Gary Fisher, but don’t hold that against it. Each event has its own individual flair and varying tasks one must complete in order to win. You might have to come up with a spontaneous limerick about cowboys, or fire a wrist rocket at a target and everything in between. The one common denominator of any of these feats of strength however almost always involves the consumption of alcohol.

The title of the event in which I was about to engage was ‘The Six Pack Shootout’, so I knew the common thread would exist in force. On the day of the race, as dozens of people began filtering in to the ‘staging area’, it was explained to us that for each of the six laps we completed we would have to drink a beer. There was a short cut on the course that would offer a solid advantage, but in order to take that route, a shot of whiskey would have to be consumed instead. The Sh*tbike is no stranger to these dangers, and I realized there was almost no pilot on earth qualified enough for such a debacle as myself.  

Photo Pamela Palma.

Naturally while people were waiting for the starting gun to be fired, I stole the holeshot. With a running mount that would make Sven Nys hide his head in shame, the weight of my body challenged the hap-hazard seat clamp to a force of wills, sending the nose of the saddle skyward and into my man bits. While wrestling with my painful conundrum somewhere in my first lap, the bike decided that it would test my mettle by ejecting me in a corner over some ivy-hidden logs. 

Undaunted, I re-boarded and forced it to make peace with me. I was determined that ours was to be a dance of grace, and there would be no debate. Once the understanding was had, and the bike had received the blood trophy it apparently needed, I found myself quietly surprised at how good the bike felt ripping though Golden Gate Park’s loamy shaded single track. One by one the laps melted away and with four shots and three beers to my head, I crossed the finish line, only later realizing that I had mistakenly completed an extra lap.

Bloody, muddy and battered, the lot of us stood as one in the winner’s circle and immersed ourselves in the prize distribution ceremony. As the sun set and the kegs ran dry, the remaining stragglers melted away. I grabbed the burgundy beauty and with a brain full of good cheer and wounded legs full of lactic acid, pedaled off into the evening to find a whole new assortment of trouble in which to engage."

And there you have it. Not my best work, but maybe not my worst either, but at least I now have released it into the world. 

Now then, as I've done with 178 other posts, I'd sorta like to present the 179th episode of Revolting;