Big Bikes

Big Burritos Blog

Somehow, with all the yang I talk over here I don't generally stir up much controversy. I chalk this up to the fact that most people either a.) get that I'm pretty much never serious, or b.) think that I'm such an idiot that becoming engaged in a debate with me is a massive waste of time. After yesterday's post where I offhandedly backhanded Boston Burritos, I'm thinking I should start a food blog. Way more people are interested in Burritos than they are bikes. Seriously.

Update: Earlier tonight I tried Olecito...wow. Good stuff (thanks for motivating me to get off my ass and try it Mike). Five dollar burritos that don't suck in the Boston area, unreal. That said, it's still not on the level of the west coast stuff. I don't know how to explain it, it's like trying to convince your grandmother that Diesel's (that's our dope local cafe, for those of tuning in from Romania) coffee is better than Folgers Crystals. You're never going to get anywhere. Anna's though? They fill their burritos with soggy, flaccid meat and vegetables scraped from the sink drain of Boca Grande.

Back to the SSWC notes:

Steven stopping beer truck, Trans rockies, after party, boa glowstick, PBR machine, Carl Decker is the man, streaker, air horn, Ron’s arch, , almost dying on way home, Ben putting Brad on I.V.

So Steven, you remember Steven, the guy who tried to hug every woman in Durango (did I mention that?) and threw up off a stranger's porch? Yes, that Steven, of course you might know him as "Chaos". That's what his kids call him anyway. I heard a tale from Peter of Misfit Psycles
about Steven at the Trans Rockies race. Word is he performed a miracle...he flagged down a beer truck on the road in between stages. Some people could pull that off, get the thing to stop that is, the next step bordered on the impossible. He somehow convinced the driver to give him or sell him a case of beer, either way he procured a case of beer to share with his camp-mates. If this sounds made up, you don't know jack about Chaos. I believe.

The Ska Brewing party was out of hand, it went on all night, and when that was over, the party moved down the way to a warehouse. There were bands and DJs and a vending machine rigged to dispense PBR. When I retrieved my bike from the fence it was locked to at Ska, I found a large feather boa hanging from it. I guess other people experienced similar things, I think it was a conspiracy. So I showed up to the party sporting a boa and was promptly handed a glow stick. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't be caught dead...swinging a glowstick. Red Boa, eh, Miriam makes me wear one out on date night. Normal. I'm thinking I wrote "Carl Decker is the man" because, unlike some other awesome paid Pro peoples who come to SSWCs, he hangs tough. He was at that party until I left, which was late. All week long he was wearing costumes: wigs and weird jackets. I was impressed. When I left the party I felt compelled to bestow my boa and glowstick upon worthy recipients; the boa went to Topher Valenti and the glowstick to Chaos, who else?

Crap, now I'm all mixed up. There was a streaker at the selection basketball game, well, maybe not so much with the streaking. He kind of hung out while his junk was hanging out, like wandered around...naked. Against the law.

Ron made an Arch for the finish line, it was beautiful, it was used for some other historic event in the past. It was made of bicycles and bicycles parts. Awesome. He also made an Air Horn Rifle for the start. I was in the shower at his house while he was testing it, "Damn that is one impatient Durango cab out there, WHAT is with the honking?"

When Shanna and I were riding home we found that the bike path we rode in on was pitch fucking black, we rode off course more than once. We came out onto the road, swerved over to the right side and pedaled along. Then we saw a set of headlights coming at us, right at us, as in the car connected to them was going to kill us. We threw our bikes over the jersey barrier and leapt along behind them as the car whipped by right where we had been seconds before. The car's headlights illuminated our surroundings, we were on highway 550, going up the left lane the wrong way. So smart. We didn't die, it was nice.

The morning of the big race we went to check on our Texan friends, they'd hit it pretty hard the night before, "Aw, Brad's on an I.V." "Where? At the hospital?" "Naw, in the bedroom" "Huh" "Ya, Ben put him on an I.V." "Ben..put...Brad...on...an...I...V...right" "Yup, Brad's a Fireman, y'know he's got EMT training" "Sweeeet".

Bed! Now!

-t