Tuesday, Bloody Tuesday

It all started in the Knott Lott. B mashed up the spring in his brake while remounting his front wheel. After he finished pouting, and Bambi mended the part, he considered swapping pads around. This led to crass jokes about feminine napkins which portended the bleeding to come.

We started a bit late. B, Safety, and I agreed to a 6pm, mosquito pick-up by Xterric. Rock God showed up to sniff out the mood of the evening. Being too unfit to ride (???) he salvaged his ego by criticizing Safety's granny gear. At that point, we loaded up and RG set out to totally crush the bike path. We were so tardy to the Knott Lott that we missed the other sniffer. Larz stopped by the knott lott after a gen2 ride. Unfortunately, that outing left him too winded for FT3.

Lights blazing we followed B out the back to the Chin drop. The soil was saturated, but fluffy. Tires gripped well, but would break traction suddenly. We climbed Fleming CW. Dropping past the parking lot on the new-ish connector trail B oversteered on a fast corner. I arrived just in time to see him picking up his bike which was facing the wrong way. A scab on his elbow had ripped off and his arm dripped red. But, no matter, onward. We tackled 8A, then cut back out to Redneck, crossed MET and dropped the Lip. As Bambi raced ahead, I settled back, riding protectively of my frail collarbone. I caught up with the front to see Bambi pulling himself out of the bushes. His leg looked like it had been clawed by a mountain lion. At the bottom of the lip rideleader B democratically allowed a vote on a CW or CCW lake loop. Bambi claimed he would be forced to whimper like a baby if we rode the long way. Xterric protested that Mother Rye would be upset if we came back late. This left a tie, as B and I preferred the long ride. The vote fell to Safety who, always concerned about the well being of his fellow riders, chose the short ride. Like horses to the stable, the pace picked up at the anticipation of tacos. The last fall of the evening happened off-bike. The pioneer of such classic dismounts as the no-mo-endo, was hopping over a log when he misjudged his landing and plummeted over the cliff edge towards the lake. He reportedly suffered minor rectal injuries, but that was never confirmed by inspection.

We were greeted with first aid kits and home made chips at the Knott. In order to make sure we didn't feel too welcome, B was no-tacoed. When I went to pee at the end of the evening, I momentarily thought I had stumbled into the wrong room, as the trashcan was vivid with the waste of wound washing.

Still feeling vigorous, B and I got back on our bikes after tacos. We enjoyed the crisp night air on the Sly park climb and then basking in the light of the harvest moon, we sat back and coasted to the liars bench.