NoHandle generously picked up a couple of freeloading urchins at the 'squito Lott. After everyone was sufficiently bundled and burping prebers we rolled out. With Xteric and BDog we were five.
Xteric accepted the rideleader mantle, knowing that NoHandle was always ready to provide insight and guidance whether wanted or not. We dropped to the lake, turned right, crossed MET, dropped the horse trail, climbed the DH trail, dropped the lip, turned right at the lake, rode the first horse trail, continued around the lake, up the Rock Garden, got repeatedly disoriented on what was once the wedding march, but is now a muddy boulevard in the middle of an apocalyptic clear cut, busted tracks through fluffy snow, made it to the top of something, dropped what could be the new wedding march, accidentally encountered the trail Xteric introduced to us some weeks ago and has named Booker's stick, rallied that sick descent all the way to the lake, continued around the lake until I got a flat that required the combined tire changing expertise of all four riders, and finished on dirt at the start of the qualifier. At some point a motion was made to grant an honorary qualification to the Corvette shuttling DHer. Despite repeated calls for tabling, considerable time was spent debating the hair style of said DHer.
A small cluster of rowdy regulars was whooping it up at the bar. We eased into bar stools at the opposite end. As we finished our tacos, Mother Rye offered us some left over cake. It was actually a cupcake piled deep with frosting. One little cupcake was lost in a sea of frosting that spilled across the entire paper plate. I ordered more beer and passed the plate to NoHandle. He eagerly took a scoop and recounted his years as a student of cake decorating, how he made all his own frostings from scratch, and how, if he could make a living at it, his dream is to be a cake decorator. I took the plate from him and passed it to B who wasn't interested in the frosting since it wasn't lard based. The sassy taco bitty was bored behind the bar and wanted to stir up some action. So, after some negotiating she and B settled on a kind of dare. If B stuffed the cupcake and all the frosting into his mouth at once and drank a rye shot doused with the casket ghost pepper sauce that brought him infamy before, then she would buy him two additional shots of rye. B promptly stuffed that mess down his throat spurting buttery sugar out the sides of his mouth. It was on. The shots were produced and Mother Rye officiated over the spiking of the hot shot. I tasted it. It was hot. And the heat was born on alcohol so it skipped the mouth and burned all the way down. Needless to say, B dispatched it quickly and made a show of not caring one bit. An attendant was sent to monitor him while he was in the bathroom to make sure that he didn't hurl. After quaffing the chocolate milk offered by the Mother, he savored his remaining shot. Perhaps we'll get an update on the condition of B's bowels in the HCF.