Putting the rye in rideable

As we piled into Councilman’s short B had to ask, “Is my ass getting bigger or am I sitting in a child’s seat?” The unseasonal cold from the previous weekend hadn't escaped anyone's memory, and all took extra precautions in preparing their riding costumes. Newb had picked up a new pair of gloves designed, not for bicycling, but for handling liquid nitrogen. Twenty one items completed my ensemble. (I count pairs of items as two individuals. For an explanation, ask NoHandle.)  

Finally dressed, we let Lars RideLead from the HCF and aimed for Fleming. Councilman led us there by starting out the back to the Guard Station, dropping B’s chin and up past the first dam. The soil texture of Fleming was better than a ripe peach. We dropped the first bit of Palin’s, turned left on the contour, and up the relentlessly steep climb back to Fleming. I thought I might clean the climb, but the effort threatened to burst my heart. Having completely blown up my legs, I couldn’t respond to any challenges for the rest of the ride. Unknown Local was struggling through illness and jettisoned. Like bottles of barley wine, the remaining riders were too potent to be distributed in anything but a four pack.

Fleming CCW to the long 8B descent. After ravenous snacking we threw ourselves at the steep and technical climb back up. Finally our crew was showing signs of fatigue. When we reached 8A, debate was stifled by Newb’s unhesitating turn into the descent. B seconded the motion and down we went. We churned back up from Camp Creek and after a brief interlude of discussing the wildly unrealistic possibility of sneaking in the lip, we expeditiously made our ways toward tacos. A last call was made (seriously, nothing but trouble when B and Newb are picking routes) to attack XXX. We pushed at our pedals to gather momentum, startled a couple making out in a truck parked at the base of the climb, and grit our teeth; willing the effort to finally tackle this pitch. Right at the chunky rock section that defeats most, B lost traction, fell backwards, tackled Newb, then flew into me. The second three bike pile up in as many weeks.

Rolling into the Knott, Mother Rye was just returning from the Lott, where she had been checking for our vehicles. A rumor had been floated that FT3 was not in the house. She knew C-man’s rig and was pleased to see more taco eaters than she expected. After briefly chastising us for being late, she renewed her promise to never close early and leave us hungry. However, we have to call if a no-ride occurs. And what a dark night that would be. 

We enjoyed drinking all of the beers that we would have bought for Cappy.